My favorite writing is that which bubbles up (or down?) out of some unknown wellspring — perhaps the collective unconscious that Carl Jung spoke of. How else do I explain this bit of poetry that spilled out of me as I sat in the sunshine watching rabbits cavort in my yard in the landlocked American Southwest? For a short time, I felt myself at sea, perhaps in the British Isles or along the Ivory Coast in days gone by — even then expounding the virtues of self-examination and the integration of head and heart.
Perhaps some things never change after all.
Avast, me boys! The trumpets sound
The message quiet, yet profound:
If all who wander are not lost
And life’s a sea, a tempest tossed
Then who doth feign to know of truth
To stand above, aloft, aloof?
And which may summon forth frail glory?
To whose voice falls the ancient story?
I cannot but ask this query meek
For what do you quest and who do you seek?
There’s much of you that refuses to unfold
It lies inside like unmined gold
Would thou dare ponder; pray, contemplate
What rests beyond yon twisted gate?
Which notions give you puzzle gaily
Of all life’s riddles, which plague you daily?
Does wonderment ooze from thoughts mundane?
The bread, the mead, the loss, the gain?
Or have you trod on richer loam
Tromped peated bogs in search of home?
The heather calls your one true name,
Refocus your gaze – naught is ever the same.
Avast, me boys! We’ve sighted land!
Unshroud your hearts, unbind your hands.