POETRY - SO IT IS WITH THE WRITER

So it is with the writer

 All of Creation is

being.

A cloud, ephemeral

and fair, or

dark and foreboding

is still a cloud.

A nimble cloud passes overhead

and its effects are known

below, as shade, or rain

or hail and snow.

For a cloud to be, it simply

needs to gather vapour, and

to be. It doesn’t think about

being a tree, out of envy for

being rooted in the spirit-loam

of the Earth.

I want to be a rain cloud,

that quenches the thirsty earth

brings new life with its precipitation

and creates the greening of Love;

something solid from liquid.

When I write I want to quench the thirst

of dry, weary humanity, those of the Earth

and from the earth.

To bring new life to birth in the reimagining

of verdant reality, free of scarcity and the

iniquity of controlling hunger.

Hunger of soul

of flesh

of synaptic excitation

of spirit-talk...

and thirst follows hunger

Thirst of the spirit,

of imagination stressed by drought

cracked open, with nothing to replenish it.

The Dowsing Rods, broken or in ill-repair

as all hope of finding elixir has evaporated;

its sweetness soured by failed rain clouds, that only

bring the darkness of despair, having

the appearance of a thing but not, holding

the substance of it.

So it is with the writer,

whose dark-cloud ink brings nothing, save despondent

marks on paper-flesh

and scoured earth-page.

Shula