METAMORPHOSIS
The arms of winter hold tight,
embrace the land, restricting movement,
an eerie silence spreading far and near,
dreams of radiant shafts of light,
break the shadowed darkness of a winter’s night,
a change is coming!
stasis awakens unto life,
through frigid air, rain drops fall,
transformed, crafted, individual works of art,
a change is coming,
spring, a time to get about one’s business,
what is pupating inside the dark chambers of secrecy,
if a patriot walks into a room and a traitor walks out,
is that metamorphosis, or just false news?
a tale reminiscent of the Wizard of Oz,
pay no attention to the man behind the President,
like the seasons,
we are all obligated, to change, from birth to death,
a transformation,
like:
water
to
ice:
to
steam,
A skeleton fully clothed, is not “the person,”
spring is not winter,
summer is not fall,
it is the change, the underpinning that is metamorphosis,
peace after war,
love after hate,
wisdom after folly,
meta, beyond,
morphosis, change,
the egg never looks like the chicken,
the wind never feels like the rain,
yet all fit, dangling, like charms on a bracelet.
Gerald Bigelow
UNCLE BLUE
(In that shadowed moment when wakefulness is fitful and sleep is a hill yet to
climb, I think of Uncle Blue.)
In my sleepless fog
I become a kid, playing in the street,
again, listening for a, “come on and hear,” moment,
a pulsating pounding,
a boom, boom, boom, da da, da da, boom,
a captivating beat
struck upon two five gallon discarded olive oil cans
from the corner of my eye
I catch an unmistakable sight,
Uncle Blue in full stride
cloaked in the oily sleeves of a threadbare coat,
dreadlocks snapping
hob nail boots stepping
flailing arms swinging
a manila rope snaked through his belt loop,
holding together two disparate parts of a man,
thoughts swirling off tempo,
out of sync,
the beats of his drums,
right brain
left brain
a whole man
marching,
one foot in the past,
the other frozen in the air,
in a time before the change
older folks knew him by his given name
we knew him only as Uncle Blue,
he passed away more than 60 years ago,
silence filled the void,
the rhythmic joy of his existence muffled,
gentrification, a modern day raising of the dead,
filled the spaces where he once roamed,
no more boom, boom, boom, da da, da da, boom,
the predictable staccatoed voices of crowded streets,
now speak for Uncle Blue,
“eccentrics no longer welcomed!”
boom, boom, boom, da da, da da, boom.
Gerald Bigelow
UNCLE BLUE
(In that shadowed moment when wakefulness is fitful and sleep is a hill yet to
climb, I think of Uncle Blue.)
In my sleepless fog
I become a kid, playing in the street,
again, listening for a, “come on and hear,” moment,
a pulsating pounding,
a boom, boom, boom, da da, da da, boom,
a captivating beat
struck upon two five gallon discarded olive oil cans
from the corner of my eye
I catch an unmistakable sight,
Uncle Blue in full stride
cloaked in the oily sleeves of a threadbare coat,
dreadlocks snapping
hob nail boots stepping
flailing arms swinging
a manila rope snaked through his belt loop,
holding together two disparate parts of a man,
thoughts swirling off tempo,
out of sync,
the beats of his drums,
right brain
left brain
a whole man
marching,
one foot in the past,
the other frozen in the air,
in a time before the change
older folks knew him by his given name
we knew him only as Uncle Blue,
he passed away more than 60 years ago,
silence filled the void,
the rhythmic joy of his existence muffled,
gentrification, a modern day raising of the dead,
filled the spaces where he once roamed,
no more boom, boom, boom, da da, da da, boom,
the predictable staccatoed voices of crowded streets,
now speak for Uncle Blue,
“eccentrics no longer welcomed!”
boom, boom, boom, da da, da da, boom.
Gerald Bigelow
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