The cool winter air makes the grass sway like the ocean's waves.
Makes the limbs of trees, both young and old, dance fancifully without care of who's watching.
The brilliant sun, bold as it is, is shy this morn
Only peaking over the icy mountain tops.
The sky is as clear and beautiful as a newly forged glass sculpture.

As I turn around, I see my home,
The furnace still warm from yesterday's work
sits quietly in the center
The bellow, old with use
waits impatiently for it's next push
The anvil, stubborn with age
tightens it's muscles, prepared for the torment of the day
The mallet and hammer, young with ambition
remember the creations so recently forged with creativity
The ground is riddled with steel and coal
The grass here is burnt and covered with the now stagnant embers of the furnace
The walls are filled with the tools of my trade,
all made in this very place.

The day has begun.
I act with repetition as I have so many days and nights prior.
I lay fresh coals upon the furnace
I push the bellow with all my strength
The furnace begins to roar with vigor like a newly awoken bear
I pull new, unworked steel from the bin
Laying the steel upon the fire,
I can see the color change and shift rapidly
I prepare the hammer and mallet for use, and hear their excitement fill this place
Pulling the steel from the fire, I lay it upon the grouchy anvil.
Then I begin my work of creation.
Hammer meets steel,
sparks and embers fly,
steel morphs it's shape,
the day is now warm in this place.

For hours, this process continues
The furnace only grows warmer,
The bellow only grows more worn,
The anvil only tires with work,
The mallet and hammer only become more ecstatic.
Until the creation is complete.

The day is complete.
The wind has all but ceased.
The grass now as still as all the sleeping creatures.
The trees' festival is complete.
The air is now freezing.
The furnace is cooling again,
The bellow is at peace again,
The anvil is relaxed again,
The mallet and hammer are quiet again.

I sit here now, watching the sun retreat behind the lake.
It's setting as colorful as a painting.
My work today is done,
My tools are silent,
My creation is complete.
I too, can now bask in the serenity of the night.

Soft, loud, loud.


What am I?
Not music, just the lines on a page. Yet depicting the pitterpatter of moonlight, music, lines, dreaming, all the same.
Soft loud soft
Gently in little strokes a delicate face emerges
         Loud loud
The night sings through my hand, darkening until no line is left unshaded, no place left
              unworked.

Oh Grey-blue Sky
Please won't you tell us why
You are so numb and frail
So against proud detail
Oh Grey-blue Sky
Please won't you tell us why
Your face is so black and pale;
So unworked and bailed
A joke about a paper-blank sky.

straight out of the box
from star-child to page

I think it was losing Lyric that did it
After everything else that I had lost
It was the  final straw
My gardens once bright and heavy laden with fruit
Became dry and fallow
The soil hard and unworked
Uncared for
The bright blue sky became pale
The sun harsh and hot
My hands so full of carving and craft
Gripped nothing
No longer was beauty
Birthed by them
They were as empty as my heart
In the end

Whose lie will do less damage?

Nothing personal, it's all political.
Hard rock mine real estate, mind state,
less turmoil, after the blast, settling dust,
grand fluffy occlusions in purple sunsets,
as the herds return to sleeping grounds.

Kinds flock together, all united
under the kinds that shepherd flocks
to fleece them in season and out,
instant,

"Preach the word;
be instant in season, out of season;
reprove, rebuke, exhort
with all longsuffering and doctrine."

Live and learn, or turn and burn
with desire to know where curiosity leads
life out of mind.

Biological means life logos using
Meat machines to make up mind's
Machinations,
PIE *magh-ana- "that which enables,"
from root *magh- "to be able, have power."

"we wrestle messengers, and make 'em pay"

Wille zur Machts misthoughts fog,
into which the white horse disappeared,

leaving the illiterate hedge hog in the clear.

Have you never invited a story to live in you,
did you never attempt to memorize
Casey at bat, or Paul Revere's ride?

At the base, most least highest part of you,
at the sole
of the foot you stand upon,
tree pose, suppose, imagining balance
is a system that makes your spirits rise,
and imbalance attempts prevention,
by increasing the will
to believe I can remain so posed, great
iffing ego boost, foul form
of gaseous wedom
given a good convincing win
in puberty, while transitioning
to fructificating adult…

aha, the man
in the mirror, sees the child
wondering as if wonder were a verb won

by one willing to see if one can see
beneath the blindfold, in the classic game

was it blind man's bluff, or pin the tail,
one of those everybody knows but me games,
popular in ****** forms of making others laugh

at our blindness,
so we all learn a kind
of way we all are different, a way
some find funny as blind poker players.

Is this the tell, can we think we see you lie
?
¿
Is an a a take away, as amaze,
lifts one above
around astounding stories
with miracles fixed dogma used
to judge from, after the last Trump
about the time grace is defined
in religious prep
as unworked for favor, like
"money for nothin' and chicks for free"

but far more culturally refined,
more Trumpian
big iron American, real estate,
******* fixed military order
where only
rank matters,
at the last judgement, that's the tell,

is what a gnat thinks
of an elephant controversial?

Can a gnat make an elephant scratch?

Ai, in the blink of an eye, watch.
Here's mud in your face,
big disgrace, a flea madjaphlench… yo? Y'know?

Earth to the Universe, listen,
there is really too much to take on trust.

True rest, does not allow a liar to lead an army.