Worlds Away

what the nomad brought home

Woodworking

Hunched over your work,
And low to the ground,
Meticulously, you chip away
At the scepter
That will one day make you king.
You’re carving an unwitnessed masterpiece —
Starting outside at the roughness,
Moving dutifully in.

I stumble startled over you,
Confounded,
When I pull open a familiar door
And find it was a portal
Where a stranger sits in wait.

Patient, pensive, out-of-place,
You hang your head,
Impervious to the siren breeze of summer
That calls to me
And dances on the air
Just yards from where you sit.
Yet still you stop to lift your gaze
In recognition of the child
Pondering your presence.

We need no introduction,
Yet we don’t know any names.
Does either of us know why you are there?

And so we meet in knowing silence at the threshold,
Somewhere in between
Dark and light,
Work and play,
Indoors, outdoors,
Maturity and youth,
Confines and boundlessness,
Artifice and truth.

You smile a greeting through the stillness
Before returning to your curious craft,
And I drink this vision in.
And though I skip away to carry out my childhood,
Turning back to the silent stranger
I have always never known,
I realize some accident of fate
Has crossed the years,
The miles,
The laws,
The lives
That disconnect
Again when I wake up.

But I’ll grow up remembering
That I forgot you between lifetimes,
Always wondering
Which you it was I saw,
And understanding
That I’ll stumble into you again
When I
Come back from my adventures,
And you
Have finally finished freeing
The all-consuming masterwork
That brought you to that stoop.

 

This poem tells the story of a dream I had as a child.  Consequently, it’s somewhat strange and probably makes little sense.  But I’m sure some of you can relate to the experience of waking up from a dream and feeling, “….Something important just happened.”  Or having encountered a stranger or received some bit of information in a dream which you’ve never been able to forget.  Well, that was my experience way back when, and that’s what this is about.

The image of this stranger and his serious, dignified dedication to his carving work, juxtaposed with my carefree childhood spirit, was so powerful to me that I decided to attempt to honor it by writing these lines over a decade later.  So, for what it’s worth, this piece isn’t too refined, but I believe it’s time to put this out there.  Here’s to the woodworker I stumbled over years ago.

“And through a fractal on a breaking wall, I see you my friend, and touch your face again.  Miracles will happen as we dream.”  Seal — “Crazy”

September 2, 2008 Posted by | Memories, muse, Poetry, Reincarnation, Time, Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

This, to me, is spring.

I am.
That’s all.
And yet there’s more!
I see —
Because I haven’t
I know
Because I can’t
And was
What now I won’t
For I’m reborn,
And there’s a pulse, a breath
A brilliant rush!
Of nothing.
And I sprint
I crash
I laugh!
I leap
They seize me, I surrender
And I live!

And I drink the devastation,
And lament my desolation
And I know
I am unworthy of
Such agonizing
Joy!
And yet
At least a dozen times
I die
To find it all again
And wrench it out
Unraveling
In a reckless dance of utter collapse
To music of the sound of chains
And I emerge undone here on my knees
Baptized
In a font of sacred tears
That shine
Ethereal!
Over this once-sullen gem
Of perfect imperfections.

So I set forth
Triumphantly
To abdicate my….
Self
To the constellation of calamities
Stretched out ahead as “fate”;

For this
To me
Is passion.

Yes, this, to me
Is spring.

April 2, 2008 Posted by | Poetry, Reincarnation | , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment