Creations, Part 5

Bestowal

Blue, the color of a jovial heart...
The feather guides the straight course
of the arrow,
swift in flight;
It falls, softly, to the ground.
When thunder rolls, it cannot be ignored,
nor denied.

Swift as the arrow,
The power of thunder;
Wielded with the softness
of the feather,
Guides the straight course.

Blue Feather Thunder...
The name, not lightly bestowed,
fell softly
on unworthy shoulders...

Creations, Part 4

'Mid Summer Nights' Dreams

On moonlit night, 'neath princess' glare,

I chanced to cross a cottage fair;

And drunk with wishes from the day,

Methought I saw a woman there

Who gathered blossoms as in May.

A summer's breeze so softly blew.

I wondered why a woman, who

As fair as she, in pale moonlight

Such blooms there gathered all anew

In woven crib with such delight.

Intent to ask, I chimed hello

To rouse the woman from the glow

Of wild yellow petals, and on me there

Cast eyes and thought that I may know

Why she thus plucked without a care.

But as I hailed the woman there,

She disappeared, to my dismay!

And I was left, on moonlit night,

To chance across a cottage fair

And drown in wishes of the day.

Creations, Part 3

Conversion

A drop of light, it falls onto
A darkened, hardened soul;
And sifts through cracks and crags alike,
Invading hidden coves.

The drop of light then turns to rain;
The rain into a storm;
The storm into a dreaded flood
That drives the soul to scorn.

Afraid, the troubled soul attempts
The flood to barricade;

To save the dark, familiar place

From changes heaven-made.

But tardy efforts cannot halt

The flooding of the soul,

With light and life and truth unfeigned

By one who holds them all.

Creations, Part 2

A Walk in the Desert

Blue skies laugh as the popcorn clouds

Drift freely across the vast expanse.

The lightsome air dances about the Earth below

And lifts my heavy heart to the realms above.

Slowly, I walk through the valley of fire,

Scorched by the red coal rocks at my feet;

Fiery arrows fall from the blistering sun

And burrow into the nape of my sol-singed neck.

Needlepoint thorns pierce my leather fingertips

As I reach for the blood-red fruit of the prickly pear --

A lone taste of sweetness on a sour desert floor.

Ice cold water taunts the parched world

And sings in harmony with the dancing air.

I rest in the sweeping crystal bed,

And drink life into my withered veins.

And walk once more in the desert...

Consumerism

I woke up this morning with an interesting thought on my mind -- consumerism. But not as most people talk about it these days. You know, buying stuff upon stuff and throwing away that stuff when you're finished with it and getting more stuff. No -- that's not what I was thinking about (although admittedly, my own thoughts probably stemmed from my wife's preoccupation with the topic overall lately). Instead, I was thinking about consuming books. Yes, books. Here I sit, reading book after book -- consuming them really... As soon as I finish one, I pick up another one and start consuming. But here's the kicker -- What have I given back? What have I created? Not much... A poem... Some blog entries... A couple of stories when I was in junior high that only an 8-year old boy would read and enjoy (and not even all of them).

I've often thought I wanted to write a book someday. But this morning, it was a different feeling... Like I should really give something back. Like I should create something of my own. Not sure what yet, but someday I'll publish something with my name on it. Any ideas?