A poem written upon the Solstice:
With a deadly blow
and windows blackened,
though facing sunward
our houses would seem in order
Even the poor are burdened with a sort of pride
as new houses are built,
shining like alabaster in
the summer sun-
each timber placed higher and
covering hunting ground
and grandfather’s farm,
having forgotten the lessons
of family and friends,
passed on and covered over,
for whom no cosmetic will overlay
death's progression or allay
the forgetting of human hearts.
It is if the mantle of the elders
had never fallen to the next
or the next,
or even the next.
We, today's scurrying ants
with worn-out, though fashionable pants
can’t remember what is beneath our feet
or before our lips
aside from raw material
and the throb of expanding economic output.
Ah, competition’s fair face,
having been stricken
by errant balls and
having wasted time spent watching
the play instead of the blue sky,
playing monopoly instead of
singing in the rain.
What is excellence?
What is right pursuit?
We few seek power well-spent, the
hope of both kinetic and potential
passed on in pure motion-
progression with a joyful smile.
Tribute is my goal,
as balance is achieved in each step,
I know these views grow
in the light of a summer moon,
being followed by lost friends
and the kindness of thieves.
Internally as without,
the hands spin with an abandon that betrays
a sour taste in my mouth
and cloud in my eye's lens.
can become a blank page,
and the first in line
be filled with compassion
for the last-
having willingly received light second hand from
as the hope of a promise
can echo faces and sweet memories
So shines the brow of the beloved,
shining like red sandstone
in the evening sun-
each memory placed higher
building commitment and broad shoulders
for the mantle that will descend
along with those who have passed
beyond the horizon and into
our greatest hope.
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