Her fingers twist and feint and weave through fabled hearts of those who grieve,
and eyes as blue as black as grey dart to and fro as lashes sway
through canvas smooth and creased and torn by charcoal bright and colours worn;
bare feet pack down in muck and mire vast founding stones as lungs expire
and lips let loose brave tales and songs while fists pound rhythms fast on gongs.
A metronome, the lady’s heart, keeps measured time for laden cart
that brings the waxless monolith and tools for shaping bark and pith.
Her hair like wire, soft and slight, slides through dark clay in brightest night
and knees and shoulders shape and sway while trees give all their leaves away.
Her beauty lights the rich sunset, unrivaled skill she has, and yet –
the lady’s greatest feat, ‘tis said, is stealing softly through man’s head
to teach of notes and tales and hues – no softer touch than yours, o Muse!
~
Slow is a matter of thinking;
great forests are grown at fast pace
compared to the rising and sinking
of mountains where trees make their place.
Time’s but a unit of measure,
a useful but relative thing,
and one would do well to take pleasure
in songs that take lifetimes to sing!
Wisdom quite often takes decades,
but power it has without end!
Patience is wrought in a strong blade;
fine shields never fail to defend!
Children grow quicker than mountains,
and mountains teach children to climb;
from both we can learn valued lessons,
if willing to give it the time.
~
Sit cushioned high in soft suspense;
await the river’s recompense
when multitudes shall coalesce
and gravity will gently press.
Amorphously they fall and rinse
and wash along rich nutrients
and through the roots and rivers seep,
o thankful skies who joyous weep –
and what am i, this simple soul,
with digits formed into a bowl,
who watches silent sighing rains
fill the lakes that dry wind drains
and mimic shores with clumsy seals
between the flesh that deeply feels
the washing cleanse of molten snow,
appreciating rhythmic flow.
~
The fervent wind lifts grains up high
and whips them past so lazy quick
and dries the moisture from my brow
so bits of dust can never stick;
the desert calm burns high and slow
and grains scratch furrows deep and rough
through skin that knits up every crack,
but stone just doesn't care enough
to mend its surface polished thin
by pieces that were worn away;
no motive force besides the wind,
expressionless they sharply sway.
The somber sky and thoughtless sand
have power, patience, purpose none,
no vision save what i will see
with soulful thought 'neath searing sun.
These living hands can mold and shape,
this mind can have desire strong,
and i can subjugate the winds
to heed my plans and flow along.
This lifeless sea of heat and grit
will move as far as i command,
but i have spent a calm few moons
among the stones and tossing sand;
yes, i have seen my efforts great
all crumble when their time was through,
save those that went in harmony
with nature's flow, though those were few.
From dust are built vast monuments
and in due time all that remains
amid the great and hot expanse
are silent, peaceful, stony grains.
There's passion, reason to exist
in flowing blood and building stern;
when reason's through, though, passion spent,
the lifespark has no cause to yearn,
no purpose to resist the call
of tiny scratching flowing dust,
so valiant hearts will beat their last
and sturdy chains will fall to rust.
In time my stubborn healing skin
will crumble dry and drift away,
resistance lost to desert calm,
no further need for life to stay.
Once life is seen and lived and gone
and purposes all sit fulfilled,
the vessel's parts blow soft away,
the stirring fitful bones lie stilled.
A few more tasks, some skills to learn,
some lessons grave 'neath arid sky
for this old frame to understand
and then, with patience, calmly die.
This body firm of ash was sprung
and ash again these hands will be
to sway contented, lessons learned,
and help some other life to see.
[Note: in Norse mythology, the first two humans were fashioned from trees: Ash (man) and Elm (woman), paralleling the Judeo-Christian Adam and Eve. When the author refers to his body being sprung from and returning to ash, he is referring to both his Scandinavian physical heritage and his Judeo-Christian philosophical heritage, i.e. “ashes to ashes”.]
~
The densest stones break witch’s bones and rupture vibrant skin,
but staunch basalt is not at fault, and neither is the wind
that freezes blood and stiffens mud around this form of mine
held fast in place by sturdy lace of dirty flaxen twine.
O if they knew my love for you, the wind, the earth, the sky,
then they would use some other ruse to make me quail and die!
For this last breath before my death i draw with quiet calm;
the sturdy land supports my hands, the moonlight is my balm,
and bloody tears not born of fear flow down my broken face
to be combined with dirt and brine in nature’s warm embrace.
And when i slept my soul was swept into that land of plenty,
and conscious layers sang silent prayers in praise of those that sent me.
[Note: in the early days of America, those suspected of witchcraft were often tortured and executed. One famous case, cited in the play The Crucible, is that of a man who had stones piled on his chest as a form of torture designed to force a confession of witchcraft (crucible: from cruciatus, Latin: to crush). When asked if he had anything to confess, all he replied was "more weight".]
