Welcome to Little Raven’s Place
I came first in misty rain
fine and straight, to a new place
across the river, across the tracks
where trains slow down for the big bend
where the
Platte zigs,
where the Arapahoe
camped.
They’re building bridges here
with long strands
of
metaphorical wire, steel words,
small acres of paint to daub the lives
of some
of us in solemn shrines, shattered
china reassembled as Buddhas’ begging bowls,
canvas snarled and scratched to submission
the doorway to somewhere always
open,
and just outside, a shelter so incomplete
it covers worlds.
Here on the fringe of this other Denver
what village arises
amid
steel and glass
where the trains pass
slowly, close enough to touch
smell taste
hear feel in the bones?
The screech of metal
on metal pierces the fragrant air:
something’s
cooking.
Here an earnest band of artists dwell
in newly sacred space
sanctified
by Indian campfires, hobo memories,
government grants and honest labor.
Bridges
to futures incomplete.
Find here plates painted
with invitations to dine on words,
pictures
with stories to tell.
Find wooden and metal dreamscapes
hidden in vibrant closets
to
recall more metabolic entities
embodied in their own worlds of words.
Find the door between you and me
between worlds
where we are
what
we want
what might be.
Find the tree of life a seedling
emerged from struggles
to
survive, to live in the layers
within color and light.
Find the house of forever
taking shape, always becoming.
No future, no past,
the bridge circles
from now to here
and
back home again.
~ Roger Thomas Wehling, 2010





