Pity me in my craft and in my guile and behold this truth I hold captive.
Though it is schooled in the way of the hoops and the placement of pedestals,
I am yet wary of the truth I have tamed.

I lead it through paces with upturned chair and the whip I flay brandished and cracking.
I prod and I preen, in this marvelous show.
I have now become the stalker.

I claim my stance, the lone leader I am,
with the multitude beyond me all hushed and unseen,
and here I hold sway with my hand stretched before me,
adroitly maneuvered with hypnotic rhyme.

But then, I have stopped.
In mid-step have I ceased,
and look now where I am;
these bars hold me with this truth as well, captive.

With these tools I employ, I have cornered this game,
and I rein in its reach from the scarring slash or the injured limb.
Yet, these tools, though inanimate, are the means and the meaning
of my own and my only found fears.

From fear then to fearsome my craft is complete and as so completed, encumbered.
Moreover, these implements, wielded once useful,
have placed their own work and design upon me
and I tire again working round in this circle.
I am bounded and edging with no corner to reach.

So, I close my worn eyes to carry this sigh and I give in a step to this quarry,
but now once and again, though I perish the thought,
my guard is so loosed and down facing.

With eyes drawn close, I feel the breath of the wind upon my face.
I breath deeply this wind, without measure I fill.
Through these bars and from who knows where it began,
I have been discovered by just such a breeze,
and this wind sings to me of the truth I would capture.

My posture, once staid, is now tousled and mussed.
I am yet but a child in a childs playful act.
This wind has its own way about where it goes,
and this wind in its course is a wonder, unseen.

Yet behold, through the wind and for all that now dances,
and look there! All enthralled as the wind finds its way.
I am dumbness in awe and my joy seeks the prospect.

My fears are now shown to me again and as new,
but they are now as the timber - to be split and to peel.
They are now as the iron - but to crumble and fail,
to be rust and be bourne again, otherwise wrought.

For the rains shall return and its laughter shall sing
through the dance of the joy unrelenting.

So here I now stand, I am wordless and wondering;
have I not yet seen such a wood as this then?
Have I not yet seen bars of iron as these?

And such confines as these have been brought to the dust,
and brought knowingly so, to be done and revealed,
and so bound up and bourne up again to the wind
to the will of the wind that returns us anew
from our sentinel watch in the stillness beyond.

Have I not yet seen this?

And here I am now
with my eyes raised and startled,
my face soaking wet to the skin.

Where my laughter and joy find me new and unbounded,
and my breath takes its share from the breath of the wind.

As my breath is now freed from within me, to follow,
and I wonder again at this breath I inspire;

do I breath in this wind, holding justly my share?
or does wind find itself here now breathing through me?

Where did this come from, I wonder? A very readable and embracing piece. I recognise bits and pieces from a range of sources that are well synthesised in the unusual configuration that the piece has. Not for the faint hearted and might need a second read after a gap, for some, but demonstrating deep and serious thought that has emitted as a substantial poem.

That's a good question.

It is an unusual piece for me,
I felt like I was emulating some other style that I didn't quite understand.

I appreciate your encouragement.

Did you write that Shawn? It's fantastic. And just for emphasis I'll say it again. It's fantastic.

I don't understand it mind you. But if something is that good, I'll enjoy reading it over and again, trying to work out its meaning, and I'll wallow in the pleasure of it all. Don't tell me. I'll try an figure it out myself. If it's meaningless, no matter. It's poetry as far as I''m concerned. It's a stimulating collage of words. If it does have meaning, which I am sure it does, then It's a work of well............a can't say genius, because I have to reserve that for the truly subliminal, but bloody bloody good anyway.

i'm envious.

and I forgot to mention how much I enjoyed the rhythm of it. I hope your poem is seen and commented on by many.

Keep writing.