The Blue Vineyard Of Voo Shining Stone: Saturday Night at Voo's House...back in the day......

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Valley Of Proud Men

 Valley of Proud Men

Sorrowed down

In the dirt of an unbloomed rose

I seek the light of a moon so weak

It cannot lift it's head.

What made me think

        I could find my way

Out of

This treacherous valley?

Where blood and bone

Have gone to ash

And dreams

Have turned to dust?

I hear the cries of moaning men

Their specks of life 

Snatched up by dogs

And buried under ground.

The whispers of the Old Ones rise

In the mouths of angry crows

And when they fly, the sky turns black

Like an endless, celestial sea.

I am an apparition now

Not dead or alive, not breathing breath

The ghosts of bison run me down

And the wolves devour my heart.

See them roaming

The tired brown earth?

Looking for flesh

        Of tired proud men?

The proud men 

Are all gone now

They live in memory

On the eyelids of the dead.

This is the place of massacre,

The land of boiling blood,

The resting place of those

Who cannot rest in death.

And I, you ask me, who am I?

I am the future that never was

The yesterday that died unborn

And the tomorrow that never came.

I am the nightmare

And eyeless vision,

Bitter water pooling forth

From the chasms of the earth.

Searching for the tall, green corn

And drums that beat for dancing

Riding on the backs of beasts

That no longer dare to fly.

I am the voice of children, silenced

And the howl of wolves, unheard

I am the desolation falling

That blankets out the sun.

Ride with me, my angry crow!

My hungry dog, my empty bow!

Ride with me on the bones of steeds

        Lying buried in the dust.

The mountains taunt me with their crowns

Stretching arms of evergreen

Point to splendor on their peaks

        Made virgin white with snow.

Calling me with teasing smile

To stand and walk the walk of men

The talking trees command me Come

And cool my fever with singing wind.

And I reach forth my eager hands

As seasons change and crawl away

Again and again seeking reprieve 

Touching my lips to the face of the sky.

The horse neighs,

The crow caws, the dog growls and sighs

As over and again, 

My hands fall to my side.

For the valley won't let me go

The valley won't let me go

I'm the shadow in the valley

Of the shadow of Death

And the valley won't let me go.

©by Voo

June 28, 10

7 p.m.

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The Trunk

 

The Trunk

Unbuttoned buttons

Falling out of an old trunk

Stuffed with mildewed lace

And blue ribbons barely

Holding together ancient love letters

Browned with age and turning to dust

At a touch

There, a faded photograph lies

'Neath cobwebby frames and old air

Remnants of a life long dead

A love still living in a distant past

I hear the sweetness of a tiny bit of violin

Muffled girlish laughter

Shoes with elaborate bows dancing dainty steps

As the face in the photograph looks down

From his towering height into shining blue eyes

A pocket watch with exquisite chain of gold

A lock of auburn hair inside a locket

A pressed flower so old, I cannot tell what it had been

A book of Keats, it's sanctuary

And a prayer book with a scribbled prayer in spidery hand

"Please, please, please, dear Lord

Let this be the night he asks me!"

Underneath a wedding veil, a Bible with crumbling cover

Inside, the marriage recorded for all the world to see

Oh, happy, happy day! She has written in bold letters

And I feel the joy and smile at her rejoicing

In a brocaded box, a baby's tooth, a curl tied with thread

A christening dress, what used to be a doll

With reverent hands I pull the items towards me

Breathe in the musty memories they eminate

And gently place them back inside the trunk

In the corner, stuck inside a seam, I see a picture

Creased and faded almost into non existence

The woman's blue eyes, still shining, still full of love

Sitting in a rocking chair, holding a doll

As though it was her sole salvation

No gown of yellow adorned her frame

And I could not hear the violin's tender trill

But I knew that it was her

And for a moment, it flashed into my mind

That she could see me seeing her

See me holding the remnants of her life

Celebrating her little victories

And great, great losses

Now silently announced by the ugly black dress

And by an unspeakable sorrow on a yet young face

"I'm so sorry." I whisper

And close the trunk in slow retreat

Passing an ancient mirror standing like a portal

To another world in that dusty, forgotten attic

I catch a glimpse of my own face surrounded by untidy curls

With similar eyes and inherited sadnesses

It is her face there staring back at me

"It is our face." I think and touch my rounded belly

With a new mother's hands

Perhaps, it'll be her face, too. And I'll bring her here

To see where she came from, how strong the genes imparted

How thick the blood, how deep the love that survives the sorrow

Down through the ages

And imprinted on the cherished things she touched

Almost disintegrated now

But living still

Inside that dusty trunk.

©by Voo

May 14, 07

3 p.m.