Sunday, November 27, 2005

This poem explores our personal unconscious.

Stalactite

Phantoms, monsters, ghosts,
Jesters and clowns –
All of them –
That crowd our dreams,
Bearers of some deep truth
Lurking in unexplored corners.

Here, we dwell in fine appointed
Houses and apartments
With the world at our fingertips,
Yet there are those deep down
Cobweb places of the heart and soul
Where hairy spiders crawl
And bind their prey

Bit by little bit
And suck their blood away.
Layer upon layer of intricate,
Delicate and oh so finely woven webs –
Embroidery that hides
Multitudes of little sobering truths
Waiting to be known,
Pleading for our courage to go where

The bony skeleton rattles chalk-stiff limbs
And drops a loosened tooth to
The dust of long forgotten cares,
Beyond the dung heaps of our burnt-out passions
To a cool still corner of a lonely cave
Where water drips compassionate drop by drop
And carves a crystal sculpture from the soul
Like an ancient stalactite
Reaching from a roof of stone. [I enclose a picture I took in Dunmore Cave in County Kilkenny, Ireland. It's a picture of stalactites - not a brilliant picture as the camera I had at the time was not too good!]

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