Winter is fast approaching here at 7000ft and my mind is beggining to turn towards artistic pursuits. I still have to go out and hustle up cash to pay my bills, but I can feel my focus moving inward. I have begun to experiment with Garageband on my Mac and am even tempted to do a little painting or sculpting. Again… We’ll see. If I come up with anything that I think might be interesting to anyone else I’ll post it. Maybe I’ll even put a podcast together with music and poetry….Hmmm:)

The ice that forms on the beard of old man winter
will tell a whole new tale
He will bring a fresh load of mystery down
from the frozen lands in the north
causing us to turn within ourselves
and squint at the light reflected from his frost
Showing us the world in stark, contrasting form.

I sit and marvel at this edifice of sticks and mud
built by man to withstand the ravages of time and war
and to glorify his god
Given strength with straw
of all things

Every spring a group will form
to tend and caress their history
with fresh mud
and straw
Presided over by the fathers
who add the straw
in solemn, measured handfulls
as if they know
exactly how many strands are needed
and are counting each as it falls
into the box of sand and clay
gathered from a secret place
where the color is just so
It is a point of pride for the parishioners
and a holy communion
between god and mud and man
and straw
I cannot forget the way the light struck that golden straw
and made it seem to glow with it’s own holy light
as it fell from the fathers hand
as if it had come
from the very manger that their savior was born in
imbued with his grace
miracle straw, holding it all together

Now, as winter approaches
the once smooth surface is already worn
by the wind and the rain that fell through the year
Still, the edifice stands
prepared to weather the storms of winter
to hold the warmth of faith
and the candle of hope
safe within its earthen walls
for another year
content in its knowledge
that it is a holy place
and the parishioners will not let it fall.

All the while the cry rang in my head:
The King is dead!

Long live the King!

Parallel lines converging
to a single point
of departure from the known