Evelyn Klebert

If I crossed a bridge,

a bridge that stretches

with precision

across that wide abyss.

If I took steps small

and with intent

not looking beneath

nor behind

but forward.

If I crossed a bridge

without knowledge of what lie beyond

only with faith

there would be some measure

of solid ground.

If I took steps

small and precise.

If I did

could I survive? 

I saw a stray cat
flicker and blur,
beyond leaves,
beyond trees,
beyond the air that we breathe.
I saw it mold into a corner
its sleekness
perhaps just a reflection
off an old window pane.
And then
without vision
I felt it softly pass by
and brush my leg.
Without thought
I allowed my hand to fall
caress its fur,
softly pat its head
and hear its soft purr
before once again it melted back
into oblivion.

I spent my day in an old place
surrounded by balconies
and a loud, cacophonous past.
I hear them all around
lost and troubled souls,
pain from life ill-lived.
Even in the quiet
I hear their screams,
moans that never passed their lips.
I spent my day in an old place
not of sanctity
but of bewilderment.
I listened and heard
all the grief
that had never been voiced.
And when I left
I hope I offered some peace
to the lost ones.

Hallowed hills
And open fields
Valleys low
That reach to the sky.
The essence of life
And love once lost
Craving a silent cavern beneath.
Shadows that wrap
And vine in cracks
Of souls broken with time.
Wishing and valuing
And aching
For memory and solace
Till quiet muffles tears
In a blanket of eternity.

A Day

It seems like a day
just an ordinary day
that could only truly unfold
just as any other.
It feels like the same,
as any other hour
as any other moment
in a life well-traveled.
The breaths taken are not wholly unfamiliar
and the steps not particularly measured
truly unremarkable.
Surely it’s a day
like any other day
not one that would change much of anything.
It seems like a day
just an ordinary day
and just one quick step
one quick turn
and nothing
just nothing is the same.

Maybe you shouldn’t say it
if you aren’t exactly sure.
Words travel like arrows
and if unkind seek out their targets directly.
Maybe you shouldn’t say it
if it’s not proper to say to their face.
If you can’t imagine them in front of you
and you speaking as clearly and with as much fortitude
as you would behind their back.
Maybe you shouldn’t say it
if you couldn’t imagine saying it to your own child.
Everyone is someone’s child
and a parent’s pain is a formidable thing.
Maybe you shouldn’t say it
if you don’t want it to label you,
because somewhere whispers become shouts
and they always travel into the light of day.
Maybe you shouldn’t say it
if you don’t want it clinging to you forever
because even if you change and think better of it
someone will always remember the hurt
and see you right next to it.

Dancing

We dance around each other,
spinning around the floor
in wild, inexplicable contortions.
Sometimes I’m sure I’ve taken the lead,
and he shadows my footsteps
by miles away.
And then for a bit my guard drops,
and temporarily I settle into complacency.
Until I turn around a rambling corner,
and there he stands,
waiting, biding his time
with a wide delicious grin.
Taking different forms, using different tools,
but always the same in essence,
waiting quite assured.
And why wouldn’t he be,
haven’t we traveled down this road before?
And I contemplate again,
take in his cool arrogance,
contemplate again
dancing that wild uncharted dance,
spinning out all my energies
until all that is left is a nervous shell.
I contemplate for a moment,
and then begin to wonder,
if this time I change the tune
and instead
I lie in wait,
round that unexpected turn,
and greet my fear with a warm embrace.

I wander through gardens,
through mazes in the shadows,
thorns prick at my skin
scraping and tearing.
I wander through places of overgrown tangles.
And see glimpses  and catch fragments of other lives
and other paths.
I wander through gardens
and only catch a brief semblance
of others lives, hopes,
and pains that wrap around like wild vines.
Of course I couldn’t hope to know and really understand
but in the passing of an instance
I feel its semblance,
and think I hear another heartbeat
as they wind round their own
path,
and footsteps wrap round their own
wild vines.

My truth whispers
while the crowd roars by; it quietly bends
and turns
yet remains strong in its essence.
My truth reminds me
of a beacon through the shadows
of the shining light
guiding me through the lost days.
Our truth reminds me of how
far we have traveled,
of how much we have overcome
against predictions and preoccupations.
Our strength is my truth,
our connection the chord
that binds me
yet is my armor.
You are my constant
while the rest fades away with a sinking sun,
you are my constant.

It’s hard to explain it
to someone who doesn’t know
who hasn’t walked a step in these particular shoes.
One moment you are the center of your life,
and in the next the universe shifts a bit
and someone else changes the gravity.
Someone who needs you completely,
for survival, for affection,
for all the essentials that make us human.
And then minute by minute they grow,
get stronger and more independent,
more separate,
someone who was literally
physically closer to you once
than anyone else could ever be.
But it is your greatest wish
and fiercest desire that they become strong enough
one day to go out and chase their own happiness.
It’s hard to explain it
to someone who doesn’t understand.
To give all that time and attention
so that another can forge their own life.
It’s hard to explain why
it’s the greatest joy to see it happen,
watching that child stretch its wings
and begin to carve its own place
in the world.