The Soul Defined

Inside myself.

Aine is the goddess of the love, fertility and the moon. I have always felt an association with this name. I have always loved the water and its soothing qualities with mind, body and soul. Now - I can see the connection and the pull of eternity.

Áine (aw-ne) (Irish) - A faery queen and goddess of love and fertility. She is associated with the moon and has occasionally been seen combing her hair in the middle of a lake. Daughter of high king, Eogabail, the foster son of sea god Mannanán Mac Lir. Her sister is Fenne or Finnen.

Is our destiny, vulnerability and our inner soul connected to the past? Do we follow in the footsteps of our forefathers? Do we break out and test the waters with our curiosity and imagination?

Childhood memories weave in and out of our immortal life, rolling like the tide. Always consistent, always on time they beat against our tattered soul. The pungent aroma of low tide assaulting the senses as it recedes from the bay. Fiddler crabs on full alert searching for a dwelling. At this point in time any dwelling will suffice. Black mud dry and lifeless begs for forgiveness. Tiny little doorways to the inner earth expose themselves to predators and nature. The tides slowly and predictably retrace their endless pattern of movement. Fiddlers scramble for safety, not quite ready to sacrifice their soul to the earth god. I see myself through fiddler crab eyes, exposed to the elements and the trappings of illusions. As I search for solace and fortitude the tides of time sweep silently across my domain. The salty smell of fear blends with damp darkness and my life becomes with the tides. I contemplate why silences are so loud.
From nowhere I came, from nowhere I return. From your thoughts I hear, “Oh my, what a depressing introduction.” I say, let loose your soul and taste the salty water of my endless, timeless journey of love, life and survival.

My dream is to find my dreams. They’re lost. Missing, faded, and gone astray somehow when I wasn’t paying attention. I must have taken a shortcut, made a wrong turn or perhaps I just cast them aside like scraps of used paper. Life is laborious without my dreams. The sun rises, you breathe, the sun sets and it all starts again. There is a void a space so consuming that you melt away to secret sadness.
I search for my lost dreams peeking under accumulated debris and stacks of unrequested e-mail. It’s difficult to remember when and where the dreams became lost. My life has been scattered and reformatted so many times. Somewhere along the crowded path of life and survival my focus became clouded with materialism and money. Day and night are one in the same. Time is elusive and hollow.
And then life or lack thereof roars with rage inside my soul. My windows are flung open and the fresh morning breeze blows through. Rejuvenation, inspiration, and massive motivation take up residence within me. I feel rather than see the tree lined path before me erupt with blossoms, beauty and the fragrance of determination. The uneven path stretches nearly to infinity with hope, power and persistence as my mate. I take the first step knowing my boundaries are limitless. Off I go in search of renewed, refreshed and tangible dreams.

I stood there on that wooden deck as the Florida sun engulfed me with sunshine. Students filed past me as if I were a ghost. Their heads bent down in sympathy and disgrace. I was thankful they didn’t look. My back held straight with all the defiance and strength I could muster. I stepped outside my miserable little world and rose unwittingly toward the puffy white clouds. My contact with the here and now was severed.

My friend Gracie shuffled by and lightly touched my clenched fist. It was truly an act of tremendous courage. She knew if she were caught conspiring with the guilty she would suffer right along with me. My chin stuck up almost as high as the flagpole quivered with humiliation. A rampant river of tears tried desperately to escape. I held them back.

Quiet filtered the heated space of my shame. Slowly, so very slowly the tiniest tear started to travel down my taught face. I prayed for the slightest breeze to blow away my failure. The gulf breeze was obviously taking a siesta. The air was pungent and acidic.

There were two separate entrances to the classroom and I stood there on the seldom used one as the parade of my peers slithered by me. Their silence and disgust washed over me like a summer rain storm. I wondered if one of them would gladly trade places with me. I pretended to be Lot’s wife. A salt statue feels no pain. The army platoon of non-lookers ended. I stood alone.

I heard the students shift uncomfortably in the hard wooden seats. The lesson inside began as my lesson outside melted my sense of stability. I realized that breathing was a natural function and I did not need to force the issue. I dared myself to look down at my chest to see the slight rise and fall of my existence. I could hear voices inside the classroom but quickly shut the invisible door of my mind.

I silently wished to become the graceful seagull and fly far away. My mind traveled the sky as my earthly body stayed glued to the deck. The pandemonium inside my head cluttered my thoughts. A lump within my windpipe threatened to explode and start the onslaught of tears. If I allowed one tiny, salty tear to escape my control would be shattered. I went back to review the episode.

I was first pew second student from the center aisle. Gracie was crunched next to me. The pressure was slight at first and then so quickly sprang forward. I held my breath. I crossed my legs. I panted ever so slightly. I wondered about the sweat since the church had the air condition on high. I felt the warm liquid drip down my inner thighs. My battle lost against the forces of nature. My white cotton panties could only hold so much moisture.

It was a small amount, or at least I thought so. If I was lucky no one would notice. I could get up after prayer and stroll nonchalantly back to class. Eventually the accident would dry and so would my pants. I could go to the restroom and toss them in the can or flush them down the toilet. Destroy the evidence was a great thought. I lifted my head from my folded hands and looked directly into her eyes. I was caught.

My mind goes somewhat blank at this point. I don’t remember many of the words or comments just the hand on my shoulder and the statement that turned my life upside down.
“You stand out here till you dry and then you can come back to class. You will be used as an example. This will show the others about disrespect in the house of God.”


So there I stood for the whole world to witness my shame. I wondered how long it would take for my white cotton panties to dry. And then I wondered how long it would take for such humiliation to be erased from my life? It felt like hours standing there in the hot Florida sun on the wooden deck leading to my classroom. My mind drifted to fantasy.

At some point in time I was ruled acceptable to enter the room and continue my studies. I entered the room with all eyes averted from my presence. My physical body sat in the chair but my tattered soul flew away and went into hiding. That was Tuesday.

On Wednesday with Gracie crunched right next to me first pew second from the center aisle, heads bent in prayer it happened again. I heard the sound before I felt the splattering. It was not like mine. Mine had been silent and slow while Gracie’s was turbulent and thunderous. I reached over without lifting my head from prayer and squeezed her hand.

“Don’t cry Gracie. Just don’t cry.” I whispered.

It’s a pain that spurts forth from the bowels of the earth, the lesion hidden deep within the soul. Contained but not controlled. The enormity covered by layers of sadness and silent suffering. It smolders like the embers of a dying distant campfire. Residual effects lay in the no wake zone just bubbling like hot molten lava. There is no place to run no place to hide. It pulls at the fine silk threads that hold the illusion together, forever taunting, forever reminding, and forever putting up roadblocks to contentment.
Reach for the fleeting happiness, grasp at the elusive passion, and search for wondrous fulfillment. A moment in time fades to eternity and lost to the dark abyss.

Eyes undefined blue
Fire sparks
Radiating heat
Piercing, penetrating
Melting thru the layers
Sizzling, scorching
Steel cold
Ice daggers
Freezing solid
With just a look
A passing glance
A nod
Barely a response
But still the silver shaft
Strikes to the core

I walk across the dry brittle grass burnt by the long hot summer and lack of rain; it crunches beneath my new black suede shoes. As I move my heels slip slightly into the parched soil. A North wind blows softly over the field and floats through the gathering crowd. The blue sky is littered with dark ominous looking clouds. Birds chirp with enthusiasm as if their world has not collapsed, like ours. The noonday sun splashes a rainbow of colors against the stark grayed headstones in the old part of the cemetery. My world has become shrouded in disbelief. I amble slowly toward the new section.

I stand alone in my sadness surrounded and almost suffocated by family and friends. Rampant thoughts swirl inside my pounding head. The heat warms my skin but does not remove the coldness inside my heart. A heart heavy and cold pulsates inside my chest. Anxiety, fear, sadness, anger and remorse surge uncontrollably within my veins. I feel lost within a crowd. I am a trespasser in a foreign land. I am diagonally parked on a parallel planet. I make room for absence. I trample a dandelion with my new suede shoes.

The fresh pile of dirt covered discreetly by fake green carpeting smells musty. Stale air permeates under the temporary canopy. Cold metal chairs are transformed into soft cushy parlor chairs. The camouflage does not work because the chairs still feel cold like my heart. More fake green carpeting covers the recently ravaged earth. Immortality is present. My steps across the carpet are without noise matching the crowd. I look down at my new shoes and see wayward dirt encasing my heels.

A gigantic flag is removed and folded with expert precision like the work of a talented tool and die maker. The craftsman lies silently but peacefully within a beautiful carved vessel with the wood shined and buffed to a brilliant sheen. It looks so like one of his fantastic creations. He would have approved of this finely crafted ship that takes him beyond away from his loved ones. It has his stamp of approval, a truly divine piece of art for his solo departure from this place. Eternity prevails. Memories of him trudging through the yard with faded leather boots encrusted with dried mud flash through my mind.

A delicate ribbon has been secured around the handle of a small white plastic shovel. The tool sits atop the vessel. I gaze at the shovel and I can see him digging away and doing what he loved to do. I blink and come back to reality. He will dig no more, only in my thoughts. When I smell the musty odor of dirt I will think of him and remember. I look at the dusting of dirt on my shoes.

I watch his children overcome with grief and sadness. Their loss painful and unbearable pushes them into a dark abyss. Each one absorbs the enormity of the situation in their own way. I see them empowered by the misery and it’s like watching a volcano erupt spewing hot molten lava across the earth paralyzing everything in its path. Their sorrow seems like the horrific force of hurricane winds whipping across the land, bending, breaking and destroying precious memories. The sky has fallen; the earth has tipped and collided with an alien planet leaving a lifetime of emotions exposed and vulnerable. The heels of my shoes slip slowly into the dirt.

His wife stands like a proud soldier, indestructible, powerful and determined. She really is an imposter made of delicate porcelain ready to shatter at any moment. If she stood in the noonday sun she would melt like a popsicle and if the wind were to blow she would be swept away. Oblivion shrouds her every thought and movement. She accepts her new unwanted singleness as she accepts the sun rising in the East. Her emptiness is bountiful. The eyes once a brilliant shade of blue is awash in despair. She is suspended between here and there. She is a lost soul in the valley of helplessness. Shining through the darkness her love for him shines as if it were a beacon on a lighthouse.

The priest standing at the head of the vessel his tall frame bent with age begins his farewell speech. I watch his lips quiver but I hear nothing lost within my sorrow. His hands flutter through the air as he reaches for the white plastic shovel tied with a bow. I can imagine what he is saying but I am off to some distant place and I only hear my heavy breathing. I wonder how well the old priest knew him. Had he ever watched him shovel through enormous banks of snow? Did he see him erecting his numerous stone walls? Did he taste any of the vegetables from his prolific garden? Did he watch him dig by hand with a garden shovel three ponds? I can still see him toiling away; sweat dripping from his brow, his shirt stained with soil and always a hint of content surrounding him. The priest holds the white plastic shovel in the air and then lays it with honor upon the casket. A slight breeze ripples the ribbon tied to the shovel. The priest bows his head and recites a prayer. I hear the words, “dust to dust”. I lower my head and look at my shoes.

The mourners disperse in a quiet solemn march back to their vehicles. The September sun beats down scorching more of the dried grass and wilting the fresh flowers. Salty tears melt into the beads of sweat upon my upper lip. I wipe away the telltale signs of anguish with a damp used tissue. The silence is unsettling. People are moving, car doors are shutting and vehicles drive slowly away but still the hush prevails. I turn my back toward the canopy and the pile of dirt and a man so many loved.

You are like the wind, always there.
You are smooth, soft and comforting.
You wrap me in a blanket of security.
You are needed wanted and expected.
Your presence is exhilarating, exciting and rejuvenating.
And then in an instant you can turn and be harsh, rough and demeaning.
The blanket of security becomes suffocating and stifling.
You can destroy and wreck havoc in unpredictable ways.
Your presence is frightening, unwanted and devastating.


Are you a figment of my imagination?
A wanton thought spiraling out of control
A cloud just breezing past in the fast lane,
A tumbleweed blowing relentlessly across the barren plains,
What are you and from where do you generate,
Are you reality blurring into fantasy,
Are you fantasy overtaking reality,
Are you a place I want to be?
Are you an idea I cannot hold,
Do I hear only what I want to hear?
Are you trying to tell me something?
Am I listening?
Should I listen?

You are so close but so far away,
I want to touch you but I can’t,
I see you when you’re not there,
I wait for encouragement that never transpires,
I listen for words you do not speak,
I think I could reach to the sky,
I could grasp you fondly in my heart,
I need to hold you and never let go,
I accept you, for who you are,
Are you an illusion fading into actuality?
Do I see only what I want to see?
I am listening,
Are you?

There was a number three pencil that had the outward appearance of being identical to a number two pencil. A quick glance and one would assume there was no difference between a number two and a number three pencil. The difference is inside so to some it may be difficult to differentiate between the two.
The number three pencil was always aware of the dissimilarity. It seemed the number two was most prominent and the most sought after. The number three pencil was glad to be different than the number two. On occasion the number three would have a fleeting thought to be more like the number two but generally the number three was quite happy with being different. It felt secure and confident about its uniqueness.
It was free and inventive. It followed its own lead. There were no constraints or barriers being a number three, number two’s had specific and rigid performances. The number three pencil reveled in the simplicity of being nonpareil. The number three pencil cherished the belief that it was diverse and not a number two clone.
At times it was difficult not following the path of a much sought after number two pencil but the number three pencil lived for the chance to exceed and excel in its own parameters. Insurmountable odds against the number three pencil were dismissed.
The world perceived the number two pencil to be politically correct. The number three was not expected to conform to the acceptable standards of a number two pencil. So the number three pencil had the freedom to be whatever it wanted to be. It took advantage of that freedom but never abused or wasted it. The spotlight was always focused on the number two pencil so that left the number three pencil to become creative, efficient and self-reliant.
The number three pencil could write large, small, bold, wide, light and dark. The number three could write page upon page. Its cursive swirls and loops could swing high and low. There were no boundaries to constrain its productivity.
One day the number three pencil met an eraser-slash-pencil sharpener. The eraser-slash-pencil sharpener could clearly distinguish the difference between the number two and the number three pencil. The eraser-slash-pencil sharpener was somewhat of a rebel. It was not always cooperative or helpful but with some reluctance always came through. It was very sensitive covered over by its rough exterior so some could not see the sensitivity beneath the surface. The pencil sharpener side was rock solid and very sharp and cut with precision. There was a quiet arrogance surrounding the blade. Sometimes it held on to the shavings much longer than was necessary. It was both soft and hard with an edge of flexibility.
The eraser-slash-pencil sharpener was much more than it appeared to be. Its uniqueness was inside like the number three pencil and hard to detect. The eraser-slash-pencil sharpener felt a kinship with the number three pencil. The number three pencil and the eraser-slash-pencil sharpener formed an alliance.
The lead in the number three pencil began to wear down to the nub due to all the meandering across the reams of paper. The number three pencil was not conservative and did not have much self-control. The pencil sharpener end would restore the tip to the number three pencil so it could resume its exploration and endless journey. The eraser end would clean up the marks the number three pencil would make above and below the lines. In fact it somewhat kept the number three pencil in line without invading or compromising the integrity of the situation.
Mistakes appeared and corrections were initiated in a nonchalant manner. The number three pencil and the eraser-slash-pencil sharpener made a great duo. It didn’t matter to the eraser-slash-pencil sharpener that the number three was not elite or the much sought after number two. The eraser-slash-pencil sharpener accepted the number three for what it was. It never compared the number three to a number two.
The number three pencil accepted totally the help and insight offered by the eraser-slash-pencil sharpener. The number three pencil knew the eraser-slash-pencil sharpener was a double edge sword who could eliminate any pencil to a pile of shavings in an instant. The number three pencil was equally aware of the eraser end who could completely distort words. The number three pencil accepted the eraser-slash-pencil sharpener in its entirety. It understood totally the need for the hard reflective shell that hid the fantastic inner workings. The eraser-slash-pencil sharpener was the number three pencils’ best friend.

How do you weave dreams?
On a loom of love and loss
Crafted by the soul

Reality fades
Into a pure fantasy
I dare not touch you

How do you save dreams?
Etched within the heart and soul
Illusion takes hold

How do you free a dream?
Reality takes control
I dare not love you

Dreams can be shattered
Melted into denial
Like dust blown away
Eyes undefined blue

Fire sparks
Radiating heat
Piercing, penetrating
Melting thru the layers
Sizzling, scorching

Steel cold
Ice daggers
Freezing solid

With just a look
A passing glance
A nod

Barely a response
But still the silver shaft
Strikes to the core

Dasein

by David Sutherland

In bright halts of petals and wreaths in a palanquin's sleeping cargo we bound madly in half embrace trade downhill with up.
In bright halts of petals and wreaths a vivid scene of floating calm twists on a reed's helix of turns and rolls across subtle, imageless thoughts into gravity's journey downhill.
In vivid halts of petals and wreaths, in each breath we exhale, speak soft in warm ennobling cadence for a world descends in perfect grief. A perishing vision sees what can't be seen, as I envision these startling petals and wreaths, retribution failing to flit its harpor stage its muse. Here its mimic, an imperfect order draws darkness over no less profound a heart. What will not burn, we set to fire;
what can't be held send into sleep, into turn by gentle turn of ring worn age, covetable grace beauty and sadness as you spread over this air-woven awning of clouds to defy life's strange author whose groves we supplant with unchallenged wind.
In brights halts of petals and wreaths what can't be tasted, swallow what can't be said, speak. Sow only shadows into moonlight, plant only love, as regret starts each day at sunset.

About the author: David Sutherland has been widely published, with recent pieces appearing in The Hollins Critic, The Northern Michigan Journal and The Reader. He also serves as editor for a publication called Recursive Angel. His collection Between Absolutes has recently been published by Menace Publishing of Alexandria, VA.