Recently, I found a tiny blue pencil sharpener on my desk that I’d never seen before. The first poem that I wrote about it will not be viewed by the public, but I thought this iteration more amenable to mass consumption. “Zappa” is Frank Zappa, who said that music dresses time; “ontic” means “relating to or having real being.” Beyond that, let me let it speak for itself…
Ghost Sharpener II: the Tailor of Time
The pencil sharpener is small and blue;
So is my soul, sometimes. I wait for bliss
As acrid bombs still fall through Gaza’s sky
And rubble sings its song of heartlessness.
I wait, and yearn, for joy through April rains
(and sometimes through surprising falls of snow).
I long to taste the wine of victory
Fresh squeezed from Paradise’s reddest grapes,
And long to lift the weight of Wisdom from
The rock-face hiding Creativity.
The ghostly sharpener still draws me in,
Still grinds my little no. 2 to dust,
Still breaks my aching dreams within its gears.
I wander through a pathless, darkened wood
And fear to trip upon some errant root;
I sit upon a rock on Georgian Bay
But dare not dive into the deeps below
For fear I’ll strike a rock and break the chain.
I feel that I must choose yet fear my choice.
Why must the choice I make be fuelled by fear?
I’m happy I no longer wear a watch
Because its blunt, banal, internal time
Would never cease to terrorize my thoughts.
When I feel agonized by choice, time slows,
And only steadfast love can lift my soul
Beyond the chaos of chronology.
I know that Zappa’s right, and music still
Plays tailor to the vanities of Time.
The tiny sharpener of navy blue
Will burst in rings of bright cerulean
When opened by the magic major chord;
As Townshend shreds his Rickenbacker’s strings,
As Petty covers songs by old McGuinn,
I see pink sand on some Bahamian beach
And hear the angels’ gloomy post-punk songs.
So, music mends our hard mundanity
And good-time Jesus brings us wine from Gilead
Accompanied by howled hillel Psalms
And feted by soft flute from Anderson.
Though burning worlds careen around their stars,
The stellar music is the cosmic glue
That integrates our ontic house of cards.
The song can heal our sick societies
And grow the rich, dark coffee of the mind.
Each well-played note can grow a mustard-bush,
A hyacinth, or a stout maple tree
Where lions will lie down with tender lambs.
Lovely interweaving of modern and Biblical threads!
Thanks, Mary! I found it helpful to write. 🙂