Relics

Relics
The mountains that in ages
past were level plateaus;
the shoreline that has
not kept its place;
the bones of extinction layered
like words in a holy book,
telling the story
of what once was;
the changing sky,
a glimpse of the universe
passing, rolled together
as a scroll.
Everything
everywhere
always
never
            the same,
yesterday’s relics,
like the boarded-up shops
in any small town.
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For dVerse OpenLinkNight. Claudia’s post had me thinking about culture, history, place, and this is what came out. 

Mountain Music

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words are beat, pressure, and substance. Somewhat fragmented, but headed the right direction, I think.

Mountain Music
The music, freed
from wood and string
by work-worn fingers,
followed the rising moon
up over the hills,
beat and melody
borrowed from ancient times.
I always loved the
slower tunes, sung
in mournful yearning
for lost love
or Christ’s return,
pure feeling unconstrained
by marketability,
the pressure to succeed
reaching no further than
the neighbor’s heart.
Even now, so many years
gone and the substance
of life irrevocably changed,
I go out to see
the rising moon,
remembering
calloused hands

and The Savior is a-callin’.