THE TOWER

In the Tarot, The Tower is “change unforeseen and unavoidable.” Most people do not like The Tower, as all people are skeptical of change they cannot control nor take their credit for the making of it.

It’s not that I like The Tower, but that The Tower is where I was forced to live for most of my life. An impetuous soul, one might say I lay in my own bed as I had made it, but the mythology of The Tower offers that of a most violent intervention and yet the divine right of heroes to emerge.

I began writing about the Tower in 2017 and this year it is my goal to release a selection (and eventually, a collection!) of poems about a place I came to know as not a punishment but a home, a jail, a body and finally a departure.

The Tower will always be there for me should I need it, and for now I give its name to the place I will keep my everything until such time arrives that we require space it won’t provide.

Welcome to Tower Poems.


THE TOWER

The top has been struck by lightning twice;
it is on fire with flame and the sound
of their scream reaching out to touch her.

I feel the sense of urgency growing
like a knot in the ground
at the baby’s howling

there’s a feeling you’re supposed
to have when you know
you’re being wrong;

when you know there’s
something to be done.

“I am a mother,” the woman speaks
as plainly as the look upon her face.

“I am a mother,” she repeats as she
watches him fall in relief against
a silent backdrop of trees.

The flag became white linen
wrapped around his limbs
now loose, as they become
what’s wrapping round the air;

children are to be saved at
any cost for later use as a
means of survival.

“I am not holding him now,”
she thinks, wondering at
the weight she still feels
in arms draped like curled
ribbons down her side

this strength gave out what
love could not, like a stick
left poking dirt too loose
to take the shape of letters.

This is not the way to teach
a child how to read nor
explain ourselves as better
than we really are.

These are all thoughts that
pass between us and ourselves,
between the haze of drifting
smoke and an infant’s lot in life.

What is here can never hold
her interest long when nothing
that is pure and good of heart
can speak to god.