Whispers

The signs are there.
The fragmentations evident
long before the carnage begins.
The signs are visible as small comparisons,
lifting up one and tearing down another.
Undermining criticisms and
phrases of division are oft spoken,
spoken with tones of puzzlement,
advice seeking, “innocent” passing observations
given in “friendly” camaraderie
with disclaimers of all sorts.

Over time, it is evident, there is a fixation.
The statements grow in boldness
as they are told over and over.
Motivations are assigned and character is maligned.
In no time at all, the words spoken
have little, if any, resemblance to fact or reality,
they only serve the cause of the one who speaks.

I first encountered such a thing,
one day, in a crowd, a gapping,
bleeding wound of a man smiled at me.
He spoke to me with sickly, warm tone,
pointing out another’s weakness, the incompleteness.

“Shocked” and “aghast” with whispers,
“heartbroken” and “sad” with undertone of pride,
chin lifted high, eyes searching for agreement,
for a comrade to build momentum of cause,
as though pointing out another’s imperfections
rendered his own festering sores invisible
and him lovelier.
He was a whisperer.

The subjects of his fascination were
those who were unafraid.
They were imperfect, yes,
and they were unafraid of the messiness of life.
They were busy embracing the wounded and loving well,
lending strength and courage,
sharing their lives,
generous, compassionate,
faithful in their commitment
from moment to moment.

In an awful way that makes us forget to breathe,
whisperers have a terrible way of proliferating,
undermining, tearing down, destroying, and
“drawing blood.”

The whisperers strike from behind.
A trail of “blood” marks their path.
They smile and extend a “warm” hand of friendship.
They watch for any perceived imperfection
and then the whispers begin.
Their fabricated words and implied meanings,
in a bizarre reality,
become truth,
merely by the fact they are spoken,
their hearers giving life
and the appearance of truth
by constant recitation and regurgitation
to anyone who will listen
to their wind sewn words.

Standing against a whisperer
and their whispers
is a tricky thing.
If you actually find one and confront them,
if they are even able to understand,
if they are repentant and never whisper again,
there is till nothing to be done
for all the whispers
they have given flight to.

Who can identify where the whisper went?
What other person spoke
the fabrications into life
in another ear?

The ones the whispers feed upon
are forced to battle with a wind
that draws “blood”
and drains life, indefinitely.

Scar tissue and, tragically,
when there is no forgiveness,
open wounds,
unable to heal,
putrefy
memorializing
the whisperer’s deeds.

We don’t always know
much about the whisperers.
Often we don’t know who they are
or why they whisper.
We could speculate,
but that would be whispering.

We do know,
they are wounded,
they have lost their way,
and they allow
their own unattended,
gapping,
bleeding wounds
to drive them to battle
and into a whirlwind
of destruction.
Copyright Joy Chastagner November 2008