vacuum

4 Poems: Bee Tables, Woods Worship, Gathered Shards, Yes I Can

 

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YES I CAN

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Can I help?
Of course I can
said all from
the people of Japan
to each Corsican



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GATHERED SHARDS

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As magnets pull iron filings
and vacuums draw up rice grains
As the sun lifts sea waters
and rivers gather drops of rain
does Great Love
sooner or later
attract all to His train



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WOODS WORSHIP

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Daffodils convene
in clusters in the
fallen leaved woods
to worship in
Mother Earth’s chapel

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BEE TABLES

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For wandering bees
Queen Anne’s Lace
is the table, the food
and visible grace.

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4 POEMS

-saiom shriver-

The Artisan's Throne

I think that just beyond the deepest point

Our souls can reach, 

There lies the place where 

Our children wait to incarnate,

 

And in the darkness, 

 

Actuated through voluminous walls of air,

Gravity sucks them into it's vacuum,

They enter into slimy saturation, 

And flesh and bone begins 

To imbue their being.

 

They permeate this budding existence 

Without defense, or knowledge,

Propelled by the force they left, 

Where they circled in space,

For thousands of Earth years.

 

Now a human, living love essence,

Bound to slice the charred debris

Of our sometimes too well thought out plans,

A step ahead of us they plow their way

To mold us, sometimes scold us, 

Scar and control us.

 

As they journey to become born, 

While seeds of this innate knowing

Burrow deep within their subconscious,

Our eyes, gazing upon the miracle of birth itself,

Project us into blissful delight at their presence,

 

Comforting us as we spar with the hand of mortality,

 

Reminding us in our deepest repression,

The space from which we came,

Taunting our moment of utter euphoria,

A subtle elusive gnawing query, 

Starved, by and through our own ignorance 

And trepidation of who we are.

 

So our retort to this vexatious notion 

Becomes an obsessive adoration 

Of these fleshy creations which do not even belong to us,

 

They are the squires of our purpose,

 

Like projectile bits of sawdust and splintered wood

From a carpenter's saw,

Remnants of the artisan's aspirations,

And humanity's desperation to fullfill the promise of 

A life well lived.

 

I used to love to watch my grandfather in his basement,

Carving fine artistry from rough edged pieces of wood,

As I rocked in the small rocking chair he made for myself,

My siblings and cousins, each taking our turns,

At the artisan's throne.

 

 

 

 

1:47 AM 6/25/2013 © 

 

 

 

 

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Author's Notes/Comments: 

A human experience