Skin Passion
Michael LaBash
Poems and paintings by Frank Moore
Genres:
Other
Tags:
Frank Moore, poetry, art, painting

Season of Hidden Hope

----------

a radio musical
November 23, 1993


1

Walking along
cold dark homeless
roads 
clogged with ice fears,
my only friend 
is the wind 
chilling my bones
into longing 
and lost
and beyond...
into a cynical loneliness. 

Herding my sheep,
looking in windows 
of unattainable desires,
looking at presents
useless
because
I don’t have anyone to give them to,

looking into the past
soft colored warm homes 
that are no longer mine.

Everyone has left,
everyone is gone.

Even the sun has left
long ago, 
long before the manger.

And the sun
will not come back
ever
again.
This is the season
of dark depression
and fragile suicide.

Yes,
I know
I can always bum up
the $29.95
to buy
the plastic hope and faith
at 7 Eleven
and pretend
it is my wonderful life
playing
in the video store’s window.

But instead
I wrap myself
in a jaded pretense
of dry ice isolation
of not caring,
and drinking 
the stale 
but warm wine of regrets.


2

The birth 
of new hope 
has always been hidden within 
the long cold
winter darkness.

Huddled together, 
clinging to our tribal warmth
as our only protection
against dying
into the scary
black
unknown,
 
we always have been blind
to the evergreen
hope of life. 

It has always been 
the first time 
the sun 
and easy hope 
have gone away. 

So we always think 
they will never 
come again. 

The evergreen hope 
has been hidden
away
in the womb
of the humble
and in children’s dreams.

The forces of greys
have always overheard
the possibility
of the hidden hope...
have always searched 
for it 
to pervert it 
into human isolation...
or,
failing that,
to kill it 
for all time. 

But the forces of power 
always overlook
the hidden human hope 
rocking 
in the baby’s cradle. 

As power 
goes on a desperate killing, 
chopping 
hacking 
gorging, 
eating
the old world up......
we huddle together 
in the silent night 
upon the hill, 
rocking together 
in our tribal body warmth. 

The shaman, 
the holy woman, 
the medicine man 
have always shifted 
our attention away 
from the dark
cold
outward 
fear, 
have always shifted 
our gaze 
to the guiding light 
of new birth...
at first 
in the stars, 
then in the roaring
tribal fire 
which pulled
all human feelings 
within it, 
and still later 
into that corny 
home hearth 
crackling 
with bright colors
popping. 

Into this fire 
we have always gone,
hearing
the drumming
of our innocent heart 
beating 
in a slow excitement,
meeting
again 
our love of life.
We curl up 
with our love 
and wait
for warm spring
to arrive...
as hope grows 
into knowing.
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