The Good Life

-------The Good Life-------

There is a man I have come to know,

whose hands are hard like ancient stone,

and whose eyes are gentle like a child's just before sleep.

He has little money, and even less worry.

His family is happy, together;

there are no leaks in the roof, the food on their table is fresh and there is plenty,
the woodpile is stacked for many winters, the children smile.

He is quiet
and careful with his words;
but he likes to sing loud in the fields;
exchanging verses with the tree fogs and crickets,

in between the rise and fall of his hoe.

His calloused hands tell stories;

of metal and wood, of rich earth and sunshine,
of harvests and entropy, of fire and steel and alchemy,

of physical labor, of prayer in motion.

He is full of Life, and spreads it like wildflower seeds;
though he is not deaf to the noises of despair throughout the world; he hears them,
and this gives his work greater meaning; with an intention
to do less harm, by doing more good.

His labors are those of Love;
they bring him in solidarity
together with the soil and the sky,
and with all those in between them.

He lives a simple life;he wears a hat of winnowed straw

and walks barefoot through the grass to wash his feet.

He doesn't rush,

for time and work are good him;

with each day

his body gets stronger,
his mind finds peace, and 

his heart opens to greet everything with a smile.

He cuts holes in his pockets and
fills them with the seeds of Buckwheat and Clover

so that flowers
and honeybee's
follow in his every footstep.

He rises early and greets the dawn with grace.

He works with the sun as it passes its reflection across the mystic earth.
He comes home and plays with his children, and
rests, content, with the littlest one upon his chest,
their heartbeat and breathing

syncopated to the common rhythm
of purpose fulfilled.

He has no fear, only Hope

in the Youth;
that they grow knowing
it takes work to live the Good Life,
and that the work
is Good.

-------

-------The Sharpest Schythe-------

This tool is sharp and true

 like love made through a thunderstorm

  when the heavenly fires come to perform

an alchemy of metals and skin.

Sharp enough to cut the buckwheat and the brambles,

 and the weeds that have crowded the seeds of our memories

  held in muscles and the mind, of a place and its ways

that our soul will never forget. 

"Watching you work reminds me of my home, 

 far away from here"

  a dreamland, very real

where hay makes mountains in the fields.

These hands are the snath

 is the blade

  and this blade is good with death,

   tempered thin so to bring life to rest with grace

as it began.

Within the persistence and prayer of this work

 with each steady swing,

  in the silence, 

   of this scythe,

the seeds of our memories are saved.

For Death 

 is a good farmer, 

too.

-------

Swings

-------Swings-------

There is a tree

in a forest
not far from here

where we can go

and play for 

days 

on end, on swings 

set 

by one we have not met, but know well

in Intuitions

kind of way.

This tree holds

every fruit and every nut,

every bruise and every cut

that we gathered as a child when we knew how to smile,

even when we fell down.

There is every stone

and river to it thrown,

and the waterfalls that started this all,

a long time ago.

The leaves are of colors and shapes

that our tools cannot create, but

that our creativity cannot escape

trying to match their majesty.

There are beautiful beasts in the branches,

and many others there too,

climbing

through the clover fields, up the sunflowers and in the patches of the rue.

There are the callused ethics of the common man,

and each sacred acre of common land,

carved like poetry 

into hands and into the bark.

There is every Love that has let us go,

and all the love we have yet to sow.

Our friends, our fellows and our foes,

and all those we have yet to know.

This tree is not too far,

you see.

The forest is
here,

inside you and

inside me.

-------

Great, Blue Heron

-------Great, Blue Heron-------

Oh, silly bird,

you shouldn't be here

here along this
speeding highway.

You look silly, you know?

...too big for this
little place.

Those giant wings stand out,
bowing to the wind
as they blow the dust from
our memories
of true beauty...
remember
grace does
exist.

Silly how
easy you move
so slow

along this
speeding highway

of concrete and doubt.

You shouldn't be here...

this is no place

for such
prayer!

We are not ready
for this sweet violence
upon our pride.

Why have you stayed
and not gone with the others
back to the quiet corners
of rivers
and solitude?

...back to
the peace?

We do not
deserve
you.

But

stubborn and stoic
like an honest winter
you refuse to leave these bones
and us alone

along this
great and lonely highway.

Oh, silly bird,

thank you.

-------

The Good Farmer

-------The Good Farmer-------

The Good Farmer is an activist of justice
in a most passive and radical of ways,
growing food and medicine
seeds and hope
at once;

the Good Farmer watches the sun
in reverence, and in silence
they pray to the Light
and Grace
that shines upon all things;

the Good Farmer enriches the soil with minerals,
balancing energetics
like the conductor of a great orchestra;the Good Farmer is always
reading
the history of the World in a handful of soil,
the Universe in a tiny seed,
reflecting
upon their own reflection
in the clear waters
and stories
of eternity;

the Good Farmer respects the integrity of time,
and believing there is no end to time,
they plant trees;the Good Farmer accepts science as well as poetry,
yet prefers wonder to intelligence,
denying not knowledge
as it is a catalyst to understanding;

the Good Farmer knows the best fertilizer is
Love,
and that cultivation begins in the
Heart;

the Good Farmer joins
the stability of Wilderness with the fragility of man,
and mimics the forest in their fields
in a communion of beauty and necessity;

the Good Farmer dances
improvising with entropy,
response within the dynamic balance
of order and chaos;the Good Farmer is resilient
to oppression, by saving seed
to dis-ease, by supporting the vitality of the soil
to limitation, by building foundations to reach potential;

the Good Farmer does not work hard,
but works smart,
and enjoys
in the complexity of life's simple processes;

the Good Farmer sleeps well at night,
cradled in the harmony
they have helped to create.

-------

Fires

-------Fires-------

Daylight first takes
the tops
of the trees,

Cutting shadows
into the dawn
with its tongue.

Then, slowly, soft and sliding
down the Nights blouse,
button by button.

There's no use
in trying too hard
to keep our clothes on.

For with just one kiss you'll be gone,
Darkness.

A kiss on the belly and your gone...

-------

At Home

-------At Home------

The Winter's cold is welcomed kin

   when fires burn warm 'neath the kettle within.

And to curse the Darkness upon the skin

   is the mere manifesting of dark within;

for all despair and every sin

   be them reflections of our Within.

So, let it be cold and let us begin

   to build the fires, at Home, within.

-------

Winter's Solstice

-------Winter’s Solstice------

The darkest dark of Winter

  is followed by brighter days

as death becomes the wood a spark

  the dark becomes ablaze.

And in mountains magic manifests

  as seen by sunset spills

when dusk and day exist at once

  on valley's and their hills.

So when the cold is in the hands

  bring the cold within

for at the heart of every end

  is the Light where all begin.

-------

Within, Without

-------Within, Without-------

A true peacemaker's work
begins by allowing
peace to be

within themselves.

-------