Like lightening bugs on starless nights
And summer blossoms fresh with color,
The spark ignites, from deep within,
Immortal passion -fuel to soothe or feed the anger -
Like a song from time’s beginning,
Composed from heat and molten lava,
From core of earth and man’s conception,
Upon our dust and that of neighbors’ ashes,
The empire is built,
Each nation an urn,
Held aloft, cracked or cracking,
Split apart and forced to shatter.
Like a mountain mist unveiling
Good Hope’s table chiseled thus,
And, as the legs begin to buckle, the question asked:
Would it have been better forged, not sculpted -
From the start –
By merciless elements easy to decipher:
White / Black
Which shade more subtle?
My mother is a fish, Faulkner wrote,
A female corpse fated to the hands of men; O’ Elusive Rest
Are we nothing more than what we kill or carry?
To survive the unforgiving currents must you be a fish-
Floundering or swimming -
And, does it matter which?
All are more than breath and swallow,
Despite the hooks that bait and gut,
The distance swum may be too small or, then again, far greater,
Wrapped in scales, all are blind – ‘tis true - but fish and bug.
Holding still, alone, stand mountains
Though mortal each and every one,
Hoisting weights that none can balance,
Ashes to ashes, dust, more dust;
Empires, urns, and homo sapien -
Nothing lasts but What Is
Passion, Song -
Which the triumph, burn or balm?