ear to the wood

little attic bedroom, 7. 30 .12

grandpa's boots, a poem

a poem I wrote about the passing on of stories and histories - how they become entrusted to those left behind, but slowly, over time, decrease in the telling and lose traction, until we push them further into the attic as younger stories are collected and retired.

final words {on light}

To complete my posts on light, here is a 

humble bit of poetry I wrote a while back. 

Do enjoy.

______________________________________________________________

           Passing through the mountains

there I saw a monk

bathing in a fountain

I watched him as he sunk

Fast 

       I went to grab him

reaching for his arm

He sang a sparkling hymn of praise

showed no signs of alarm

His skin as smooth as     butter dust

slipping from my reach

light reflected from his flesh

like beams upon the beach

A warmth, I felt, 

as down 

              he 

                plunged,

unfolding from the air,

a gold that I could nearly taste

a lightness I could wear

What is this?

I whispered 

with breath of gilded flecks

light

I felt him sweetly say

And what is light?

I answered back

The source of every flame.

The thread of life is in us all

burning as a fire

joining every vital voice

it's weaving hand can sire

I'm charged by an electric yarn

that sparks within you too

A match that's calling to be lit

but is struck by just a few

A ray of light defies its death

when crashing to the sea

unsuspecting waves reflecting

shimmering debris

So burn strong now, but when death rears

your fear you must resist

for as the sunshaft on the swell,

your light, your love, persist.

Patient water

sealed him neatly

         holy commandant -

All remaining

radiating

were  ripples    on      the font. 

confessions of a work meeting doodler:

   oh, 

just a little poem, 

                                 and a 

lightbulb hot air balloon.

pub poetry

What am I
without my brain?
A soul? A spine? A fleshy stain?

So give me spirit
make me full,

but I am naught

without my skull.

-c.m. fiske

{written at Kings, in Ballard, on a night of Strongbow and good company}