Stories

Idols

A naked statue stood alone

His gaze fixed t’ward the skies

He sought to take up Heaven’s cause,

To rise above Man’s cries.

 

(Ten thousand inefficiencies)

 

The scales in my hand grow rusted

The crown on my head grows cold

Why do I feel so useless?
Why do I feel so old?

 

(Twenty thousand lies)

 

My calloused knees both crumble

My penitent hands unfold

Where do my prayers not take me?

Why can’t this lead be gold?

 

(Twenty thousand mortal sins)

 

The ink in my quill grows bloody

The thoughts in my mind grow bold

When will I find redemption?

When will all tales be told?

 

(Ten thousand inefficiencies

   Twenty thousand lies

      Twenty thousand mortal sins

         Till all around me dies.)

 

 

Observations

 

Children crash in

Boy and girl makes two

He chubby, she thin

Excited by the sight of something new.

To smell, to taste, to feel without sin

In the manner that children do.

 

And they made the place just a little bit warmer

Thought the old man quietly dying in the corner.

 

Their parents follow after

Each heavy with the troubles of life

Long gone now is their laughter

Replaced by worry, regret, backache and strife

But a glimmer remains up in the rafters

Of the children they were before husband and wife

 

And their presence seemed to end the joy of the former

Noticed the old man quietly dying in the corner.

 

Finally grandparents enter

Slower they are, but wryly aware

She clutching a scarf that her great aunt once sent her

They look on the others with compassion and care

Standing just slightly off from the centre

They ponder whether youth was ever theirs

 

And the others lowered their heads down like mourners

Observed the old man quietly dying in the corner.

 

 

White Pine

 

I stand amid a grove of trees, among a greater grove of trees, which lie in the centre of what becomes a forest. The underbrush surrounds me; ferns and mushrooms and flowers unidentified, and among them the roots of trees and the moss that feeds thereupon. Small pines of white and red, sprinkled with the occasional wind-swept Jack, tower up around me in a voluminous palisade. But out from among these, greater than the greatest of them, towers the single great white pine. It towers over two hundred feet into the air, but its true power is immeasurable. It stands stoic against the sky, towering above my head and piercing the heavens as it blots out the sun. Standing before it, I feel small and insignificant as it dwarfs my small, frail form. I feel the desire to prostrate myself, conceding it superiority and attesting to its greatness. Before it, all works of man peel apart like burning paper and blow into the wind. Man’s works of steel crumble to the sea in its shadow, and I am reminded that there is an inexorable power that was here before us, and will continue to exist once we have passed on. And I am in awe.

 

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