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Juhlhaus Jan 13
Long ago my mother gave me birth.
From her molten womb in the cooling rain I took shape.
Wind and water gently fashioned me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the heather
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.

Men found me on the mountainside,
Stripped me of my mossy cloak
And hauled me away on a cart of wood,
To be used for the glory of God.
With metal tools and hammer blows they fashioned me
And gave me hard edges.
They stacked me high on top of other stones,
Fitted me snug and sealed me in.
Through narrow windows colored light shone on the floor below,
And in the darkness voices rose with scented smoke,
Singing of the glory of God.

Men warred with other men, took each other’s lives
And threw down what they had raised up, for the glory of God.
Scorched by angry flames, I fell
From that high place to lie broken in the ashes.
Wind and water gently washed me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the ruins
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.

A shepherd found me in the grass, lifted me up
And carried me away in his arms.
He nestled me alongside other stones
To keep the wandering sheep from deadly cliffs.
Though riven clouds the bright sun warms us,
And in the mist life weaves us mossy coverings.
Day after day we listen to the wind in the heather
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.
I would not have thought a stone could possess a soul, until I visited Scotland. This poem was inspired in part by a visit to the ruins of the Cathedral of Saint Andrew. I composed the poem a few months later, after a friend suggested I write an essay describing my spiritual journey through disillusionment and doubt. As I pondered this, it seemed that no essay could ever convey my bound-up thoughts and emotions, but a poem might begin to do so.
chickens still wait for corn
by the door of my granny's kitchen,
where sun once rose with a daughter
in skin of gold, and set with a son,
with silvery dreams

little girls still dance in twilight,
clad in the nakedness of innocence,
their chests bare, where ******* ought to be,
their scarves wild, flowing in the wind
and their voices climb palm trees,
in a bid to beat the boys to their dreams.

little boys form a group of toughlings
flooring the other in smart fast moves,
wrestling for fun, and raising dead dusts,
dusts of their forebears, who warred,
and set boundaries they'd grow up to meet:
and then forget unwritten bro codes,
forge new laws and grow cold,
act brave and grow old...
watch dreams fade into the dark

and the song of wasted years
punctuated with short sighs
shall form a new language
that tumble down our throats, tasting strange,
yet worth the dirge after all

adieu is the song, and
the circle goes on,

life
A Simillacrum Apr 10
You swirl my mind
behind the shades.
Dreams come and go
to Mary Jane.
You stir my dreams
all of the day.

Then, when I warred,
nothing could stop
the storm there in store
for me.

My central column
is prone to shift.
You have acid spit,
and kiss me there,
between the atoms.
Realignment.

What is
a holy moment?
When you
share a gaze with one.

What is
a definite end?
When you
find the beginning.

— The End —