I have a recurrent vision. It pops into my head periodically. This is my first attempt to put the expressionist picture into words.
This probably better a night poem when I have lingered long with the Insomniac Theater of Craig, but sometimes things of the night have a clearer rendering in the day.
It isn't particularly meta. It might have some symbolism and some commentary. It certainly contains some of me in it.
At least it might not rattle around in my head today.
Maybe.
Neck stretched and chin jutting up
shock of hair and the veins bulge
impasto blue and red becoming dark purple
shades of black and grey
streaking colors applied to an impassioned landscape
the distended howl of man
hollering at the bolts of lightning in a driving rain
where is my hiding place?
mattock in hand, bearing up under the burden
trudgng onward across the jagged plain
shouting done for now
head bowed in strains of laboring forward
sudden parting of the clouds
brings into focus a stubborn hope in a pocket
as if that one collection of photons
was sent just for the benefit of that lone inflorescence
nestled in the gravelly granite
layers of boulders bare of any vegetation, save for lichens
leaves of life brought forth a flower
shining in the sun, dew watered
kneeling beside it he bangs the mattock
splitting granite with the force of hickory hand
kind water poured out upon roots
ever so gently the steel asks flower to come and join
so in a handful of dusts it rides upon the burden of the man
mattock strapped to the pack
weapon of choice
i think i hear him singing
strains of stringed instruments
make the stinging easier to bear