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Ben Mcclellan Poem
Wild Blue Land
Such wind rushed by nearly blowing me to the side;
filling my vision so wide, wide dotted with white puffs,
rolling clumps, or whispy streaks of froth;
gliding slyly in the ocean of an azure sky.
Breaking the horizon in ochre, brown, black and beige
rock spires and pointed mounds from ancient days;
tabletops of plateaus and animal trails
look deceptively simple to climb
The'people', the "Dine'" arrived in weathered skin and tired eyes;
medicine men and women knew this vision, this home,
this antidiluvian place of horse, eagle, coyote and bobcat.
Myriad thousands of years they roamed;
wandering across wind swept steppes,
a frigid ice bridge, aboriginal forest, towering mountain vistas;
spirits soaring and dreaming abroad on uplifted wings of imaginings.
They knew this place, this fractured land an ocean of lifetimes away;
caverns and winding insanely beatific canyons
carved by swift waters and time,
petrified forests and painted deserts, memories of wetter climes.
Mesas etched by ethereal unfettered winds,
a place both desolate and strongly beautiful;
perhaps as history suggests, from a tribe
as ancient, who lived here before them;
but time and fortune are not always kind
blending arts and people as it winds.
The sand tells all, swooshing in the gusts,
moving like a tide across the highness
painted with holy hands to heal and mend
that which was whole, then splintered by hate,
greed, and misunderstanding again,
dancing like the horses and
celebrate in the baskets
towards unity again.
Copyright © Ben Mcclellan | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Ben Mcclellan Poem
Like a gnarled old elder it stands ancient
twisted scarred limbs like a scene in a horror
hacked and torn against time,
beetle holes and wood pecker assaults
not withstanding, growing and thriving like time
The outlier cousine, a younger branch
stands tall and seemly a lithe woman
an odd pair, living like old neighbors
digging roots into sandy and rocky soil;
daring all to move them out, we've been here
Sentient, I wonder betimes, snaking arms akimbo
a stalwart grapevine too big for it's britches
Tough as an old crow, I'd say...
a thousand year old crow that is,
no sweet tender fruit hanging about, no sirree...
A bit of sun showing 'tween long needles
throwing such shade as a sheer negligee
peckers drawing clear blood sap,
she's scarred too, these small holes dripping life
a small nest teeters on high branch in the wind
He looks far east, a nod to the elders
he knows his worth, a dance to the living
though crippling and splitting since birth
I'd rather sit by him in strength of his shade
smelling the sweet perfume of his lady friend
writing a few words on the character of age
bbmac53
Copyright © Ben Mcclellan | Year Posted 2015
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