And So, He Listened To The Moon

~And So,

He Finally Listened to The Moon.

~

It was something very unusual

for he usually listened to the television

the radio. His preacher (of choice),

or his politician.

~

He usually listened to any voice really,

the sports caster, the commentator, the directives from

his government -

how many steps to take, how many breaths to breathe

what to think. What to wear,

Railing hard at those who didn't listen.

~

Most especially, he listened

to those that just agreed with him.

~

He listened too, to what he wished to say next.

Rehearsing lines,

words back stage getting ready for their entrance

through the working mouth. The waving hands.

Spittle at the corners.

~

Listened to a favourite song,

sometimes to his hunger, his little fella, his boredom,

his creaky knee,

and to a lot of things that he couldn't remember why

other than he listened.

His wife said he never listened.

~

But finally, finally, he heard The Moon.

~

This was a surprise. She came in through the darkness,

a great orb, drifting up. A slant-like line

through gloom and cloud.

A dark night. A midlife crisis.

~

She came not when he listened, but when he stopped.

When the tides clashed. This way and that,

from too many sides that all made sense

and yet were empty.

~

What got his attention was the cobweb voice.

The gossamer prompts,

the moonlight touch and silver shimmering

at his heart

(was it indigestion?)

The whispers.

~

She started to chide him.

(He checked if it was his wife, but she was sleeping).

~

Stop, she said, (the Moon),

You watch the words and miss the meaning.

You stupid man. You ranted this,

Dissected that.

Ignored the context. The connection!

~

You didn't hear a thing, (she said).

Focused on the words

and not the spaces,

Your navel. Your knowledge.

Your latest idea...

~

...All when blood and life

gushed loud between us.

My song snuffed out! Drowned low,

to silence.

Until only rib-bones and rafters,

and wastelands, remained!

(She would get dramatic).

~

He found nothing of her words on Google.

~

She continued like a drop of rain,

like a long drawn breath; like cymbals,

sharp sword rising from the lake.

Take this, she said, (she cried a little).

My sword, not yours --

To cut through the words, the old, the false

The disconnected...

To find the Life, in Life ~ again.

~

And he Listened.

~

And as he did, his Soul burned

for she was angry. Lost, and battered

His lonely Soul.

For she had been stepped on,

bruised and taunted, and ignored-

since he was an older boy.

He heard her words now, though --

when other's hadn't, when he hadn't,

below the lies, the buzz, below the whirl of noise,

And he was tender.

~

Tell me. Tell me all your story, he said.

And the moon drifted closer ~

Tell me who You are.

Your pain, tell me what you see, and what I have missed.

And I will hear it.

~

And she gave him tears, and a gentle song, a lullaby,

he'd forgotten what they were.

Great tears, that found the moonlight

as he wept them,

deeply.

~

She gave him love, she gave him moonbeams,

and dark tides and swells that washed away the hard shell

in her caresses; and filled the spaces.

Tenderised the tough skin.

And cleared the old scales, off

his softening eyes.

~

And he took Her hand.

His wife surprised, when he found hers' too.

~

And together, with The Moon, he felt the moonlight

Casting light, like bridges, across the divides

that webbed silver roots and flowing riverways

when he spoke,

And when he Listened.

~

Tell me, he said to others, Who you are.

Tell me your pain. And what I have missed.

In so many years, and through so many

old defences.

Tell me your story.

~

And, as his own tears flowed

from other's eyes

he finally heard them. And saw the real things

The full things and heart things.

Moonlight scoring Life,

~from within the spaces.

~Rachel Alana (R.A Falconer), Midwives of the Soul.

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