Veteran of the Woods
....veteran of the woods at northern end,
i scamper to keep ahead in this wood-worker’s dream,
what if’s and thought’s of where it all began,
are only the past rumblings of more to come as i work in stealth….
....my modes of stealth are vast and often un-explained,
since why should a creator re-veal the secrets of his//her art,
no-one who works for art can be a copy-cat of borrowed dreams,
much to the demise of clones who pass me by on borrowed sorrows….
....often i hear much of these who walk the road of borrowed sorrows,
and one thing i hear is why does it not work for me in terms of great,
to those i have many times replied that ’’greatness only comes with pain’’,
after all what is art that has never been furrowed behind a stubborn ox….
....how can one go into the needed fields of silence in stillness of heart,
where the demons of voice clutter seek me out to produce after them,
i am no follower of the ways of man and so i sit amidst my trees,
learning from these gods that have much to give and none to take….
....sometimes while out here in the growth of what i call deep woods,
comes a sound of singing trees caught in a time warp of old growth,
and what one does after hearing their songs and stories is not for sale,
even now i gather my tales of poems inside my soul and turn a page….
....old growth—new growth—veteran of the woods by which i live,
these trees bear me up well under their now covered gowns of white,
my place within this veil of time has been the uniqueness of knowing trees,
even now the flakes of white start to fall before eyes that see light….
....time passes—silence gathers from the abundance that fills my heart,
unfurling my down filled nest i realize it’s time to dig a mound of white,
silence passes as the spirits of trees start to speak a story of past,
warmed within my cocoon of down i learn the ways of working wood….
....all i have to offer in this dream of what i have called ‘wood art’,
will not speak much to the sounds of cluttered minds of having no-dream,
so who can have a dream unless they go to furrow behind a lumbering ox,
my ox knows my name and still we often cannot work together as one….
....so it is with the working’s of wood in a place called treasures of snow,
trees i have known that have told me of their ways before man came,
but who can know the sound of falling snow as it shakes the evergreen,
i can and so my fingers work the wood from height of experience….
....should i go on or should i be as silence of snow falling down to earth,
clangoring into the mighty evergreen who laughs at my pasquinade,
i think these words bare me out as a mis-fit raised in the image of man,
time for silence now as i go to bring forth from creations of ‘wood art’….
’’....work smart, work safe, and live, to work the wood....’‘
-- --frank, NH, http://rusticwoodart.tumblr.com/