Building Strength (day 3068)

Would you follow me
Into depths of wonder;
A lion slowly looking back
Before entering its den.
And like the fanning feathers
Of an egret,
Would you care to my aging aims,
Darkened by time’s toil
Against that which is bad?
For my gravity is open,
My heart beats pure
In a bloom for your entering,
And I am trying
To hold my pen and my hammer
As I build for tomorrow.

Work Begun (day 3026)

This is my work that I’ve begun
Raspy hands and sore back
Set the tone for my inner heart
Mending this land as best I learn.
Wood’s been slung
Blocked and chopped
Stacked all up for winter’s dry
Cows are fed, so too the goats
That call out now to greet my cheer.
So then come the neighbours who
Have each their own spread
Landing as they do
Amidst the green atop the ground
Growing as the earth’s own.
This is my work that I’ve begun
Recollected by the stone hearth
Fired and warm, and dinner’s on
Longest night, shortest day.

Path (day 2874)

I didn’t open up the pages
To find you dying alone here
I woke my warrior
In day steps, dreamily
Dancing to a beat
Of ten thousand drums
Upon my back and shoulders
Remind me of my ancestors
Who never had a chance
Reminding me of my heritage
That grew up too quick
Reminding me that I am a warrior
No matter which path I tread upon
For it is not the footsteps
That lead a path away
It is a heart that leads the footsteps
Upon a path so virtuous
Making freedom a deeper thing
Truth of unimaginable expanse
And I am there, animated
A page I forever open
To step my beating heart
This path I know is mine.

Growing (day 2783)

I don’t walk with a swagger
I’m not a callused hand
I don’t wish for stars
Or four leaf clovers
I sing with a guitar that holds a tune
But my voice is held under water
In a rusty tin can
So I sleep in a cold corner
With a sore back on my side
I run out of gas
When I’m driving too fast
And my knives all go blunt
So my pencils aren’t sharp
But I’m still trying hard
To grow something again

Bending Backs (day 2513)

Another day we wait as it rains
A day to refresh the sun
Our tents blow their fresh layer of spray
Upon our bending backs
And our boots slop through the mud
As we putter about what’s become familiarly ours
Yet our eyes cease not their yearn
For the forest upon field’s edge
A forever shifting natural escape
Winding its way through this new season
As our tired hands find their way
Along new lines of worn wood
Waiting for its new home.