It's been some time since my last post. That annoying little thing called life has gotten in the way of blogging. But I'm back at the keys, and here's a poemish thing I wrote. For the record, I don't write poetry. And certainly not free verse. I'm no Wordsworth. But in the words of a friend in reference to a Kandinsky painting, "feast your soul on this for a while."
Spines rot of leaves
Not turned. Knowledge limitless,
Yet not enough. Head
In hands, spectacles
On the desk. Lenses of
Distinction. Of choice,
Lie beside the flower dead.
Spine bowed straightened
To stand. To search
For the spine fresh but
Covered with dust.
Gust of breath, of wind.
Clear the haze, the dust.
Stone rolled away
Like the clouds under
The sun.
Not ink but meaning;
Not clutter but cleaning.
Something new under
The sun. The Son.
Head in hands no longer.
He stands stronger.
Straighter.
But good intenders
With noble intent
Miss intentions. In emphasizing
The royal thorns
They become the thorns
That choke the meaning.
Spectacles clean, green,
The institutions lead
Him. Fingers steepled,
Or folded, he is told the meaning
Is convenient.
Bogged down in specifics
Is the danger. So they say.
Bending to drink rather
Than drinking from cupped hands,
Watching lest
They misunderstand.
He follows.
Controversy covered
With heavenly sheet.
Robbing Peter but
Not paying Paul.
The spectacles of
Choice clouding again.
His trunk branching out
With no root.
his ink becomes grey.
His ink turns pink.
Water, blood, and sweat.
My ink was written grey,
That it may either rot
Or be watered.
But his was not
Nor His.
It was vibrant and crisp;
It was dark, with a bondage
Light; refracted through
That distorted lens called
Time and preconception.
If he loves the one
Who created the trees, the life,
The light, the mountains, the seas,
Then what?
Does he stop at love?
Intangible? Unprovable?
Like a prostrate statue?
his ink says by no means.
The tree must blossom.
The fruit must grow.
So the roots must extend
Deep into the leaves where
The meaning is clear and
The dirt is black.
Nourishment enough from
Spreading roots to press
Through the thorns.
To see without lens,
Undistorted, untainted,
Unspoiled. Above
The fog and clouds; yet
Still under the Son.
