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axis mundi_1

A muse, a maze, there is a mystery
of complicated steps dancing us around
a pole we called the jubilation tree
until we bored our senses to the ground.

Garlands of happiness cannot be found
when blame and fear o’ertake me
at the roots, entangled by what sounds
a muse, a maze, there is a mystery.

If I could be amazed and let the fury
fall to stillness, be amused, unbound
by webs of politics, I’d re-examine history
of complicated steps dancing us around.

Niccoló knew it’s easy to astound
a stunnéd prince who shuns simplicity,
while Henry drew from Walden’s ground
a pole we called the jubilation tree.

The wondrous mind embraces symmetry;
resentment blinds and clubs us down
to sizes never meant to be. This we could see
until we bored our senses to the ground.

I am now freedom bound,
unique, an axis mundi, mystery
of stillpoint rising, a revolving mound
of song and laughter, poetry,
a muse, a maze.

~~~

Author’s Note: Long before there were dust busters, leaf blowers, and other noisy banishers of the unwanted, we had fixed form poetry. Energy-efficient and quiet, fixed verse like the rondeau had—still has—the effect of rousing desiccated thought systems and blowing them the heck out, if we choose. We are what we think. We are also what we allow ourselves to believe. As kids, we didn’t have much choice over what we took in, and much of what we defend as adults, especially when it’s noisy, knee-jerk, and name-calling in nature, sources from those creepy old dust bunnies. Niccoló refers to Machiavelli, a highly misunderstood soul, while Henry’s identity, I’m sure, is self-evident.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image of Yggdrasil, the World Ash, from Wikipedia