Photo by Willa Childress
A little oasis lives in the city of man,
a place insiders drink to divinity.
Their libations skim the surface bare —
lauding scapegoats, mocking strangers.
Signs say trespassers will be hazed
or drowned if it suits the economy.
But heya heya heya ho, pilgrims
sneak through the bushes so
no frat dragons know we’re here.
This spring first pooled under primal skies
when people came to imitate beavers.
Ancestors stopped while tending rocks
to swim in the living currents. Fish
stories gurgled without need of translation
and knowledge deepened with play.
Animal folk, pointing at what was built,
said dam, not bad for savages.
Later came lords with sinks and spigots
and serfs pumping spirits for scrip.
Contractors were ordained to slay human lambs
and provide clean room service for members.
When enough drains were installed
there were slip-n-slides for warriors in
the rut of July and hot tubs for
money-lenders in winter.
All that plumbing didn’t purge any blood
so much as flush it from the city’s conscience.
For a while the empire’s lavish pipes
diverted runoff from our crucifixions.
Killing was sanctified by the master
plan of obedient sacrifice. Jesus,
Auschwitz, Nagasaki…whole biomes
we now slaughter for our altars.
Yet creation calls us in to look for
lost kin who’ve hidden among
predators since the beginning.
On muddy knees beside this pool
we reflect on Caesar’s image.
Will we own remorse, work to heal
the world we have broken?
Listen for that splash of grace
beyond man’s will to power.
Wade toward the source. Pray.
Toes buried in muck we recall
clear dawns when the spring spills
calm, birds sing psalms, and trees
dress life with leafing arms
for Sabbath morning.
All is risen in the echoing flow,
this pulse that ushers memory.
Watt, this poem is Amazing!!!! Evocative, sacred, syrupy sweet, full of remorse, hope and reflection…What a way to craft a tale of historical hammering and coppery flashing, whose sheen’s a glimmer still waiting to shine..Maybe it does shine, as you have so aptly said in “clear dawns when the spring spills calm, birds sing psalms” ” beyond man’s will to power” I believe man, i believe….
Thank you Vinny. It’s gratifying to receive encouragement from a natural poet.
I woke in the wee hours one morning with the idea of sneaking into an old spring-fed pool — a sacred spot, once open to creation, that’s now fenced off for exclusive religious rituals. The poem’s first title was “Splash” because I heard spirit stir in that water. It was a crystal-clear sound that affirmed life’s independence from hierarchic fraternal orders. Made me wish I could free the ripples it made in my mind.
Still wishing.
Who’s the natural poet ? 😉 Nice words man, and thank you for sharing a little of the poems inspiration. I like the current title very much, the idea of returning, being washed anew of the parch and dust of our wayward journeys. I appreciate also the conversation we had yesterday, about the importance of community participating in the fostering of EACH of our creative journeys, be it bricklayer or nanny, cook or poet, words shared can be the sustenance and nectar that allow us to walk, a little further… Blessings