the owl high up
on the tree makes the sound – hoo.
i look up and say – it is i.
all of the sudden,
i hear a voice, and turn toward it.
quite surprised, i see the the face of jim.
he interrupts, “not so fast poet,
you must circle this tree
in dramatic steps to feel the tempo
to understand expression and its ecstasy
in the form of movements,
and try to emit articulate sounds
in the language of the spirits.
everything is done in a circle
to feel its power.
at times, alter your voice
from the soft spoken …
then get real loud.
poetry is like a rattle,
for sounds far outweigh
what comes through the eyes.
art is timeless …
it is to be a rhythm maker
intoxicated with feeling,
molded in the perspective of dionysus,
the god of wine and championed
by all out expression in frenzy and spontaneity,
while learning to stand outside oneself
to understand harmony and the creative element.
over there, you must look into the fire …
sense the intensity of its embers of flames
as he points with his finger.”
he closes his eyes
and starts to spin to whirl around the tree
numerous times in exhibition,
like that of a warrior.
a short time later,
he snaps up his head and shouts,
“the poem is a ritual …
it must seize the mind and be free of the world!!”
all of a sudden,
i hear the flapping wings
and i gaze upward to the owl
leave a momentary imprint in the moonlight.
though the owl flew away,
and the voice of jim disappeared –
his spirit remains.