Originally published April 18, 2018, this poem was inspired by a prolific author I had really come to admire and appreciate, Maggie Lawson (see more details below in the original post).
The original piece is below for reference, and can be found in its entirety at https://objectsanddistance.com/2018/04/18/so-many-senses-through-which-to-sift-sentiment/
Inspired by the writing of Maggie Lawson, of the blog The Art of Chewing Crayons.
Words, weightless, echo in cave carved in mountain hill side: a heart; a home; an amber chamber of sordid solitude unearthed and bore witness by all creation
Ears and eyes accustomed only to serving as guardians for a mouth full and choking, scalded still by its own tepid embers expelled to cool in calm but careless currents
The seven symbols, etched and aching, but alive, tunics worn by grateful heart
Fingers unclenched in understanding that to protect is also to covet and to covet is to shelter and withhold but that flexibility and dexterity realized render these concepts obsolete
A relic not born but brazenly emblazoned, burnt basil bestowed beneath
Time unwound but not tangled, streaming through fields not far above but rather deep within and projected external only by the distance between
Wisdom bestowed by knowledge that the value of treasure tossed beneath frantic soil lies not in the gold/silver/jewels but rather in the search to unearth them
A drop of water falling softly but firmly between mounds of dry earth, to be followed by a downpour that will flood the plains and bring life to the withered gardens of days past
Humility and acceptance of, in the face of, fate, fury, and the muse’s distemper at us having retreated so far from the unconditional bond of the midday sun
Primal but refined, response howled with eloquent tongue into gust and gale that buffet from all directions but harken still from a source of defined beauty, anchored but unrestrained
Freshly formed: cooling, recent removal from kiln to be given new form, same sandy substance solidifying into
Arms, legs, chest, head
Neck unbound, bruises long driven back to
Heart healed and pumping with vigor spray of crimson from crescent right to crescent left until terminal it returns
And so the spindle stops but for a moment that unwoven threads might be laid bare before the spinner, a gift and grateful gesture of grandeur grasped:
Though not necessarily subject but object always, though words may not speak directly to, though they may not speak at all but are instead processed through so many layers of perception and lens that tend to see only what they know and what they know is what they are, I am humbled and honored by the sentiment alone, and in it see what is needed to be, and that is the burden of words is it not, to speak and not always exactly as intended?
Nothing spoken will be forgotten nor forsaken, though the mind is a wandering maze and it often loses track of the precious stones that lie scattered throughout its majestic winding corridors
This garment handed down from many generations will rattle and flow with the emblems entrusted by enigmatic hands that reach across all boundaries to place with care and delicate precision symbolic embellishments not aesthetic but far more esoteric and exceptional
The tongue may not but the freshly unfettered fingers certainly will: spew forth the steady stream of settled slag into the aether, not that I might selfishly expel but rather that I might share from silted self the bitter but altogether redeeming strength of coming to terms with and embracing situational powerlessness, but standing ground and first in air standing down the forces of all that seek to assail and assault
Love is not a gut feeling it is a punch in the stomach and a hand to help us back to our feet; love is vital fluids flowing/falling fresh from worn hands wringing blood-stained bandages as smoke hangs thick over shoulder, low with camera angle sharp to imply ambiguous recovery but optimistic outlook in both object, audience, and amputee
In death throes sing swan songs inspired by a voice that cannot be replicated by even the most gifted grifters; the voice that falls down hills like water fluid is as full and rich as the form from which it flows; namely, this love given will not be clutched tight like so many grains of sand but rather shone out in all directions as ode and opulent appreciation for such an onerous outpouring and ancillary amelioration