Cave paintings tell the oldest tales.
Charcoal impressions of a Neolithic age.
Ancient stone stories echo authors past.
Symbolic of the writer’s rocky path.
Once pried from cold, hard stone
You ask yourself, were they there all along?*
*-*-*
First Words
by K. L. K. Salazar
What siren song do fissures sing?
Elusive, mutable—so close, yet out of reach.
Can anybody hear you? See you?
Or do you speak only to my soul?
Hidden deep, in crevasses unknown.
Only found in shadows, on lichen-crusted clefts.
Under a winter’s sky—cold and blown.
A resonance of stone.
Falling, hitting, frozen things.
Echo shots creation brings, broken and rebuilt.
Etched in deep, where all words hide.
Unexpected meaning lies, unrefined,
Inside. Pitched to black and deeper reaches
No one knows what they may find.
When broken from the rock, words flow.
Released like melting snow
Warmed by sun’s beat.
Through erosion, exposition unfolds.
While I am weathered
Glacially slow.
Imperfections reveal
Dreams fragmentary and unreal.
Part hope.
Part defeat.
Cemented with faults.
I am stratified
Awaiting metamorphosis.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*I wouldn’t ordinarily have a footnote to my poetry. But I’ve never had this happen before. I don’t know what to call that little slice of word jumble at the top. I tried leaving it out and that felt wrong. I tried putting it in…even wronger. Is it a foreword? A prelude? A prequel? I’m not sure what to call it. So, I’m not calling it anything. It just is. And I hope that is enough.
TheDustSeason 
Your word jumble makes more sense than the poem. 🙂
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.”
― Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through it and Other Stories
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I have been officially one-upped by Norman. I struggled with this piece and I decided, it was as good as I could make it at this time. Maybe in another lifetime the words will run clearer.
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I like your poem a lot. I don’t think you’ve been ‘one-upped’. I think you’ve tapped into something important and elemental and you should keep going. Norman McClean didn’t write any stories until his 70s.
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My writing writing is different from my poetic efforts, which are always much harder for me to finalize. Thank you for the encouragement.
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“Doubt not, O poet, but persist. Say ‘It is in me, and shall out.’ Stand there, balked and dumb, stuttering and stammering, hissed and hooted, stand and strive, until at last rage draw out of thee that dream-power which every night shows thee is thine own; a power transcending all limit and privacy, and by virtue of which a man is the conductor of the whole river of electricity.” Emerson, “The Poet” ❤
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My comment didn’t come out right. I deleted a few sentences and didn’t do the revision I meant to. I should have re-read it. OH well. Sometimes the problems with writing are the writer (me)… I think your “prelude” is beautiful and profound.
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A particularly nice piece of work K! I takes a lot of observation to write like that. Lovely.
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Also helps that I’m a bit of a rock hound. Thanks!
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I see nothing wronger about it. 🙂
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Dear Musclehead, that is what I like about you. Your lack of wrongness perception. Thank you.
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😀 Hahahaha– it’s funny how often that’s been said. 😀
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