23.3.11

Timberline


Who says bare isn't beautiful? 

Dare we echo this in the hollow of Timberline’s stage? With his burly roots deeply embedded within the crevices of Grand Canyon's South Rim, his outstretched limbs seemed to cry, "Holy is the Land!" It is a wonderfully liberating feeling when one comes to terms with the fact that it is possible to stand tall and to do so with confidence, however lowly our station in life. And all while in the presence of such grandeur

This is a reality Timberline truly embraced. Surrounded by red rock and blue sky, he's on top of the world relishing his day in the sun. His lack of a showy external dress consisting of weathered bark and leafless twigs need not cause his limbs to wither in shame, for beneath his peel is a delightfully smooth inner beauty. At the ushering in of winter's frost he stands humbly, yet proud, without so much as a murmur as his nakedness is magically transformed in to a shimmering ice statue.

The exquisiteness of Timberline's thick trunk is beautiful in its own right. But his beauty reaches far beyond his outer surface. Beneath his rock bed your mind’s eye is beckoned to explore his roots; they are truly the secret behind his quiet strength and unscathed beauty.

Trees grow in myriads of shapes and sizes, all blooming at different stages. These differences define their individuality and uniqueness. Timberline is not unlike more stately trees in that, he, too displays a crown of bark and twigs. It matters not that he has been stripped of his leaves. His crown cannot be taken from him. It is simply a part of his family tree.

As I stood above a hole in the ground a mile deep, my gaze fell upon this tree of which I speak. While it is true—Timberline lacked a display of showy leaves dancing to the tune of wind’s gentle breeze—in no way did this tree lack inner-strength and abounding beauty. When we take care to dig below the surface in an effort to see beyond the superfluity of outer beauty, it is not difficult to grasp hold of the root of what truly matters.

21.3.11

Fusion

Inspiration is the inlet painting pictures in our mind; writing is our outlet penning pictures upon lines.

Therein covert treasures—vast impressions so resounding—captured in our chambers, thus vividly defined.

I Am

Often judged by my appearance

sometimes hard

     yet others soft

Within I am mysteriously wise


I am humor

     love

I share kindness

  shed blood

I lend comfort

    I've cause pain

given life
     yes
I've maimed

You have taken
me to your bed
 

my pages
 you have read

Literary prose  

       am I
          book

Quicksand


Treading dangerously upon watery sand—
deceptive tongue, walking hand-in-hand.

Glazed over eyes often failing to see—
a sudden decrease in stability.

WORDS

mere mix of water and clay—
stifling more with each passing day.

Sharp grains of sand grinding at you—
cold dense grip. Cannot eschew.

Losing ground. Guile grows thicker—
yielding to fate, begin to sink quicker.

Slipping deeper in desperate despair—
gagged by lies. Pleading for air.

Struggle ensues in this coarse pool of death—
soon betrayal shall breathe its last breath.

Beguiling words. Cryptic deception—
led to sinking in faulty perception.

Slow sinking ships, thwarted schemes—
swallowed by death beneath sandy streams.

Plead now or hold your own peace.
Beseech those offended for tender release.

Reach out for mercy’s hand—
 Or thrash in turmoil


Self-imposed quicksand.


~ Published in Mississippi Crow Magazine issue 7 ~

Ocean Dance


Melodic waves play

as sand pebbles frolic
to nature's symphony


~ Published in Mississippi Crow Magazine issue 7

20.3.11

Four Seasons


Spring from fertile bed
flourish 'neath summer's embrace
fall by winter's sting

~ Published in Mississippi Crow Magazine issue 7 ~

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