By Maik Strosahl
Artesia dips her
wooden bucket
deep into his soul.
Once more
to the well for water,
once more
from creation’s spring.
Drink,
drink from her dipper full.
The muse’s elixir
stirs the mind,
twists at the heart,
pours from fingertips,
launches from the tongue
to tickle and poke at
ears that will listen,
to dance in their dreams,
rise as bricks on bricks on
foundation stones,
each from his own
personal point of view,
until a billion points
enlightened,
building into the heavens
another Babel
to touch the sky,
an outstretch of this earth
reaching,
creating and
becoming god.
Once more
to the well for water.
Artesia pours
until his soul is again full,
tipping the bucket level,
declaring this chapter done,
turning his sight
to yet another adventure.
Once more
from creation’s spring.
Drink.
Drink from her dipper full.
Artesia dips her
wooden bucket
deep into his soul.
Once more
to the well for water,
once more
from creation’s spring.
Drink,
drink from her dipper full.
The muse’s elixir
stirs the mind,
twists at the heart,
pours from fingertips,
launches from the tongue
to tickle and poke at
ears that will listen,
to dance in their dreams,
rise as bricks on bricks on
foundation stones,
each from his own
personal point of view,
until a billion points
enlightened,
building into the heavens
another Babel
to touch the sky,
an outstretch of this earth
reaching,
creating and
becoming god.
Once more
to the well for water.
Artesia pours
until his soul is again full,
tipping the bucket level,
declaring this chapter done,
turning his sight
to yet another adventure.
Once more
from creation’s spring.
Drink.
Drink from her dipper full.
Copyright © 2023 by Michael E. (Maik) Strosahl |
Maik, thank you so much for a better ode to my Artesia than I myself could write. I almost suspect (or at least playfully imagine) that you have maneuvered your mouth to imbibe from her dipper yourself!
ReplyDeleteAnd you worked in a retort to one who said this blog has no point of view! It has MANY points of view! And they somehow, together, in compassionate embraces reach to touch the sky…reach, create, and become…god…or God…or a god?
Maik couldn’t figure out the commenting problem, so he replied by email:
ReplyDeleteOh, yes, I am drinking from Artesia’s well!
I wrote a new poem inspired by a road sign I saw yesterday in Dixon, Illinois. Based on an actual incident.
It’s titled “Bloody Gulch Road…1885,” and its first stanza catches you like this:
If it weren’t for those
goddamn cows acting all skittish,
the rains woulda washed up
that mess of a bible salesman a bit,
someone woulda found him
good and proper,
six months down the road,
where the maggots and worms
coulda made him more forgettable,
just another traveler
highwaymen musta got to
on his to save
Sterling or Annawan.
I emailed back:
Heigh-ho, Maik, the seminal waters gush!
I hope you find a convivial gathering place to park and share their child.