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 
To The Riverside
To the riverside, to the river we must go!
We cannot tarry in our quarrels evermore
Let us take leave of our battlements burning
With a torch and pail of heavy things
And restless hands slung by selfish sides
For so long I have been unknowing
All along she was calling for temperance
She wails, she weeps, she wilts
We must fare forward, the union we are
Released from your shackles of vanity,
Demisted the view before your eyes
For you are as young as I with wisdom tenfold
From selfsame roots that was our sanction
You speak now with truth gone from honest lips
And a heart swelling with raging burn
Like the soul that e’er bites its tail
A great light once came from your lungs
The gift to inspire a younger legion anon
Yet your singing voice has taken flight
Taken by a chilling mantle of secrecy and decay
Your desire departed for community and lore
Eyes devoid of their compassion for aid
I pray there is still time, time to redeem us
To the riverside, to the river we must go!
The Tinderbox
The lone grey lighthouse perched heavily upon its peak
Borrowing chains and rope sodden, encrusted in the sea’s corrosive breath,
A gift to hold her crown from falling to a watery grave
Glaring listlessly across that empty, tumultuous bay,
And whose temperament wards against the likes of men, ship and flotsam
Moans deeply in its ancient aches, its eyes swollen and unlit
Breathing that dark and chilling wind and whistling mournfully through its eyes
She bears the faded emblem of a spur, vivid red and orange and
Chiselled at the name of the brave young soul who tended to her
While hardy shrubs and fiery daffodils adorn her path,
Shaken and lost and seldom used
Though the sonorous tales of the keeper are n’er forgotten
And time aids to quench her sorrow –
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