Living Within the Shadow of Crazy Fire
....tread softly on the mind of a man inspired by imagination,
since who can afford to play the devil’s advocate,
when those who are caught between the planes of time,
know no-world to hold them down in audiences of respected places….
....and then i remembered an-other time where….
—-i also was seemingly caught out there in a fools paradise,
begging for bread and wages from those other’s dictates,
those ones who set the standards while not asking if i would play,
while in my heart the beating rhythm asked how long would i continue….
—-years passed by as i plied my trade to highest bidder,
but in my dreams i knew the sacrifice of remembered guilt,
that guilt that stole my innocence from childhood stages,
till hearing those who knew my best said was time to grow on up….
—-in those days i gave my coat of many colored pencils up,
and entered the halls of sadened darkness ‘think as them’,
who was i to question the ‘them’ of a respected structured world,
these one’s who took my dreams away and laughed at imagination’s foolish ways….
—-i will admit that i tried to play within the rules of their box,
knowing all too well that a rebel artist is a misfits tale,
and so for seconds of time i preached the study of living within a box,
wages were good and yes their is safety within the box of blinded eyes….
—-with no-dreams to ferment i was a blinded seer,
while in my heart the burning fire faced a fast of dimming light,
rage on my crazy fire i wanted to say at work-days end,
but the price to pay for walking alone was in-deed a stone around my neck….
—-this inspiration i call living within the shadow of crazy fire,
remains hidden till one decides to lay their learning entanglement down,
walking away from the scribes who decide what is ‘in’ at days hard end,
running forward in the direction that silence gives to stillness….
—-it was in that moment of acquired priceless eye-salve,
that a blinded seer’s eyes once again saw the beauty before,
not needing to frequent the habitats of broker’s money changing lusts,
i soon overturned their tables of box-making think as i do-isms’....
—-tis better now since the burning crazy fire rages again,
and my coat of many colored pencils once again fits my mind,
my ears can taste the scent of laughing dancing images,
and all that comes from wood speaks forth the tongue of who i am….
....if it is not in the heart of who i am as ‘just is’,
then why would i give up my right to create ‘wood art’ as i see fit,
this glory i now bear has once again learned how to play the stage without a script,
and in this day i now have remembered how to give the thanks for all i am….
”....work smart, work safe, and live, to work the wood….”
-- --frank, NH, http://rusticwoodart.tumblr.com/