I stand here, a plaster saint,
Somewhere else, I'd be a haint,
A ghost of a distant century,
But I'm a symbol of Christianity,
Or of another faith, you see,
People come to worship with me,
I present to them a gift of faith,
All who pray for blessed grace,
No sacred space is ever empty,
The divine is here with you and me,
We're all part of this mystery.............

She was made
of gold
and marble
and she stood
above
the water.
A boy of stone
less looked at
stood hidden
behind
the ivy.
Forgotten
by most
he loved
the girl
made
of gold
and marble.
He
loved her
she
loved him
and they whispered
their love
in the night.

The Mason and His Statue

at first, I am a block of stone
and you are a chisel
carving pieces of me away
and then you are a diamond drill
and then I am polished
mounted
wheeled out of the room covered in stone dust and into the liquid darkness of a hallway
and ten arched windows pass me by
for the very first time I can see the sky

I’m in the middle of the room
with a nameplate on a stand beside me - did I have a name before?
I’m just me
and there’s more of me all around me
standing
sitting
eyes reaching… quiet.
The doors open and the footsteps arrive
I hear water outside and see out the windows at the end of the hall and sometimes if I’m lucky they open them and I feel a breeze on the side of my face
but the funny part is -
the best time of day is when they close all the doors
and it’s just me and the janitor who’s mopping the floors

in case you were wondering
why I’m not there anymore
in the middle of the room in plain view on my pedestal
they took me down
too dated or too worn or just not new
wrapped me in canvas and put me in the back of a storeroom
where for the first time I experienced damp, and cold
and I learned that it was a bad thing to be old

but
then I was worn enough to be disposable
and they put me in the park
I’m by the fountain - come and find me
there’s no barriers and no nameplate telling you what to see
and yes, the wind blows and I’m a little more exposed
but I’m free

I tried to walk
I tried to talk
I tried to fly
I tried to yell

But my feet were locked
But my legs were numb
But my tongue was still
And my lips were locked

Was I trapped in a dream?
A bad dream for sure
I mustered no emotion
Except fear for my future

My eyes couldn't blink
And couldn't move
My arms, fingers, toes
Also locked tight

And then as people stared
My heart began to glow
From the warmth of their smiles
Shining on me and my pedestal.

Do you hear the old gods singing?
Through marble bones
And filtered sunlight
Their semblance,
Cold and undying
Painstakingly chiseled
And forced into placidity.
Yet still they sing.

I want to say you have made me who I am
But you were not the sculptor
You were the one with the vision
Pushing the sculptor to create something
Without defects, without faults, perfection
But you pushed too hard
Until the statue cracked under pressure
You did not make the statue
It was the sculptor
It was I who made me who I am