Walking Behind Jonathan Fell

Singing out our lives to the moon,

Jonathan strums out a rhythm,

As I dance alongside to the tune.

Listening softy for Sister to call out,

“Soup’s on,” as we play in the woods.

Time knocks, we’ll answer soon.

***

I have my doubts as to the safety of the journey.

Jon speaks out against the danger unknown,

As the wolves and bears line their lairs

With the corpses of dead travelers.

Jonathan appears unconcerned,

Arguably thrilled by the prospect of awful adventure.

Though perhaps also a little tired,

Closer inspection revealing wrinkles upon the delicate contours of Jonathan’s dimpled cheeks.

***

I am irritated by Jon’s effortlessly handsome demeanor,

The signs of aging laugh and form rivulets,

Abandoning the chaos of flat, youthful landscapes in

Favor of well-worn pathways that serve to facilitate the passage of Time.

Jonathan’s glasses glint in the sunlight,

Somehow redefining what it means to be perfect.

How dare Jon exist!

I puff my cheeks in frustration,

Unable to accept our individuality.

***

Jonathan, oblivious to the fireworks exploding within me as I contemplate his ears,

Ceases to play guitar and instead makes busy with more mundane matters,

Squatting down to inspect a rock more closely.

“I love you,” I mutter beneath my breath,

Not desiring to be heard.

***

We met one another in a park, long ago.

I call it a park,

I suppose it was more of a concrete parking lot.

We met one another in a concrete parking lot,

Or “park” for short, as we kids maintained.

***

I had stolen a jar of pickles beneath my lilac Starter jacket,

Brazen and bold as only the trappings of youth can be.

Jonathan was reading Game Informer magazine,

Distracting the clerk by clearly not being interested in purchasing anything.

I suppose if you wanted to get technical about the whole thing,

We met while sitting on the bench in the security office.

We had some time to kill while waiting,

Either for the police or our parents I didn’t know.

It was unclear what precisely was happening.

As we had gotten away with our crime,

The pickles were outside in the bushes.

We were simply local hoodlums who fit somebody else’s description.

We confessed to our crimes anyway.

I claimed to have already eaten the pickles.

***

Watching as Jonathan plucks a melody,

I hand Jonathan an apple from my pack.

Shaking off thoughts of the times that we used to have,

Memories grasping and clinging at me,

I hope desperately for a future that I know no longer exists.

Straining against the lures presented by the past,

I make a mental note to restock Jonathan’s favorite pickles.

***

If we merely wander the woods and converse with the crows,

Following Jon’s whims as they occur and wherever they may go,

Perhaps we will bore Time to tears.

Time dislikes the way that Jonathan is boring to watch,

So perhaps if we stop, Time will pass us by,

Leaving us behind,

Desperate to find more interesting pursuits worthy of attention.

In quiet moments,

There is little upon which Time can focus,

We are allowed to truly be alone together.

***

We often sit still in silence for hours at a time in our combined loneliness.

I watch Jonathan twitch quietly, subtly,

Muscles beneath the skin rippling in reaction to a hostile inner world.

I find Jonathan’s movements beautiful.

Mesmerizing.

I am not sure of the place,

Or the hour,

I know only that here there is power in the way Jonathan moves.

***

A drawn-out drone that begins to swell,

Listening closely, Jonathan hears it as well.

What is that sound?

Though caught unprepared,

I realize that I am not afraid.

My love, Jonathan Fell, will see me through.

***

The woods, though not dark,

Are filled with unknown terrors and horrors handed down from a throne.

Quivering, I watch as Jonathan sits

Alone in the path, waiting for something

That if we are lucky may never come.

If we are lucky.

***

We are not.

Time slows to watch the scene unfold.

I hold my breath and try to disappear.

Jon subtly twitches.

My concentration breaks.

***

Nearby bees are alive with a quiet thrum,

And I jump as acorns fall to the beat of a distant drum.

Wind rustles quietly through the leaves of the trees.

Time is distracted by the language of music,

Behaving erratically in the presence of sound.

***

The woods chant an odd prose,

Recited by roots that grew where they chose.

I’m not surprised to find them alive,

As they twist and turn their way through the dirt,

Becoming the walls of a thriving ant hive.

All the while, ants working to force feed their queen,

Consuming resources to produce new offspring.

With the cruel assistance of Time,

Those offspring will gather resources of their own for their queen to consume.

***

A fawn pokes it’s head out of the brush,

Eyes locked on Jon.

Jon sits abruptly on the ground,

Legs crossed, hand extended in greeting.

Glancing around and refusing to rush,

The deer nuzzles up to Jon.

***

Uttering a bleat that sounds like a song,

A chorus of ungulates step forth in a throng

Mother and Father stand in alarm,

Alert and cautious, stalwart against harm.

***

Secrets are wept in the heart of the woods,

For those who accept they deal with damaged goods.

The woods show us life as we face fear of death,

Sounds of danger and hope escape on one breath from the

Lips of the gnomes gathered beneath mushroom caps.

***

I cannot explain how all of these things,

Follow the course of a life.

At the end of the day,

Children laugh and they play,

To hear them is to die inside.

***

Jonathan is still, listening intent,

As the fawns release a cadre of built-up lament.

Tales of hunters and guns and scared midnight runs,

Gather under Jonathan’s hat where they live without rent.

***

Unable to speak, or understand what is said,

I think a brand-new thought in my head.

Sniffing the air, the scent of bean soup

Mingles with moist, heady smells of the earth.

I am reminded of long days spent playing video games,

The crockpot on low as the flavors of beans and veggies marry one another.

My mother’s unmistakable recipe. Impossible.

I find the experience intoxicating.

I am tempted to abandon my beloved Jon in pursuit,

Longing to taste the flavors that have eluded me since my youth,

Since my mother was taken from me.

***

Dappled sunlight filters down through the leaves,

Dancing upon my beloved Jonathan’s hair, somehow weaving

Thoughts of peace, of Love that’s been lost, found, and True.

I know what I want to do.

“Scoot over,” my love, and I plop into the lap of Jonathan Fell.

***

The thought brings a smile to my face as I gaze upon the growingly distant form.

I must catch my breath while Jonathan goes on ahead.

Jonathan Fell has so much energy,

I find it difficult to keep pace.

The roots form a basket for my head as the soft breeze rustles my hair.

I watch the leaves in the canopy above sway erratically,

Allowing my eyes to close as my head fills with thoughts of Jonathan Fell.

***

The woods sing to me as I drift off to sleep,

Lulling me deeply into thoughts that I keep

Alive in the depths of my heart.

For if I must part from my beloved Jonathan Fell,

To find Jon torn from my breast under violent protest,

Placed in the ranks of the best of the best,

Conscripted into an army of rank and vile insubordination,

What then is the point of kindness,

If it rebounds off a woven veil of human blindness?

***

Drifting along as we chase after dreams,

Breaking away as we burst at the seams,

I pray for our safety.

I know we are safe.

***

I’ve found some fresh berries picked on a hill,

To grab them I jumped, and I fell,

Skinning my knees.

But I know that Jonathan, my love,

Dreams of fresh berries swimming in cream.

I dream of being held and having my wounds kissed,

Jonathan’s eyes lighting up at seeing the gift.

***

Today I have made berry soup,

Inspired by the thoughts of my mother,

Flavored with the fruits of my foraging labor.

With regret, I consider all the better things that it could have been.

With Love, I plan to serve it to Jonathan Fell.

***

Nothing prepares us for the love felt caring for Jonathan Fell.

These are the things that Jonathan needs,

To complete work without greed,

To silence the guns.

Not an army of destructive zealous soldiers,

But an army of restorative supporting nuns.

***

Jon looks low and rarely speaks.

I realize now that I haven’t heard a new song in a while.

The guitar remains silent as Jon sits in the center of the road.

The deer have moved on in their terror,

Staking a claim on the pursuit of easy safety.

If asked my advice, I know what I know:

Today we are in the forest.

I am laying my head in rest,

And tonight we will listen to the sounds of a new local band

As we share a thermos of soup we brought from home.

***

Tomorrow will come another day.

Tomorrow will be more time to play.

Today there is still me.

Today there is still you, my love,

Today there is Jonathan Fell.