Thunder Without Lightning

There are times in our lives when we feel helpless to help. On a note of transparency: this is my greatest fear. We experience something: an event, an emotion, a conflict or existential dilemma in the overarching narrative that is our story. We grow confused when our minds cannot rationalize life. We may not be able to comprehend what to do, or how to cope with the situation, but when the people we care about are being effected negatively the game changes. I personally am a guardian, protective by nature. It is, therefore, more difficult for me to be forced into a stoic state. Sometimes we must be strong for others. Ultimately, we must realize that we are human and we bleed. We may not be able to fix every situation. Some days may be darker than others. The poems that I write are taken from personal experience. Sometimes I wish that they would read themselves to whomever they are about and in a more eloquent manner say, "Someone thought about you today. Somebody cares." In the end, that is all that matters. Alas, the following words were written amid a recent summer:

"Thunder without lightning"

I'm holding a picture of her. Right before her eyes, but there's a disconnect, some disagreement between her right eye and what's left of her grey matter. It might be because she is having one of those days where the monster she rides around on, is winning. She asked politely the first two times, but the phrase never seemed to resonate enough meaning. So she tossed it to the wind.

And still the monster won't leave her alone.

Incessantly reminding her of this present state of being. Haunting. Catching her eyes every night before bed, winking, and blowing kisses as she grew up and into the coming storm that would mean everything to her. Every now and then, she hears thunder, but there’s no lightning. Feels rain, but no clouds. What began as confusion has matured into questions. Options. Ideas held by impossible strings and swords for fighting invisible things, like the wind. Slowly, she is becoming completely dependent on it.

Dependence: the name of that coat she refused to wear even when the weather begged to differ. Perhaps this word explains why the more I tried to lift her smile, the less receptive she grew, as her tongue adamantly wrestled to convey a message so perfectly she must have been holding onto it for years. It looked like a pearl when she said it.

"Who is that woman?"

Her eyes are reading the picture now, as if it’s some piece of literature she's never seen, but all the pages are blank so she is helpless when using context to figure out what the author was intending to say. She's lost her point of reference, the compass telling her who is sailing the ship. The doctor's diagnosis confirmed the what, but she can't seem to remember why she is here, and all she keeps hearing is that Dementia does that; and the side effects of medications are as normative as she will ever be again.

But what do they know.
The sky can rain without clouds
And thunder without lightning.


On the spectrum of little to nothing, their definition of dependent is useless. The monster still helps her crawl into bed at night. Although her curiosity hadn’t aged a day, her sight had been well seasoned. It doesn't bother me when she seems to recognize my face, but never recalls my name. So she waves, and I smile; then I wave, and she winks and blows a kiss. This is our timeless space called ‘remembering;’ our haven away from a world of pre-determined concepts where life and death rehash their sibling rivalry at the expense of human existence.

This time, I had hoped to get it right. But there's a disconnect, some disagreement between her right eye and what’s left of her grey matter. And for now, all she's asking is, "Who is that Woman?"

And as she lets go of some impossible string she had come to cherish,
I wink, and blow a kiss.
And it rains down her cheeks with no clouds
As she hears thunder without lightning.
Today, the monster, is winning.


~Deus Fortuno

Talking with my mouth open

Time has passed since my last post and a great many things have happened. In some strange, ritualistic act I would like to attempt to resurrect this place I once knew. This sanctuary. I've graduated college now and will soon be attending graduate school to attain a Master's in Counseling. This post, or should I say, this blog may aid in collecting my thoughts about life. I still write poems and pursue art. I am still an introvert and geek. I am a big philosopher with a beard; a teddy bear who reads and listens more than speaks. Here is a work that wrote itself. Any thoughts or comments are always welcome.

"Talking with my mouth open"

I’ll give you my pen if it helps. I keep it close to my heart, so you can make note and watch how it keeps time and track of your eyes when you look down or away from the elephant in the room that reminds you that what you are about to say is deeply personal.

You grow roses in your cheeks whenever others touch the buttons you hide in plain sight and your palms rain when too many questions approach without asking for permission. I ask because I care and I care to ask because you are here, but your eyes are wandering. We are sharing the same air, and I am reading, feeling the vibrations in your fingers as you twiddle and twitch. You have your own method of measuring the worth of a conversation and it begins and ends with being noticed. You go about your day caring for others in a way that seems strange, or perhaps abrasive. But really, you play surgeon in a hospital overflowing with casualties who don’t know they are dying. The woman in the corner just lost it all in one phone call, and the man next to her has no more teeth to lie through so he smiles, but never opens his mouth. Silent are your eyes as they scan the environment for signs of compassionate life. You monitor your thoughts like a warden put in charge of canaries: entertained, but ultimately afraid of the existential anomalies you’ve put behind bars as though at any moment they will be released, and you will be revealed for what you truly are: thoughtful.

You maintain control of your life via a cage with a lock, and when it’s not big enough, you turn the lights out-hoping silence will fall on the ringing in your ears. Your thoughts are creatures repeating the same phrases over and over, until out of frustration you write poems on your arm or punch stonewalls in the nose because nothing, in this moment, is concrete. There must be something more behind the veil, some puppet master pulling strings with cruel intentions, and you’d like to teach them a thing or two about pain. What the words on your wrists say is that “We are all searching for something.” What they mean is between you and God and whoever hurt you bad enough to stain your body with permanent ink deserves to be sentenced to walk an eternity on legos. You are alarmed by the sound of complaints you hear each day, how some humans actually believe they are entitled to every basic human need, albeit safety, or love. Once in awhile, someone will talk with their mouth open, saying things to make you stop and think, but those moments are few and far between and there aren’t enough hours in the day to make all the assumptions necessary to conjoin your notion of the way the world should be, with the way the sidewalk containing your future just ended a few feet ago.

So you stand still.

Give the sun the middle finger you’ve been saving for a rainy day and sigh because you really had been saving that passive aggressive gesture for something more worth your time. To you, Mother Nature is hardly an adequate adversary, and Father Time stopped writing eons before you were born, so why bother.

You’ve had enough lashes for one day. But you’re still standing here. In the same spot where your consciousness left you, reassembling your shell for a moment because, for once, your cage was broken into. Not by force, but rather a question asked by someone who has been reading, wondering why a warden is wrestling with God at the edge of this sidewalk. A simple curiosity: How old is your soul really?

The roses on your cheeks bloom, and as my pen meets your hand you reply, “I found something worth searching for.” And just then, another canary enters your cage.

So you stand still.
And the elephant in the room reminds you that you are about to say something deeply personal.

~God Bless