Dawn
Nauseated with the littleness
of city non-living
the savage humdrum
mind grasping splinters
on the surface of nowhere
never sated with
the neck-down delights
all carnal pleasures
I embark on a quest for that
special conifer, the sequoia,
that special flower in the midst
of the impassable thicket
the man who sees man as man.
Many a time with tenderness
I shared a soft pillow with
a hardened, suspicious Death.
Many a time I took Him
by the hand when He felt left
behind, when He felt abandoned.
In the noise of the marketplace
I glanced at Him.
He smiled at me.
Usually.
I dared Him to a jog once
perhaps twice and
with a sardonic laugh
He declined.
With His perennial laughter
He shares with me a non-fat latte
at the neighborhood Starbucks.
Usually.
Many a time I challenged Him
and always with a short giggle
He walked away gracefully saying
Not yet
Not yet . . . I
have things for you to do
My spirit I summon from the
realms of the void
to descend in the roots
and trace a course
I dive deep past all
sunlit gates of consciousness
looking for a sign
straight sign like a blue spruce
with duty marked on
its fresh bark.
I search for a beacon
as the lyre slices the air
in pieces of silver
I dive deep past all
golden gates of my roots
I summon the humble plow and
the path I carve
on the tired face of
mother Earth
a path I design
I plow a course towards
the light of a beacon
the man who sees
things like a man.
Manolis 