Our Craft, Our Shepherd
Once upon a time they awoke,
Not without reason and not without duty
Never taken from their daily quest and motion
Many of kin: each to the craft of making
Each to the craft
Sublime and gentle and real
Not without a moment for doubt and not without pain
For even when the painter took his feather bristle brush
His canvas the Lord and The Shepherd of his aching soul
He cast the pastel paints of blood and water
And though they seeped from the edge of deviance
And danced the devil’s dance of desecration,
He was master and voice of the craft of making
Day n’er passed without a fruitful yield
Filed under 
Jungle Man
By wild winter end and springtime eve
The raw harvest would come to heave
The apprentice’s eyes and scholarly arms
Took the dry reed and dark dense mud
And tempered with pins and needles and a rhythmic thud
To make a solid mark high above soft sand and river tide
The jungle man, the jungle man
Took to himself the splintered tools and ambition
And sought a stronghold where the green vines grow
Like the southern sea yearns for mangrove trees
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The Waypath, Ablaze
The waypath to home is a treacherous passage
An unforgiving, exiled way whose runes
Etched in a fragmented, forgotten language
Is the only sure guide to deliverance;
Yet some million years before, an intrepid magician
Could carve stone from sand and shift the mighty mountain
Having beside him the rowan wand and will-to-good
Pairing the flame with its rightful fury,
Rising the phoenix from its maddening fire
Quenching the alms of the insignificant flare
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- The Six Degrees To One Star
- Move In, We’re Losing Ground!
- Our Craft, Our Shepherd
- The Squeeze and The Great Divide
- Jungle Man
