The Maker’s Poem

By Barbara Steinhauser

Shaded in illusion
transformed by imagery
I dance a Pattern rising from
Times Ancient
where feet and memory
Tribe and Ritual flowed
in the moment
Real but not real.
Where access to pathways
directed motion and
Music dominated
the pull of black holes with
Uncertainty and Grace
escaping to Inner space
and meditation.
A place of recovery
ancient as turning a key.
Good it is to twist and turn
toward wave, wave, waves
opposing annihilation.
Computers cannot perceive more
than is contained within
But blood plagiarized
fends off negativity
sets Souls on The Path
where literature flows like
running water from Source
Moments rise from rubble
Survival floats on roaring rivers.
Poetry is contained
within the margins
of misunderstanding
twisted words transform
Baroque Time
Work you do matters
Not the words
Not the meaning
but the Cosmos
at Journey's End

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