nortkee
The Force is Strong With This One
A Coracle at the Delta
A tenuously tethered thought,
tenderly lashed by the turbid waters of surreality,
strains effortlessly against the waxing of the wave.
Awash in the fertile moonglow of promise,
a shift occurs.
A silty slippage unfetters that notion
by way of cavernous contemplation,
and downstream it drifts,
seeding every ripple with purpose.
Where tributaries converge,
an idea must prove itself balanced,
buoyant, and watertight.
Tranquil reverie is best suited
for meandering streams,
for rivers test the arrogance of dreams,
leaving wood-ribbed carcasses
of would-be river-tamers
along its ever-eroding shores.
Water cannot be domesticated
by the slapping of oars
or the churning of motors,
but a clever craft — a coracle, perhaps,
that taut, upended drum of a vessel —
is well equipped to ride the rush
from conception to birth,
for it is as cyclical and dizzying
as life itself.
Ceaselessly spinning,
the coracle drifts and dances
between the reedy shores of unrelenting flow.
With slavering momentum
fed solely by its own perpetual potential,
the thought that was adrift and without form
now adroitly maneuvers its circular self
straight into the brackish swirl.
Spilling from the mouth of the delta,
the coracle cuts through
the briny spume of inception,
and, at last, unburdens itself
by surrendering to the vastness
of the wine-dark world
of reality beyond reason.
The Soothsayer, Awakened
Wordless in wonder,
I look out to the astral fields
that time has turned for me.
When last I walked these rows,
there was not enough fruit
for a full harvest, and the meager yield
was bitter besides. Even the starlings
with their scavengers’ tongues
left them to shrivel, or perhaps
for fodder to fatten their worms –
a more nutritious offering.
Doubt made for inhospitable soil,
save for my once-favorite crop,
irreverence. Barbed and squat,
it grew in a staggered formation
of spined sentinels baiting the brave
to pluck the prickled prize
that promised only diminishing returns.
Time has plowed this parched plantation,
his archaic machine inefficiently
fueled by every small victory deferred,
each cruel and unforgiving word,
either spoken or inferred.
Stooped with these burdens shifted
from my own weary back to his,
he has made a dance of his labor,
further complicating his path
for an audience that cannot
comprehend its aesthetic.
But, oh – to see these ethereal furrows
now, from where I stand at the rise
of the ridge, stargazing down upon
the bounty grown from tirelessly tilled
skepticism and scorn –
I am reborn.
Wings sprout from leaves of grass
and propel me with a purpose renewed
by faith, which was once so foreign to me.
Dreamlike, I drift through the vineyards,
wheatfields, groves, paddies, and orchards
all bursting with fruits, each one exotic
and wondrous to its neighboring crop.
As I come upon Time, still hunched at the handles
of his rusted rig, I join in his strange jig.
“How,” I plead, “have you sown satiety
from the fissured soil of my youth?”
And Time, inglorious ploughman,
who so rarely pauses in his path,
turns to me with an infinite grin,
and conjures a seedling, straight out
of the electric air between us.
I palm the precious sapling
and bring it to my face,
but I don’t have to look at it to know.
I feel the thrum of fertility.
In my hand, I hold Hope,
the origin point of all creation:
that coveted seed that was planted in me
the moment you answered my call.
Ignition
A spark goes dancing down the fuse,
sprung from its birthing place of
friction and fate. It is the envy
of the listless, who marvel at how
it magnetizes so swiftly to its prescribed path;
to leap at the moment of inception
from origin to purpose is the dream
of every poor wanderer walled in by
the expectations imposed upon them
by the complacent.
Their unwitting captors paper their own walls
with platitudes for polite company,
and any fire they may conjure
from a compact tinderbox is quickly contained
in slow-burning stasis, waiting to be snuffed.
To harness fire for comfort is ingenious indeed,
a testament to the resilience of wild souls
yearning for domestication.
But every once in a while,
it's best to unceremoniously smash
the chert against the quartz
and let the spark go dancing,
with anticipatory grace,
all the way to the oblivion
of creation.
The Fire Circle
I am the ritual, I am the trance,
I am the fire around which we dance.
I am the spirit that moves from within,
I am the ending from which we begin.
I am the drummer, I am the drum,
I am the arm and the hand and the thumb.
I am the water, I am the fish,
I am the wisher, I am the wish.
I am the tether, the fettered, the free,
I am the sum of the two -- I am three.
I am the mountain, I am the cave,
I am the fear in the hearts of the brave.
I am the fire around which we dance,
I am the ritual, I am the trance.
The Necromancy of Silence
I am the keeper of words unsaid
and every thought suppressed;
I walk these earthen catacombs
without the hope of rest.
I cannot pause to light my way
or tie an errant lace,
for there’s an ancient secret
to this godforsaken place:
the words and thoughts entombed within
this cold, unhallowed ground
all lie in wait to reanimate
and pull their jailer down.
A tenuously tethered thought,
tenderly lashed by the turbid waters of surreality,
strains effortlessly against the waxing of the wave.
Awash in the fertile moonglow of promise,
a shift occurs.
A silty slippage unfetters that notion
by way of cavernous contemplation,
and downstream it drifts,
seeding every ripple with purpose.
Where tributaries converge,
an idea must prove itself balanced,
buoyant, and watertight.
Tranquil reverie is best suited
for meandering streams,
for rivers test the arrogance of dreams,
leaving wood-ribbed carcasses
of would-be river-tamers
along its ever-eroding shores.
Water cannot be domesticated
by the slapping of oars
or the churning of motors,
but a clever craft — a coracle, perhaps,
that taut, upended drum of a vessel —
is well equipped to ride the rush
from conception to birth,
for it is as cyclical and dizzying
as life itself.
Ceaselessly spinning,
the coracle drifts and dances
between the reedy shores of unrelenting flow.
With slavering momentum
fed solely by its own perpetual potential,
the thought that was adrift and without form
now adroitly maneuvers its circular self
straight into the brackish swirl.
Spilling from the mouth of the delta,
the coracle cuts through
the briny spume of inception,
and, at last, unburdens itself
by surrendering to the vastness
of the wine-dark world
of reality beyond reason.
The Soothsayer, Awakened
Wordless in wonder,
I look out to the astral fields
that time has turned for me.
When last I walked these rows,
there was not enough fruit
for a full harvest, and the meager yield
was bitter besides. Even the starlings
with their scavengers’ tongues
left them to shrivel, or perhaps
for fodder to fatten their worms –
a more nutritious offering.
Doubt made for inhospitable soil,
save for my once-favorite crop,
irreverence. Barbed and squat,
it grew in a staggered formation
of spined sentinels baiting the brave
to pluck the prickled prize
that promised only diminishing returns.
Time has plowed this parched plantation,
his archaic machine inefficiently
fueled by every small victory deferred,
each cruel and unforgiving word,
either spoken or inferred.
Stooped with these burdens shifted
from my own weary back to his,
he has made a dance of his labor,
further complicating his path
for an audience that cannot
comprehend its aesthetic.
But, oh – to see these ethereal furrows
now, from where I stand at the rise
of the ridge, stargazing down upon
the bounty grown from tirelessly tilled
skepticism and scorn –
I am reborn.
Wings sprout from leaves of grass
and propel me with a purpose renewed
by faith, which was once so foreign to me.
Dreamlike, I drift through the vineyards,
wheatfields, groves, paddies, and orchards
all bursting with fruits, each one exotic
and wondrous to its neighboring crop.
As I come upon Time, still hunched at the handles
of his rusted rig, I join in his strange jig.
“How,” I plead, “have you sown satiety
from the fissured soil of my youth?”
And Time, inglorious ploughman,
who so rarely pauses in his path,
turns to me with an infinite grin,
and conjures a seedling, straight out
of the electric air between us.
I palm the precious sapling
and bring it to my face,
but I don’t have to look at it to know.
I feel the thrum of fertility.
In my hand, I hold Hope,
the origin point of all creation:
that coveted seed that was planted in me
the moment you answered my call.
Ignition
A spark goes dancing down the fuse,
sprung from its birthing place of
friction and fate. It is the envy
of the listless, who marvel at how
it magnetizes so swiftly to its prescribed path;
to leap at the moment of inception
from origin to purpose is the dream
of every poor wanderer walled in by
the expectations imposed upon them
by the complacent.
Their unwitting captors paper their own walls
with platitudes for polite company,
and any fire they may conjure
from a compact tinderbox is quickly contained
in slow-burning stasis, waiting to be snuffed.
To harness fire for comfort is ingenious indeed,
a testament to the resilience of wild souls
yearning for domestication.
But every once in a while,
it's best to unceremoniously smash
the chert against the quartz
and let the spark go dancing,
with anticipatory grace,
all the way to the oblivion
of creation.
The Fire Circle
I am the ritual, I am the trance,
I am the fire around which we dance.
I am the spirit that moves from within,
I am the ending from which we begin.
I am the drummer, I am the drum,
I am the arm and the hand and the thumb.
I am the water, I am the fish,
I am the wisher, I am the wish.
I am the tether, the fettered, the free,
I am the sum of the two -- I am three.
I am the mountain, I am the cave,
I am the fear in the hearts of the brave.
I am the fire around which we dance,
I am the ritual, I am the trance.
The Necromancy of Silence
I am the keeper of words unsaid
and every thought suppressed;
I walk these earthen catacombs
without the hope of rest.
I cannot pause to light my way
or tie an errant lace,
for there’s an ancient secret
to this godforsaken place:
the words and thoughts entombed within
this cold, unhallowed ground
all lie in wait to reanimate
and pull their jailer down.
