I was country driving (May 2, 2010) looking for some yellow... when a I saw them, a heard of rare Arkansas Mule Deer.
The Mighty Works Project exists to add amusement to your sense of dread
Today I see cathedrals,
slamming into the sun
and grating light like cheese.
KSJ
I have seen the blood of Terra running red,
albeit rare
and more like rust, than crimson,
colored in the rinse of ruddy plains and that strange
Cream-of-Tomato dirt, in Oklahoma.
I’ve seen it too, where her blood runs blue
like mirrors held against a Colorado sky:
But here in Arkansas,
beneath the paddle stoke
the open veins of Terra tumble
in the stuff of our state color:
Indeed, this is the kingdom of the chloroplast;
Every shade of chlorophyll on God’s green earth
is dripping from the paddle blades, pouring over jaded rocks --
carpeting the hills, exploding like whipped algae
with highlights of celery, or the little
moss on train sets, only big.
Here is the stuff of new-green and old-green,
teen–green and China,
green-tea and burnt-pea,
limon, and lima,
pine-tree and kiwi,
forrest and kelp,
verdant and virile with
spiral of vine –
Oh,
Here is the stuff of
leaf blade
and night shade,
grass snakes, and hoppers,
ten-thousand lawns and
leprechaun daughters
(Laughing as they pour,
without canoe
down mint colored rapids.)
Oh,
Here is the stuff
of olive and eye and tornadic sky
and bullfrogs and soldiers and
old moldy cheese.
SNEEEZE…
Oh,
Here is the stuff
of emerald and Kelly
‘n smelly fresh things,
bean stalks and belfries
and twiggies with wings.
Oh here
is the dead naked light
all clean, cold, and gold
splashing
back at the sun,
cell over cell
all virid
with life.
The Maker of the Universe
As Man for man was made a curse.
The claims of Law which He had made,
Unto the uttermost He paid.
His holy fingers made the bough,
Which grew the thorns that crowned His brow.
The nails that pierced His hands were mined
In secret places He designed.
He made the forest whence there sprung
The tree on which His body hung.
He died upon a cross of wood,
Yet made the hill on which it stood.
The sky that darkened o'er His head,
By Him above the earth was spread.
The sun that hid from Him it's face
By His decree was poised in space.
The spear which spilled His precious blood
Was tempered in the fires of God.
The grave in which His form was laid
Was hewn in rocks His hands had made.
The throne on which He now appears
Was His for everlasting years.
But a new glory crowns His brow
And every knee to Him shall bow.
The Moon, like an acorn in its luminescent shell. (Or Venus, like the bellybutton of the world.)
The Moon is a flying fingernail, a sail on an unseen boat, a secret code I am sending, the message of which I am sending to you... the moon is encoded "Say Cheese."