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Date Posted: 16:09:54 08/03/01 Fri
Author: Wendy
Author Host/IP: 208.219.109.252
Subject: Critics

Critics

Hold fast to dreams
for if you let them die
life is a broken-winged bird
that can no longer fly...
Langston Hues



Did you ever notice they wear
stone masks with lips
drawn tense and uptight –

silence cast
in a dense form of arrogance?

I don’t think they have ever walked
in moccasins tanned
from a pelt of moonlight
draping the wind’s back

or looked in the eye of a raindrop
blinking gemstone colors in the sun.

They can not see that a harbor
is earth’s mirror
and the sky’s palm of changing fortunes.

You and I have read
the horizon’s lifeline of stars,

dipped our fingers in the ink of midnight
and traced The Mother Goddess
along the veil of our souls.

Her image flows in lines
of poetry –
as words crease the air
with thought

and breath awakens
the dead stillness.

Constraints are pushed aside
as if they were gates

rust-hinged and fallen
to pleats of a wooden corset
no one remembers how to lock.

Vines climb the height of trees
likes whispers handed forth
from an ancient story teller

Freedom shadows
the air-borne wings
of leaf and bird

and water crawls
through the cloven rock

like a serpent
we call upon to heal

and twist around our staff
of bone ---

our spine, our standard
of inviolable magic.

With this, we travel forth
surpassing the blank crowd

of faces
laid out in stone
pressing to death

the best features
of their own creativity.



NOTE: From reading the poetry of a dear friend
I have been inspired to write a poem about those "critics" who have lost
touch with the magic spirit of imagination and the personal insight
derived from seeing beyond the flesh
of words, travelling deeper into the
shadow of thought and reflection.

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