Imagination at Work
....clearing my head i reach for more space,
and found in an-other canopy of needed growth,
i start to breathe the intoxicating winds of high change,
where all that i am is all that surrounds me here….
—-who speaks the language of trees,
when all that surrounds me is the added moments of gathering more wood,
and so those other’s preach of softwood and hardwood,
while i am content to satisfy my longings of ‘old growth’....
—-when was the last time you listened to some ‘old growth’,
and have you sought out the side of a mountain in deep ravine,
where the ‘ancients of old’ still hold court as you skywalk,
and number the stars by the shadows of a moon filled skylight….
—-in learning the language of trees that is spoken in some circles,
i soon learned what it meant to redline from a ninja climb,
and then comes a time of taking a dirt nap,
where all that remains is the remnant of one’s cratering….
—-out here and up here above the canopies of overhead,
i have found my peace is a place where few care to dwell,
after all the shucking of jiving tabled wood talk has ceased,
there still remains for my sense of humor the dimensions of my spider rope….
—-wood planes where made for curling a release of wood,
while here my spirit screams at such thoughts of plains,
for out where i am now to be found comes the slicking slap,
that caters to the gouging effect of wanting to produce a wood tale from living temples….
—-living temples of wood sculptured trees that kiss the sky,
much in the same way that those branches welcome me home,
out here i hear my heart start to beat in tune with heartwood,
while our saps of blood once again intermingle as the life of one….
—-death be not proud as life is not humble,
for both have duties to pre-form as habits of exercise,
and living in this wild of domain will often cleave a rending of veil,
so i be-come the silence that thunders the voices of gods that laugh at man….
—-what will you also do when that headless horseman cries your name,
will you speak the word that sends him on his way,
or will you decide that your time is ripe for winter harvest,
just as the choice is yours for making heavens best at raising hell….
....and so i walk daily within this thing called ‘the working of wood’,
till my body bears the scars that carry names of many,
battle scars from times before when all i knew was fighting wood,
where now i have learned that wood works for me and i for wood….
One of the ‘ancients of old’....
....these are the ones that have the wisdom of the ages all encased within their beings….
....and then i am called to look up….
Out here the solitude of a man is measured not by total of his words or lack of total. Out here a man is the sum of what his has left inside at the end of the day. And so some will often ask as to what I am doing hanging around these forests of trees….”come over and join in the company of man”, is the words that often come my way. Chattering boxes with double forked tongues, is man that hangs around social watering holes, where losing your imagination can be a thing much worse than death it-self….
And so as I sit here at my keyboard and let loose these fingers of delight, that often send forth sounds of despair, mixed with pangs of glory in front of my monitor screen, I have found that imagination is hard at work, in creating images of one who is lost, in the multi-dimensions of colors that collide across my color screen of mind….
”….all that was found in the image of a past, has now be-come my center for living in the now of moment, where i am found at business doing pleasure, with all that come my way….”
-- --frank, NH, http://rusticwoodart.tumblr.com/