"stonemason" poems
I have shared in my time the human illusions,
the muddy foolishness and craving passions.
But something years ago pulled me out of the tide-wash;
I cannot even pretend to be one of the people.
I stand here with open eyes in the clear air growing old.
Watching with interest and considerable nausea,
this time of the demagogues, the shifts of power,
and the pitiless wars that prepare for the fall.
But also the enormous unhuman beauty of things;
rock, sea and stars; fool-proof and permanent.
But as for my children, I would have them
keep their distance from the thickening center,
corruption never has been compulsory.
When the cities lie at the monster's feet
there are left the mountains.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
We gathered our water
and packs at daybreak
to hike hand in hand
toward the distant ruin—
a tall stone chimney planted
on otherwise empty acreage,
a kudzu-covered tower,
the ghost of a farmhouse
now a home to field mice,
black beetles and bats,
with bricks the color
of weathered blood,
vertebrae stacked
a century and a half ago
by a stonemason’s craft,
still solid and bonded
despite the slow decay
of arthritic mortar.
How long have we
walked together?
The morning
is all we have
left to ponder.
We walk for hours;
the chimney grows
larger at our approach.
I want to ask you
a question about
the night we met,
what you said
just before I held
you for the first time,
but then I catch sight
of my hand and realize
I am walking alone,
moving inexorably
toward a ruination
of my own making.
How could I have been
so careless? Unable
to stop, every step
strips something away:
my hair thins and falls,
as white and weak
as sickled wiregrass;
another step and my
body atomizes into
the stuff of stars,
pollen scattered
on a rising wind.
So this is what it
feels like to decay.
By the time I reach
the ruin I am mostly
cinder and ash,
a sorry vestige
sown in a quiet field,
a forgotten landmark
that strangers will visit,
if only to contemplate
how the evening fog
spindles like smoke
along the enduring
column of my spine.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
Sometimes just before dusk
after my black mutt’s been fed
I go down to the canebrake
and cut fishing poles for the dead
where the live oaks’ shade
is so thick it'll make you shiver
like a stonemason chiseling
dates in a graveyard by the river
before shadows of the wriggling
bait worms on rusty curved nails I
use for a hook and light in the eyes
of the fishermen begin dwindling.
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
I have finally found you
In St. Enodoc Church;
Home is where your heart rests
Not your place of birth.
Summoned by the three o’clock bell
A pilgrim across the eleventh fairway,
Towards a crooked spire that protrudes
Like a drowning swimmer,
Signalling to be rescued from the dunes.
As I enter through the gate
Your headstone greets me with a shout;
A marvel of the stonemason’s art
Explosive script from marbles cold darkness,
Radiates your humour and warmth.
I am not humbled, sad nor afraid
This place is fitting to rest your phrase;
Looking down at where you lie
I try to imagine that lived-in face.
Archibald lies at your head
Old and trusted, faithful ted;
So much heard, but nothing said
All through the years of pressured steps,
To follow where your father led;
But you had other plans and instead
Were drawn to words with rhythmic thread,
That made you Poet Lauriat, a knight
Who finally has found some peace.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 7:13 PM UTC
I don't feel anything today.
Nothing.
No stirring sounds.
No limitless voices.
Just a silent reverence for noise.
Noises outside and within.
That's all I feel.
Noise
and
Nothingness.
It would be a great title for a book,
If I could only pick up a pen.
But the pen bleeds.
And so do I.
On the inside,
because my brain would be too ashamed to be known otherwise.
I've tried walking.
There is a peace in nature I wish I had.
There is a peace in some people I wish I had.
This must be what Michaelangelo's David felt.
A beautiful figure.
Made of stone.
This is what Notre Dame's gargoyles felt.
Loathsome creatures.
Made of stone.
This is what my soul feels like.
An empty vessel.
Made of blood and sinew
And stone.
An empty vessel
Sealed in stone.
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
Before fóvos stood fright -- witnesses,
Their fear of fóvos sequestered no longer
Or in sooth forever.
One by one the witnesses took the stand,like sheep to be herded
To testify against fóvos.
The clergy feared secularity with a raging fire to be tied to by the hip
The kings and nobles feared a state of anarchy like an illegitimate child claiming its throne
The StoneMason feared a blunder in its sculpting of the hard untamed surface soft by its form
The BlackSmith feared a dull tool without it’s soul to drive its purpose
The Tailor feared a loose stitch that would expose the wearer
The Carpenter feared weak wood never to be fortified by another
The Fisher feared a raging sea that brought the reaper aboard
The Baker feared a lesser oven that rendered the flour a ******
To appease fright, an imprisoning of fóvos.
To be hidden till proven to exist,
To be the one,
The master of fright.
The one oh so Brave and Fearful
So Candid yet feigned
Credulous yet cynical
The one to be whomever
Yet Nobody.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 4:33 PM UTC
Awkwardly leaning forward, sloping over damp, brown earth,
stands a young boy’s chiselled memory.
Above rooks caw incessantly in budding branches,
yet little ever grew beneath the great yew’s venerable shadow.
Here beside cold, forgotten, lichened stones,
thin pale weeds strain for scarce obtainable light.
Small insects forage through fallen leaf litter
whilst passing squirrels move swiftly on, sniffing decay.
Lettering barely legible, a long-dead stonemason’s art
serves only now as a brief refuge for tiny red mites;
and yet for those with eyes to see a tragic tale is here,
a tale two hundred years in the telling.
“Hic Iacet Poor Benjamin,
who did Fall into some Awful Vat
within his Father’s Manufactory,
whereby he Perished,
Scalded like a Cat.
No more the Trees of Youth he’ll Climb,
for Ten Short Years was all his Time.”
Awkwardly leaning forward, sloping over damp, brown earth,
stands a young boy’s chiselled memory.
Above rooks caw incessantly in budding branches,
yet little ever grew beneath the great yew’s venerable shadow.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 4:58 AM UTC