Fill a vessel with clean water, and imagine a world where all may do the same; imagining such a world is not difficult, we only have to carve out a small space into which we insert our intentions; these are not meaningless, in fact, they are essential, if we are to ever change the dominant paradigm;
Greed and lust for more have held sway in this world long enough, cruelties visited upon others, bodies over which one steps roughly on the way to some imagined pot of gold and to hell with the fallen;
Isn’t it time we ceased taking it all for ourselves or for granted, that we, the privileged ones who possess such incredible bounty are somehow entitled to this position; after all, we have worked hard (and most have) for our petty luxuries, though we might not envision it so;
And back we arrive at the vision, how now to change it, now we have more than too many, how to use that same focus on dreaming a world where all are safe and smiling, giving where and how we can without tremendous sacrifice, after all, finding it easier than we thought to lift others up; it diminishes us not, in fact it fills us up in a way that nothing material ever could.
We wait for it, court it, this breath
the newborn has little choice
but to take, the drawing in,
and from whence does it come?
Some think they know, call it muse,
the artist cares only to the degree
that it serves, insinuates itself,
etheric substance filling up and up,
bright balloon rising to sail
through azure skies, over the land,
joining the clouds, nebulous
non-structures of the heavens,
jump on them and fall,
yet substantial enough to bring
needed rains, raise crops, seep
into parched soil, bringing a forest
to fullness and life;
Inspiration arrives on its own whim,
contemplate if you will the morning
fire in the woodstove as it sucks
and draws air, igniting, as it must,
the fuel inside, spreading warmth
and bright light essential to life
as are the creative sparks
we nourish inside.
She is an archivist of the spirit,
cataloguer borne of those bred
to map and dangle
from family trees, having loosed
the mantle others gathered up gladly.
The records she tends,
mental file cards smelling
of musty library drawers marked
in alphabetical sequence,
grasping worn curved brass pulls
on oak boxes labeled Unknowable.
Some may postulate unafraid,
marching front and forward
interfacing with throngs of the disenchanted
fighting demons of doubt and desire
for life to once again prove itself predictable
like the preacher promised
Hellfire and damnation
or heavenly angels singing praises
to the One, which is You,
if only your soul is redeemable.
She is the wee elven one in the back
of the cobweb-strewn bookstore
poring over tomes, gathering bits
of wisdom, tracing archaic paths trod
by those brave enough to question
the face of the gods of man.