Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Running Away, Storybook Style
Here nor there,
the music hangs,
notes nailed to
thin air. The road
connects two ends,
I sit at home with
my spinning wheel.
Frayed and spun
straw, I wĪnd my
wheel and weave
I weave my will
and wĪnd my mind
around the steeled
walls and climb
to the naked wind,
castle high and current fixed.
I leave behind
wild eyes, whispered prayers,
sacred notes of silence. Fire!
Shrieks, the helling of the holy – smoke.
I twill steel and iron words
into a bridge of shallow shadows.
Washed, unraveled, threads of ash and green.
Spin the gown and in it
find the doorway through
the floor, well worn, that
leads to silver, gold, and song
– bring the dance shoes you don’t love;
they’ll be dead by dawn.
Dance the weaver’s age old
thrum, tie the threads together,
write the floor you’re dancing on,
move your ankles faster, feel the floor
grow steam and swell, a bursting of
the underwell. Move through you,
move through me, the motions
not our own but pulled by well-stung
strings of ecstasy.
I look out
at the club with bouncing walls, take in
the church with chiming bells. There is
nothing new, nothing old, nothing
but sweat and prayer.
Nothing but calloused feet and hands,
and a closet short shoes, one pair.
(This poem is a re-imagining of a different poem from last year. It seemed to fit this collage, a musing on the world and escape, from Splashing the Divide. It's one of the last pages of this collage book. But that's OK. I have a lot of poems, short stories, and artwork to post.
As always, thanks for dropping by, and I hope you enjoyed these little snippets of my mind's wanderings.)