Scarcely the perfect poem
And even less an artistic masterpiece,
Nature’s words sometimes heave and rant,
Questioning our stability,
Waking our sanity.
Sacred words are transcribed
On silver birch bark,
Scribbled into meadow grasses,
Releasing accents into the wind.
Constellations promise epics,
Owls signal their passivity.
Ravens tell their stories to robins
While herons prod minnows into clicking beaks.
Hawks change loyalties like whims of weather.
Somewhere, always,
Still beat drums of war
Suppressing caution, erasing literature,
Unwilling to decipher earth’s subtle dialects.
This is simply a story of creation, its evolvement and plateau, its decline and rebirth. Beginning with empty spaces, either dark or light, an uneven flow of multiple ancient alphabets combine in gibberish fashion. Feathers float, disjointed wings hover. Suddenly, sexless Bird People mysteriously appear in neutral and monochromatic plumage. As the Bird People eventually recognize one another and even begin the process of communication or dialog, colors become more vibrant and bright, and the paintings become overloaded with talk, sometimes simultaneously. Eventually the subsequent understandings evaporate,leaving simplicity and emptiness once again…
