One day our ship will port in a place of peace and wonder.
Abaft facing the wind and sails at rest.
Limp from its journey, tired and sunder. The bolt rope holding it together.
pushing stead course toward its mark breaking every crest.
awaiting to reach its voyage end, brails to pull along the way.
The shore that limits the journey stay.
Categories:
brails, adventure, faith, hope, inspirational,
Form: Dramatic Verse
When my fingers kneel in the dust
Patterning a priesthood of memory
I create again
I remember
I make pots
In the image of our emptiness
How do you call sorrow beauty?
I find the aesthetic a superficial
Exclamation of ignorance
About the moth
Beating its fragile wings vainly
After the web of seduction:
Mirages of light
The pot yawns for oil again
There is no light when the sun goes down
But leaves carry fire in their veins
Leaves make wine
Out of the solace of the moon
I make pots
Yawning for the blanket of stars
Something to fill the soul
With more substance than memory
Something to brail the trail
To the spiral center of the primal me
This pot is a canvas of imageries
Art and artist polarized by time
And nothing left to tell the meaning of tides
When the loins grow hot for love
And boils, and boils, and boils
And then evaporates into prayers.
Love brails the language of clay
For the wonder of truth
O the pots are sanctuaries of emptiness
We bring them on the head
To the cliff of Orion
To troubled thoughts for rain.
Categories:
brails, history, philosophy
Form: Blank verse