POEM: The Cave

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Michael Burns – Charcoal drawing and blue China crayon on cartridge paper. 22 X 30 inches

 

THE CAVE

by Michael Burns

I was not different, than you are now — I was not blessed or cursed anymore than you, are now.
I called myself what I am —  I love no less, but I did reach high, for the higher ground.
The mystic drove me on — sometimes — the artist born in me, the imaginer.
Drafts a thought; an idea caught frozen as a symbol…and the symbol was now born into the world.
A man begins to record himself, that fierce yell coming through to us in time. I am…thoughts and ideas about this world.

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Michael Burns – Charcoal and red Conte on cartridge paper. 22 X 30 inches

I eat the god, and bare his visions — and then moving into that hole.
And ever back towards the place, where time and history would remember me…
Nothing will touch it here. Couched safe and locked back in — the dark.
Here, separate from us all but the brave, the purer heart.
Moving in amongst stone and much — that smell. Old dark wet; heavy; ancient longing away from the light, and discovered. Again.
I beat down the yellow and spit the rough stuff on my hands.
And scratched with burned blak black the lines imagined… rusted red and fat muscle and bone…the ever elusive edge, where is it?  Soul caught in there imprisoned in that rock.
And beast claw and prey tooth, and stone lay down and in and of it all — a cathedral of my mind. Bulls run…and bulls thunder above my head…
visions like lifetimes led — layered, lap on lap and endless natural.
The garden and it’s beauty — oh it remained that same, same living.
Lives piled high on lifetimes I remember. Antelope flaxened and grey cat, and also hungry men.
Deep in dark darkness — lamps kept lit by a lonely child.
Quick and little nimble finger — the oily pale orange and yellow glow.
And sounds echo and amplify through that place…sound of the imagined. Shhh..the Willendorf mother stirs and everyone listens in her womb together.
Deep in there and not born yet — but soon I will.
Everything so still and waiting to begin.
And then.. rub the fat into the stone — the beast moves, and ungulates,
and glisten slick and slippery wet — the wall is liquid vision. And time, time and more time…and endless time.

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Michael Burns Drawing, charcoal and red Conte on 75 lb rag paper. 11 X 14 inches

Another man, moves into the hole, and ever back towards the place where history would remember it — and the holy becomes the hidden in plain sight. Sensed, and incensed air the message to the mind — God!.
God now is born inside man’s mind.
And nothing will ever be that free again — and ownership and control become the need — religion clued the temperance and the obedience of us all…
and foot by step, and miles gone by on so many millennium. And so, a remembrance of that place, and something held and felt of that imprisoned soul… man has fallen now.

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