The Crane

The Crane

By: Pi Kielty (posthumously)

Found: June 14, 2015

Oh, Noble Crane, please heed and hither my fated all, that I wither not beneath your path, the admiring one that rings the call. Fretted, you fly so greatly high, this June's twilight, the graying clear sky: You pass too far above my grasp. I yearn to flight with you so fast.

My friend, the Crane, blue whip't a'winged, seeking nightly nest repose, I feel the quiet unheard rapt, a graceful pedaling, supposed, a song in windward tap. Too far high from my ears, I wish to hear you flap, along you flying through our precious years, too soon, too fast, again today, again you go a'gone.

I must, I cleave, the ground this day, but reaching ever upward, to your supple claw in talon, seeking to grasp my hand, that dreams may state their lonely say, me below on standing land. I surely ask the airy loam to lift me toward the sun you flee, setting now upon our westward. If unarmed, I'll let you soar, freeing loves untendered. Prayers we need to grap't our path, each one a willing wholesome half, as if we joined. . . intended.

Canyon

Canyon

By: Pi Kielty

Found: June 15, 2015

For: The woman who said,“Listen to what the world tries telling you.”

A gaping gap through the ground, a million years, with rippling sound. The river flows the bedded rung, ripped soil remains uphung—brown, orange, yellow, red and coal—on canyon walls, so tall and grand; I listen for the voice and stand. The world speaks some things this day, as I opened mindful ears, I stay. Changing depths this rivers way, I look down, as this selfish king doffs his crown. The land once level, where I stare at clay, the aging eating its forceful way. All things do change, as no-thing lasts, my overwhelmed, I eyed god's work of past. My own timed future feared not known, I'll die this faith for a new man born. I resemble much this beauty's source, the scarred sore, worked through countless scores, the remnant canyon through its course. It lost itself, once, perhaps, in worn self-scorn, felt ugly, unloved and unneeded, now majestic pure form. It crags so far, its un-envied wound, once deep, now its sharing, a loving grasped, I wish to me that growth could last. On I look to other layer rings, the life healing, my lesson that scarring brings. My minded thoughts of selfish things now a grateful aging, saging, the canyon voice sings. The hard rewards, of living changed, leaves admiration beyond the gods' graves. Take thyself, for what others see. A good beauty for scars not mourned, with happy truth this view, this early old canyon morn'.

Bereave Pory Pslam

Bereave Pory Psalm

From: Alphabet Psalms

By Pi Kielty (Posthumously)

For: No one

Found: June 11, 2015

Bereave, dear brave and young, few moments, tearing swells, when a'grieving others passing, under death's destined spell. Between those honors for elders gone, living takes a happier rhyme, as poetry's songs. Those spaces, stay wise, feel vibrant and alive, for enjoy them much, before you grow elders others survive. Lengthen the sun's rise, suspend that new born view, stretch a day, enjoined beauty's worth, for god gave joy, this joyful gift, this holy home earth. Prize not pride, stay shy lest forget, god loves laughter, for that he begets. He also gave all to all, this mortal moral claim, that we exist to serve others, a human domain. Aware, ye daughters and sons, act love to forgive lest the gift finished done. Any silent pain carried too far, becomes farewell too soon, joys never said, and saddened uncalled. When leaving your realm, this earth ship womb, others voice loveness, as earth still moves. Too quick to the finish, the gift does expire. Lessons relearned: god deigned peace on earth, his first-last desire. Er'fore take heart, do well, live whole. Act a joyful child's part, on stage live bold, live one for all, before death leaves us cold.  

Night's Lament

Sadnight's Pory Psalm

By Pi Kielty (posthumously)

Found: June 10, 2015

For: No one

“The hours for months. Days, please . . .please. . .decades for weeks,” it mourns. Time shorn-withered to ether-waste, brings loss, their lone, a-lorned despaired haste. All possible then, now parted, seeping hopes, that minute's moment's best. From genesis verbs, from one form comes the rest, un-a-gether, tho' still in hope's breast. Leaving seconds a strand, undone did pass the mark, a place meeting, none. One mind both whole. Heaps; one gathers morrow's sun. The other, does reap dark's gray dim hum. A'far noon, the hammer shadow sparks light, as outward warm, night's inner doubts, below plains, will swarm. Time not enough. The day did blind, yet night does age. “Aback,” harked the god's command, “Day ends.” he said, “For I call night not mine, nor blessed.” Bright pale, no gleam of stars this evening, nor the smile seen. Night . . .dreams of. . . creation. Day undaunted, flees to westward run. One for a day, or a lesser night, the union long undone. Sad night remains un-redeemed. . , unwanted. . ; always missing god's shining sun.