Too many emails whilst I was gone, but one struck a chord, leading me to an interesting poem, that resonates within me:
Deeper cultures called it SPIRIT
pulled from first breath
to a hushed pivot of wingspan, a high point
of recovery over each life, a threshold of faith
in the heart's final treasure, holding its own truth,
its own measure of meaning: urgent, vivid as a myth
or a cave mural: the voice we fell from grace with. . .
it finally happened then: so much splendor went
to waste in us that eternity called collect (imagine,
the richest force in the universe!)
Who knew what to do or say? a pittance of awe
to pay attention with, & we still expected change!
Change came. An age passed, dust settled:
The first were last; a Bell went off
and there came to our senses
only shadows. . .
Michael Masley
Michael, the self styled Artist General and Berkeley street musician is better known for his posters stuck on power poles, but this poem surpasses any of them.
