The Healers: Part III- In the Heart of a Healer

a work in progress until it flows better, part III of III describing a dark vision

The Healers Part III: The Heart of a Healer

When the dust had settled, and all had cleared,
      An old matriarch we asked, “Give us your wisdom”
and tell us, what is was, indeed, that was misplaced.
   She finally admonished, “In your zeal to avenge what was worth dying for-
you ignored, indeed, what it is drives the force of Living.

You forgot to honor the contribution of the everyday extraordinary-
    Seligman and Maier’s dogs that never learned despair,
The ones who placed themselves between you and the powers of darkness-
      The fools on the world’s battlefield armed only with the courage of their souls
You placed your wealth in things of gold and forgot the Healing art"

But for want of just one of us, each, to hold the Light, and let them rest
      The Healers went seeking for their own rent souls to be mended
But the seamstresses of Fate were overwhelmed with orders.
   Turned away, they left to seek the reason they’d stopped by at first
and to search for God so that others may know.

Now, we search for a vision but cannot quite remember,
   was it the curve of the world’s hunger that took the edge off our thirst?
or the other way around, maybe we’re too jaded now to see.
      The healers put down their tasks and walked away, transporting their secrets,
The last ones writ in blood for us the cost of their surrender.

“You want to be me, but you cannot know by reading. Go there, instead,
       Stand witness to this night. Keep vigil for the things you want to forget-
Mothers in Drancy and Ro Leap, choosing separation over trains
   Raise the white flag at Sand Creek and hold your ground,
Put out your hand at Robasso when the tired sea turns its eyes to you.

But for want of just one of us, each, to hold the Light, and let them rest
      The Healers went seeking for their own rent souls to be mended
But the seamstresses of Fate were overwhelmed with orders.
   Turned away, they left to seek the reason they’d stopped by at first
and to search for God so that others may know.

Then go deeper, give more. Take the pills out of the mouth of a lost one,
    and hold her. Tell her she’s beautiful until she believes your words.
See salvation in the mendicant, telling her you will always hold
   yourself accountable for what she is. Feel it. You can’t go home any more.
Fall and let your knees bleed on the gravel beside a hungry cur.

Spoon iron water into the mouth of the weakest Plasmodia victim.
     Feel your shoulders stooped as the sky you maintain,
For others in your life, accept the pats on the back, “Hey nice work,
  You’re doing great, so glad it’s you not me doing this”
and every jackass in the 7-11 telling you to “smile darlin’ it could be worse”

But for want of just one of us, each, to hold the Light, and let them rest
      The Healers went seeking for their own rent souls to be mended
But the seamstresses of Fate were overwhelmed with orders.
   Turned away, they left to seek the reason they’d stopped by at first
and to search for God so that others may know

"Know that your intensity will flay everyone you try to love,  
      Leave a trail of hearts as the owners break them against your fire,
abandoning what they cannot comprehend, accept the blame.
   Don the sari and walk the earth certain you wreak havoc where you go
Leave scorched earth beneath your feet as you wander lost in the Heartland.

Put to words what most only comprehend in gut reactions:
       and search, unerringly, for one just to simply hold for you the light,
Just a little while, please give me refuge here. This cost’s too high to pay,
   the sky’s too heavy tonight, I’m broken I have no more to give.
Then when a child says he’s lost, find there’s always more, and lead him home.

But for want of just one of us, each, to hold the Light, and let them rest
      The Healers went seeking for their own rent souls to be mended
But the seamstresses of Fate were overwhelmed with orders.
   Turned away, they left to seek the reason they’d stopped by at first
and to search for God so that others may know.

Find there is always more, assuage the tears, stand straight with broken back.
     There is always more work to do, always more to give”

These would have for the entire world grieved, had strength not failed them last
   We did not recognize them among us, and we did not see
That their gentle hearts broke beyond repair this time. For they had the grace of God.
          …But they needed us to believe in them too, and keep for them
a few lonely sacred places with a hearth fire burning into the night.






 



 

Reviews

[Clockwork]

This is more or less a stanza by stanza breakdown of what I got from this piece.

After the fighting between worlds and classes subsided those left standing went to the mother of all and asked her guidance in rebuilding their society. She tells that that she can not give them that answer, that they must walk the path of a healer to know what they must do, to know what they have done to those who stood and protected them while leaving their own souls vulnerable.

These warriors forgot to remember the wonders of life such as selflessness, compassion, the giving of one life to save another, or the comfort of one who appears when their wounds where at their deepest. They forgot the will of those who healed them while darkness threatened.

Those few healers that remained searched the world full of misguided souls searching for healing of their own. everywhere they went however they were met with signs that "Full, closed, and no closure here." The higher power was flooded with they prayers of the repentant and because the healers where of his soul they had to wait till last as was their collective way.

The healers evanescence, leaving markers as to how to regain the lost society as they leave.

Those who care are to travel the world and lift up scared angels who fell victim to the beast of vengeance. They are to give of their flesh and blood attempt to take the roll of the healers. They are to bear witness to the trials of the healers, the false smiles, and hollow praises.

These dedicated individuals must feel the loss of losing loves because they love too much, they feel too intensely. They must continue on as they become weary and see those who they love slip away, never able to fully attain the meaning of what it is to have the gift of healing.

They are to write of what they see. The are to heal with words. They must seek out out those who still value light and will hold it, finding the drive and the will to provide more for the wounded.

The healers of old would have given all for the world, would have taught their children to do the same out of love. They knew that healing never ends. they bore the gift from god, a piece of his soul to bring semblance to the lives of the victims of the wars of worlds. They needed to be believed in, cherished, and protected as well. They needed a candle burning, a candle for the soldier who did not fight, but rather worked to extinguish the fires of pain set by the embers of hatred, greed, and vengeance.

It is time to be the scribes. It is time to learn to heal as the skies grown dark. It is time for passion and compassion. It is time for the bards to be born again, time for their words to guide the children of the lost generation of healers, and heal the wounds of the world once more with the warriors aware of struggle.

[Mark]

I don't know about T.S.Eliot, but it does remind me of the work of Rick Puetter, whose "Mahabharata" and "Byzantium" sagas (to say nothing of his self-parody of "Byzantium", called "Sanatorium") are unequalled in their renditions of historic fact into beautiful verse. His latest, "Makjakawa's (?) River Race", though fictional, is drawn from legends of several tribes, and is both inspired and inspiring. I am trying, without much success I fear, to ferret out the meanings from this lengthy and complex piece, but I will not give up.

[Through the Gateway]

Wow. Still reminescent of T. S. Eliot. Hauntingly familiar....