Discovering a Candle for Silver St. Cloud: A poem

"Discovering A Candle for Silver St. Cloud"



By the continued smell of the candles, clove and cinnamon, I embrace my true nature.


My urge to make things as art to give freely away has served to take me this far down

roads that are my essence. Now, realizing even collected works and volumes are lost

in height, width, and diameter, at length, I reach for my cup, to re-associate me

with the fresh knowledge: what is three dimensional reality? Its questioning, when

taken for granted, yet remains.

And one man, paunched with age, still able to erect his spine and present a chest of

pride, is one lion. Even to breath, is much; to create and destroy, to love and to

hate, to read and to write, and ever to will to give one’s self away, defiant, yet

praying for mercy, the top of the erected spine busies itself with all manner of

pleasurable knowing, to gain the strength that reaches the peak, assessment. A touch

of candle wax pain on the finger tip, pictures by candlelight, of a story altered

when one lights a candle, and ghosts to whom we spoke return to us in smoke.

She loves the children, personalities. Babies grow and she envisions. Ever to give herself, for this she lives; having found herself, she thrives; yet must the toxins of these times release, the itch, the cough, the need to keep sleep against the work of a new day.

Quietly now, a sense, design, all beyond those we know;
To her lips, bring stillness, love
While mother, living, waits for snow.

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