A poem I wrote a few Januaries ago.
Igneous sentinels, apostolic eyeless tikis
Bathed in salt and foam.
Soft against hard; sharp against smooth.
Intratestamental ravages that pulled clean its base
Until, at length, a savior appeared.
Or maybe, like the stones, savior always was.
Or, is there was? If so, is there will be?
Or is the force of Forever met with meager minds
That strive like wet against the stone
To beat our self-wrought puzzle into form?
On a stone here or there, we fashion a face
To make some sense of the chaos of perception
But maybe we, temporally bound, cannot find
The mound for what it is.
Hard, hard cold shards once molten and shaped
Beyond our comprehension by power beyond,
And not of man-clad self-deceit.
We know only new and never know before.
Neither know we unknown, now ahead,
As the riptide spins us along,
Sucking oxygen while we may.
Still, Spirit solace points a lifelink
To the oversea, so the current shoots us,
Sprawling landward, gasping, steadied,
Alive, connected and whole.
Maybe badly bruised, cut perhaps by shoals,
But none the worse for wear. Yes, alive. And
Still, stone tikis, before us, with us, and crouch behind
Neither more, nor less, faceless, mussel-gird, igneous.