Urned praise

a quick moist finger to the wick,
earlier -- before the pondering dawn --
then off to the garden silent
to watch the cateracts
of spinning light off of Bobbie's Vase --
to see my face by reflection
in the eyes of the artist.

Each facet, I know and embrace
allows some hint of spirit to seep through --
that not all of the magick of this Urn
is perceived in mirrored light.
There may be much hid deap inside,
by right --
and pieces assembled by design,
perhaps unknown --
or just by flow of soul's song.

while these words have just flowed
from my flying finger,
still stiff with passing tensions
from clenching life thoughout the night ...
I suddenly think of a Golem,
a construct of humanity --
a vessel of another sort,
and fall back on my archives
and more practiced verse.

......................................................

GOLEM

The Moon winks but a slivered smile
With a halo of stardust mist,
And a gifted, drifting owl absorbs
The whimpers of the passing night.

The cauldron boils and churns in song
With ancient lore and dread control.
Gather close and ever prepare,
For by dawn we will finish Golem.

His form is cast by common will,
seen only when eyes are closed,
but She forever in heart will hide,
for those who enhance the Golem.

Let's toss in an eye for child's joy,
And ready ear for lonely pain.
Its hand must be open outstretched
And foot quick to a stranger's need.

What a monster our Golem be,
With mind empty except for dreams,
To drive a heart made over large
And a tongue that only sings.

Let us stir the pot, you and me;
Draw in the scent of pulsing life.
Only we can shape this Golem
To haunt the shadows of charity.

Pray take it home, not hid away,
But perched on shoulder proud.
Forget bold claims and selfish pride.
Just walk hand in hand with Golem.

papa faucon