Striving After the Wind
The wind goeth toward the south,
and turneth about unto the north;
it whirleth about continually,
and the wind returneth again
according to his circuits.
Ecclesiastes 1:6
We as humans are always between
the dark rich colours of earth
and translucent unknown.
There is little that we know or can know
except the colours of the earth
— the shape and form of everyday
— and the grays of the night.
Born into the earth
we inherit a mystery
that we rush to
like frightened little children,
curious — searching the closets
and the drawers looking --
looking for something,
we do not know what.
We spend out lifetime learning
those colours - besieged
by a tone of faith
that we know by reflection
from the earth and little else.
The contradiction is a rectangular dream
that cannot be released by light of day:
an open maze --
no walls except the final wall
to contain, and the compulsion to continue
gathering riddles perpendicular
onto the next…
or to awake into earthly dreams that lie
buried in the psyche of us all.
We gather things, friends, beliefs
— until death, the dissection
of those gatherings separates
into parts,
each of us can understand
— each something less than the whole.
Whole, we can be understood
only by the prismatic mirror — and by others
only in pieces. The ultimate
jigsaw — of forms in flux.
We are only ourselves, until we die,
then we are an accumulation
of stories people hold about us,
each story a different person.
All into an accumulation
held as one --
a mystery and not the individual.
And how can we presume to know
each and one — the why?
No one can be contained within a word.
It does not give muscles their ripple
nor chest the power of air.
And then a sister's song,
a father's voice, a mother's music
are all there is.
No one can sustain the beatitudes
and grief
— there are too many of us
and there is no voice to speak the other side.
Everyone must carry away
something — grief or shirt.
I must carry away memory like a novice
in a water bucket yoke
dipping to the ground.
Achieving the porch with half the load,
deprived the voice of perfection
by our condition.
East Lansing
June, 1980
Greenfield Series
©1980 Striving After the Wind — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
and turneth about unto the north;
it whirleth about continually,
and the wind returneth again
according to his circuits.
Ecclesiastes 1:6
We as humans are always between
the dark rich colours of earth
and translucent unknown.
There is little that we know or can know
except the colours of the earth
— the shape and form of everyday
— and the grays of the night.
Born into the earth
we inherit a mystery
that we rush to
like frightened little children,
curious — searching the closets
and the drawers looking --
looking for something,
we do not know what.
We spend out lifetime learning
those colours - besieged
by a tone of faith
that we know by reflection
from the earth and little else.
The contradiction is a rectangular dream
that cannot be released by light of day:
an open maze --
no walls except the final wall
to contain, and the compulsion to continue
gathering riddles perpendicular
onto the next…
or to awake into earthly dreams that lie
buried in the psyche of us all.
We gather things, friends, beliefs
— until death, the dissection
of those gatherings separates
into parts,
each of us can understand
— each something less than the whole.
Whole, we can be understood
only by the prismatic mirror — and by others
only in pieces. The ultimate
jigsaw — of forms in flux.
We are only ourselves, until we die,
then we are an accumulation
of stories people hold about us,
each story a different person.
All into an accumulation
held as one --
a mystery and not the individual.
And how can we presume to know
each and one — the why?
No one can be contained within a word.
It does not give muscles their ripple
nor chest the power of air.
And then a sister's song,
a father's voice, a mother's music
are all there is.
No one can sustain the beatitudes
and grief
— there are too many of us
and there is no voice to speak the other side.
Everyone must carry away
something — grief or shirt.
I must carry away memory like a novice
in a water bucket yoke
dipping to the ground.
Achieving the porch with half the load,
deprived the voice of perfection
by our condition.
East Lansing
June, 1980
Greenfield Series
©1980 Striving After the Wind — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.