I am Yin Hammer
Not a blacksmith per say,
More in the realm of white and gold;
But the skill is much the same.
My wife wears a dress of Samurai Black.
My daughters seven the same and the same
Wear also dresses, and within them all are lotus flowers
Woven into the clothe in many clever ways.
My dogs are three abreast,
one cannot, and need not tell them apart.
Though their heads and tails waggle
apart, they bark and move as one.
My cats are two. My cats are two.
Their heads move as one,
and their pace is the same.
That they are he and she keeps me sane!
I am Yin Hammer and I mend the scrolls of time.
I am Yin Hammer and I labor long and long again.
I am Yin Hammer… and much will come of this.
I have a wand now;
I have it for my service,
For my silence,
For my skill at emptiness.
I wave my wand as he did, and I await!
I wave my wand as he did,
And yet the magic doesn’t come
As I was told it would.
My wand was his once,
His that he made magic with.
The magic that he made before he passed that is,
The magic that I should have now for my service.
Oh how I wished that magic were mine;
So much that I served to get it when he passed.
And though I wave it as he did, the magic doesn’t come,
Forever and a day the magic doesn’t come.
And so I sit, or stand, or stray a little here and there;
But never to leave, or go to my peace – and wave my wand
That I so dearly craved though the magic never comes
As I was told it would, and dwell forever upon my deed.
Fingertips – palm.
Pressure for a moment.
Ever so slight, the image remains;
Caught, lightly, in eternity’s web for the quiet to perceive.
Lonely hearts wondering,
Where is my life?
Lonely hearts wandering,
Strife to strife, leaving behind their shadowed image play,
A fading corridor of time’s distant echo for the quiet to perceive.
Day to day – changeless, except to age.
Well worn paths so much the same, unnoticed
In their differings, trod only for their questioning
Presence; the answers unseen for the clatter of the search,
A fading corridor of time’s distant echo for the quiet to perceive.
Fingertips – palm.
Pressure for a moment.
Ever so slight the image remains,
A fading corridor of time’s distant echo for the quiet to perceive.
Look thru your finest hour, at all the rest; at now, thru your finest moment.
Look around you at the distance between you, and what you turn away from …you will find them in the midst; in the midst of your reasons why not, in the midst of your excuses.
Remember how you felt at your finest hour, who you felt you were in your finest moment – go there, and look around you at the distance between you, and what you turn away from …you will find them in the midst; in the midst of your reasons why not, in the midst of your excuses.
Look thru your finest hour, at all the hours gone by, at all the chances missed…and let go!
The open sea is an odd and peculiar place on a full moon’s windless night. The silver moonlight, the gray decks and implements, the long night hours of the midnight watch, all conspire to fool the eye or perhaps entice the imagination. Shimmering scenes prophetic, suggesting varied sinister ways and means of demise, dance silently about the rigs, ropes, and ladders, and languish a moment at dawn’s first breaking only to become rust and bolt, winch and cable, at the first sea bird’s cry.
