I feel a sound in my soul as if a heartbeat from another lifetime is trying to tell me something I have already learned in some other language I haven't spoken for eons....and surrendering my barriers to this energy cloud I have learned to believe in...words surprise me as they find their way into my fingers...in the presence of Nature... I find my art.
This is a poem written for me by Shewolfnative,
my thanks to Carol.
http://allpoetry.com/shewolfnative
Knowing A Kaibab's Keenness
Creative spirits conceived of shooting stars,
womb-taught language of this earth
and music of words, phrases, stanzas;
his cells remembered hearing
heavenly verses and images
strung on lines that leaned onto each other
like best friends, like lovers, like soul mates’
breaths that were layered upon him before he breeched
waves of unqualified time between there and earth.
There is sunlight in his poetry; a greening of thoughts
that spring from near-dead trees that lean hard
towards heaven and wait for a dew-drop of his design
to soften her tough skin.
There are luminaries on dark nights;
pinpricks of hope, scattered on black velvet
provoking a poem of passion about how moon-sighs
move the earth…and me.
Sands of desert are shaped into lines of beauty;
olive oil, honey and slow wine of his study
waken taste buds for truth and testaments.
I am a forest, a plain, a rolling hill of refinement
when riding a frenzy of his writing about how lovely
a billowing dust storm can be when taken to task
by his pen that journeys a thousand thousand nights
to reach that exact moment when what is shaped
In his mind is scrolled to its end line.
He is sound of water; lake, stream, river,
ocean lapping at salient shores for new ways
to define themselves at his tutelage.
Oh, Kaibab, what wisdom flows from your fingertips
is but a drop in seas of silent coaching
Creator bent your hand to. We are your students,
your mentors, your friends, who hang on to your thoughts
as if they were the last lines attached to heaven ;
the very strands of light that nourish us
and cause us to put our own insignificant etchings
at your feet and ask that you consider them
poor as they are, as tokens of our gratitude
for teaching us the sounds of things we may have missed
while scratching our thin thoughts on tarnished paper.
another by shewolfnative (for my 1000th trophy)
Tender Mercies For A Member Of The Tribe Of Kaibab
This is a man who cuts wood, lays hearths,
travels to Incan adoritories, examines graves.
He is prepared NOT to wait before he strides out
to spirit, with arms wide open
and a prayer of gratitude on his lips.
He has rescued infants left out in the cold,
wrapped them in his poetry, warmed them
with the food of his language, and rocked them
in leafy nests made of feathery feelings
that ensure their safekeeping.
He knows whey of snow, sift of sand,
and moon’s watery lace are speaking
in the voice of God, and he decodes them
for mere mortals to partake in feasts
at his table by the window, on porch,
that faces Old Man of the Mountain.
He knows words woven in spiders’ webs,
lay of hand of land on stones, and feel of lip
to flesh of those who have flung themselves
of creative cliffs in order to have their say.
Ah, Kaibab, you have lit my soul
with flames of your hope, feathers of faith,
and your stoop to touch a broken egg
in Universe’s nest and have given it a name
before it dust to dust returns.
I know your name, it is almost at tip of tongue
but too sacred to say, mystic, music man, whisperer
to horses, hem seeker, water-carrier,
one with a dusty cowboy hat that chooses
to make creation speak so we might know
what sounds God makes when he is pleased.
Here, here are my signposts that I gave away
to you who could remake the map
to doorstep of your kind of heaven.
The purpose of poetry is to communicate what cannot be communicated.
Carol has a way of doing just that, and she draws out such a breeze from stillest day.
She wrote this for me.
oh it has, indeed...
such salmon jump of canyon
from big and blue to fruity meat of sandy shore
and you and I and poetry in our mouths,
swallowing stanzas that shimmer like mirages
in a feast of friendship that rises
from books of testaments
that we lived, not dreamed, this life
counting clouds, like sheep,
headed for an angry down-slaught
but far enough away
not to wet down our fresh inspirations,
we see eagles tend them, herd them,
so we can see sunshine slant a path
towards a new poem begin painted on sheer faces
where shadows slide to remind us
there is more to this than earthly meanings
we are banqueted, bedded down
on dreams of down-light feathery features
of what the wind chisels in a language
we lean to make sense of
come morning, when blue swells
in your eyes and small clutches of sagebrush
smokes its first pipe
we are pen, friends, putting ourselves in a position
to dip into vermillion, ochre
am ache an arch of answers
to our age-old question:
where do poets go when night slithers
and leaves us only stars to wish upon
and camaraderie of custom-made stanzas
beg to be noticed but we are alone
and wishing for a hand to kiss the words
into some semblance of simply-beautiful lines
Ah, I know, for I have counted on the moon’s swell
when ghosts, or something great and guiding, leads me
to plain sheets of wanting the body of another ballad
that sings in lunar’s sagging hem
that there is more to this than pen and paper.
when sky drops it shade and sigh,
I come to stand at this Colorado coloring
to feast upon desert berries and dusting of dew
while finger of milky way beacons,
in its crooked way, for me to remember
the colors of these kindnesses
that poets can share
This is a poem written for me by Shewolfnative,
my thanks to Carol.
http://allpoetry.com/shewolfnative
Knowing A Kaibab's Keenness
Creative spirits conceived of shooting stars,
womb-taught language of this earth
and music of words, phrases, stanzas;
his cells remembered hearing
heavenly verses and images
strung on lines that leaned onto each other
like best friends, like lovers, like soul mates’
breaths that were layered upon him before he breeched
waves of unqualified time between there and earth.
There is sunlight in his poetry; a greening of thoughts
that spring from near-dead trees that lean hard
towards heaven and wait for a dew-drop of his design
to soften her tough skin.
There are luminaries on dark nights;
pinpricks of hope, scattered on black velvet
provoking a poem of passion about how moon-sighs
move the earth…and me.
Sands of desert are shaped into lines of beauty;
olive oil, honey and slow wine of his study
waken taste buds for truth and testaments.
I am a forest, a plain, a rolling hill of refinement
when riding a frenzy of his writing about how lovely
a billowing dust storm can be when taken to task
by his pen that journeys a thousand thousand nights
to reach that exact moment when what is shaped
In his mind is scrolled to its end line.
He is sound of water; lake, stream, river,
ocean lapping at salient shores for new ways
to define themselves at his tutelage.
Oh, Kaibab, what wisdom flows from your fingertips
is but a drop in seas of silent coaching
Creator bent your hand to. We are your students,
your mentors, your friends, who hang on to your thoughts
as if they were the last lines attached to heaven ;
the very strands of light that nourish us
and cause us to put our own insignificant etchings
at your feet and ask that you consider them
poor as they are, as tokens of our gratitude
for teaching us the sounds of things we may have missed
while scratching our thin thoughts on tarnished paper.
another by shewolfnative (for my 1000th trophy)
Tender Mercies For A Member Of The Tribe Of Kaibab
This is a man who cuts wood, lays hearths,
travels to Incan adoritories, examines graves.
He is prepared NOT to wait before he strides out
to spirit, with arms wide open
and a prayer of gratitude on his lips.
He has rescued infants left out in the cold,
wrapped them in his poetry, warmed them
with the food of his language, and rocked them
in leafy nests made of feathery feelings
that ensure their safekeeping.
He knows whey of snow, sift of sand,
and moon’s watery lace are speaking
in the voice of God, and he decodes them
for mere mortals to partake in feasts
at his table by the window, on porch,
that faces Old Man of the Mountain.
He knows words woven in spiders’ webs,
lay of hand of land on stones, and feel of lip
to flesh of those who have flung themselves
of creative cliffs in order to have their say.
Ah, Kaibab, you have lit my soul
with flames of your hope, feathers of faith,
and your stoop to touch a broken egg
in Universe’s nest and have given it a name
before it dust to dust returns.
I know your name, it is almost at tip of tongue
but too sacred to say, mystic, music man, whisperer
to horses, hem seeker, water-carrier,
one with a dusty cowboy hat that chooses
to make creation speak so we might know
what sounds God makes when he is pleased.
Here, here are my signposts that I gave away
to you who could remake the map
to doorstep of your kind of heaven.
The purpose of poetry is to communicate what cannot be communicated.
Carol has a way of doing just that, and she draws out such a breeze from stillest day.
She wrote this for me.
oh it has, indeed...
such salmon jump of canyon
from big and blue to fruity meat of sandy shore
and you and I and poetry in our mouths,
swallowing stanzas that shimmer like mirages
in a feast of friendship that rises
from books of testaments
that we lived, not dreamed, this life
counting clouds, like sheep,
headed for an angry down-slaught
but far enough away
not to wet down our fresh inspirations,
we see eagles tend them, herd them,
so we can see sunshine slant a path
towards a new poem begin painted on sheer faces
where shadows slide to remind us
there is more to this than earthly meanings
we are banqueted, bedded down
on dreams of down-light feathery features
of what the wind chisels in a language
we lean to make sense of
come morning, when blue swells
in your eyes and small clutches of sagebrush
smokes its first pipe
we are pen, friends, putting ourselves in a position
to dip into vermillion, ochre
am ache an arch of answers
to our age-old question:
where do poets go when night slithers
and leaves us only stars to wish upon
and camaraderie of custom-made stanzas
beg to be noticed but we are alone
and wishing for a hand to kiss the words
into some semblance of simply-beautiful lines
Ah, I know, for I have counted on the moon’s swell
when ghosts, or something great and guiding, leads me
to plain sheets of wanting the body of another ballad
that sings in lunar’s sagging hem
that there is more to this than pen and paper.
when sky drops it shade and sigh,
I come to stand at this Colorado coloring
to feast upon desert berries and dusting of dew
while finger of milky way beacons,
in its crooked way, for me to remember
the colors of these kindnesses
that poets can share
- Last seen 5 hours ago. Member since December 15, 2005.
- I'm a hidden phosphate poet for 5,256 comments.
- My mood is , and quote is "step softly...see what you might find".
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