Monday, October 12, 2015

the smell of leaves burning

Can a hole become art ?
to become not a hole, but something transformed
full & complete ?
refashioned with found objects; that silver monopoly dog,
blue bandanas, the sharp cut of sorrow,
cornfields & meadowlarked loss
autumn hued & weaved with blood-orange thread
to shuttered gasps & ooo's of admiration
can a hole be not a hole
patched with time & tender & song to mend it's fibrous fragility
looming itself into Indian sunset ribbons of amber richness
who am I to love so well, yet so wrong ?
but not wrong
more like that hole
strangely, ironically
the startling realization that it has shifted
quickened & sharp
the forecasted boulder snow
self lies in the punched surrender to the puppet masters demand
listening & dancing to the bubbled needs of others
steadfastly refusing to howl at the moon & shine a light into the need
rake the leaves reverently into the
revolution is where ?
in the crumpled pages of secret whispers & timeless sureness
in the ability to recognize strength in weakness
and in the turquoise gleam of happy hanging in a thiefed reel
fighting for a heart-path is a wicked & quixotic endeavor
tempered by the accepted - righteous is not always so
loneliness carves it's own mask
as the struggle & pull of need creates red
welcome the rhythm of this night in
bits of story & stars
dance & celebrate the patched hole
gather up copper, bronze & scarlet-dragon leaves
fire it up
trust it's light

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