The hands have released

And folded onto aching knees

Then we are out there alone

Toddling, placing uneasy steps

Moving from choice to the next

Like they were coffee tables

As we learn to stand

Or moving out onto a pond

Some Sunday after Christmas

Knowing death walks near

Ice groaning, unsympathetic

My Father's foot prints

Swallowed up by blowing snow

A great bird flies in one night

And roosts in the rafters

The same one Abraham saw

When he lifted his dagger

Now we must answer for this!

When I was younger, I loved to write random fantasy stories. They mostly had something to do with aliens, and great adventures in space. I was one of those daydreamers that couldn't keep his eyes straight. They wandered about seeking adventure, and seeing the fun in the most dull classrooms.

It was not until I was about 30 that I really wrote full fledged works. I would say, the late poet and storyteller, Robert Bly, really inspired me to take up the pen. His energized words guided me, and his wild ferocity pushed me to find some within myself. I became a lover of poetry through him. Then I became enamored with poetry and found the inspiration to write my own works. Looking back, it makes some sense that I could not tap into the emotional depths of my life until I was more mature.

Writing is a perspective, an experience that is unique and personal. To me, writing gives me a channel for the many ideas that swarm in my head daily. I tend to be an anxious person and always have been since I could remember. Putting words to my often fragmented thoughts helps to make them more a part of me, and less some foolish wanderings of an over-anxious mind. I now feel that I am creative, not air-headed. I believe for children with attention deficits, that they are perhaps constrained by our current modern guidelines. Rigorous, and repetitive learning is not for every person. Keeping the childlike energy in us entails walking down those winding, often scorned upon, dreamscapes. They are little gifts from something outside of us.

My intention in this life is to help usher in a new cultural shift. I believe there is purpose through all of this constraint, destruction, and division. I believe a new age is trying to push its way up, and it will bring new art. It will bring new poems, new stories, new paintings. The medieval age was squashed at the sight of the Renaissance. The weight that has been pushing down hard on the world, can be lifted. We can find a beacon in the dark unknown, its through unashamed, courageous, and blissful art. Love is how we move forward. To move the pen is to bleed a little, which is artful in its own sense. No good work is born without some sacrifice.

We find our way by full, unaltered expression. Art is the way to salvation. I believe Robert Bly sums it up best, from his poem "Listening";

The hermit said: “Because the world is mad,

The only way through the world is to learn

The arts and double the madness.

Are you listening?”

I hear the first notes tip-toe onto parchment sheet. There is a subtle wind that begins to blow straight falling snow sideways. In the West, a large front moves in with vigor. This is the blade masqueraded under a coat, a long labored plot has taken place behind our backs. Then the strings stab wind and fury into the landscape. Rigorous violin blizzards come to bury the gentle foot falls. The hallelujah sunrise has left my view. For a time I'm struggling through my speech. Majestic chords rise and rise. Snow buries streets, insurance agencies, government buildings. Everything in sight carries a bit of burden. Roofs collapse and no one is to blame. Cars spin into each other; it's nothing personal. Some semblance of order is dissolved into a white, gaping void. The unstopping push and push of the violins to see this truth. Looking upon the world I have to surrender my desires of material. The snow buries the plow, and rake. Here I come to terms with my body that needs rest. Quietly and gently, a solo violin rocks us in cradle. Slowly back into a warmed home. Rabbits sleep together under the ground like ideas. The great oaks are naked, and resting. The snow melts a little, and comes back in droves. One week it's freezing, below zero and the next we're thinking of Spring. Old man winter retreats for one final bulge. With renewed vitality the violins sound even more determined to conquer. They strum with malice to my ears. However, now we are aware of triumph. The offensive is not what it once was. Ice and snow blow heavily. Winds begin to retreat to the highest heavens. The Sun breaks upon the clouds like a bow, and I see grace. The volume levels out. A pitiless Old god steps back once again to our unconscious. The strings are serious sounding now, growing slower in their arguments. The heart has gone out of it, and we put our winter boots back in the closet. A last breath can be heard, with a final word sounding. For now, we are through it all.