Poetry is woven into the warp and weft of this creation. The balance of sunrise and sunset, the pace of the tides, the trill of the birds and the rustle of the winds in the trees.
On it goes…everything in harmony, or dissonance yet in time and rhythm. Let my first written post be a poem I wrote called The Vines. It is a poem about humans, really…about anyone who wants to become…more! Better! Higher!
They are tortured, the best ones…
Planted in skeins of shitty shallow soil.
Plopped into rocky ruins of ancient volcanic thrashing
They will not drink vinegar, ruined wine
But instead they dig
Roots compelled, FORCED past rocky reams
and veinous minerally walls.
The Vinedresser is compelled…not by cries
but by VISION and the future
of the wine to come
from the best ones, the tortured ones
the blessed ones
Forced to grow and be fruitful.
On that Day the vintage will be poured
and in humble amazement the vines will
ask why…why so blessed, why so rich
why so wet and every thirst quenched,
On that Day