by Tamara Temple
She stands, slowly and with pain,
To check if it is still raining.
Can’t let the House go too long
Or It will never be done.
The shoes, pocked with cement and dirt
From churning through iron clay and rock,
In order to erect upon this steep wash
A place, fit for her needs like socket and bolt
It rises, not too high from the front
To a tower in the back.
A steep rise basking in the summer sunlight,
The autumn sunsets, winter’s night.
From this steep mont, a castle is bourne
Upon its shoulders, much the way
The bag of cement to fill a tiny portion
Of the castle’s wall, a rock, some grout.
The gleaming roof arches over,
As her back cries in agony with every step.
To build is to hurt, in desparation
To complete, damaging her cathedral.
Damaged already, broken in a fall.
Yet unbent, unbending, striving upward,
Just as the House strives upward
Out of the root of the hard earth.
Strapping on her shoes, cemented,
She rises once more to find the rain subsided.
Another form, another pour, to end this day
A useful day, one more under the belt.
Closer now than ever before,
Once can see the building growing,
As her strength is used,
But continues to grow.
When is rest to come,
Nightfall finds her working still.
To bind the cement walls of stone
To the form of the castle.
And still, at end, to have more thoughts
Than can be consumed by other mortals
In a lifetime of mediocrity,
There lie her plans, models, and tools.
For it is in building
That she builds
More than a castle,
More than a home
More than a House, even more and more.
She builds to stay alive, to gain a life.
She builds in her mind, things which
Will bring life and sustainance
To a dying land, a parched land,
A land of smoke and fire,
Fume and stench,
Both in the minds and lands nearby.
Yet she stands, slowly, with pain
And takes the steps to see if the rain
Has stopped yet, to go again and
Shuffle, stumble, walk in her way
To the top of the battlements,
Securing them from the attack of Time.
Knowing that her work is done
Only when the castle stands.
Oh ye of little imagination and ken!
Know that here is thy better! Thy matre!
Do not spurn her any more,
She yearns for embrace.
Yet solitude is how she builds,
Both on the mount
And in her mind.
None are her equal.
She Stands
by Tamara Temple
She stands, slowly and with pain,
To check if it is still raining.
Can’t let the House go too long
Or It will never be done.
The shoes, pocked with cement and dirt
From churning through iron clay and rock,
In order to erect upon this steep wash
A place, fit for her needs like socket and bolt
It rises, not too high from the front
To a tower in the back.
A steep rise basking in the summer sunlight,
The autumn sunsets, winter’s night.
From this steep mont, a castle is bourne
Upon its shoulders, much the way
The bag of cement to fill a tiny portion
Of the castle’s wall, a rock, some grout.
The gleaming roof arches over,
As her back cries in agony with every step.
To build is to hurt, in desparation
To complete, damaging her cathedral.
Damaged already, broken in a fall.
Yet unbent, unbending, striving upward,
Just as the House strives upward
Out of the root of the hard earth.
Strapping on her shoes, cemented,
She rises once more to find the rain subsided.
Another form, another pour, to end this day
A useful day, one more under the belt.
Closer now than ever before,
Once can see the building growing,
As her strength is used,
But continues to grow.
When is rest to come,
Nightfall finds her working still.
To bind the cement walls of stone
To the form of the castle.
And still, at end, to have more thoughts
Than can be consumed by other mortals
In a lifetime of mediocrity,
There lie her plans, models, and tools.
For it is in building
That she builds
More than a castle,
More than a home
More than a House, even more and more.
She builds to stay alive, to gain a life.
She builds in her mind, things which
Will bring life and sustainance
To a dying land, a parched land,
A land of smoke and fire,
Fume and stench,
Both in the minds and lands nearby.
Yet she stands, slowly, with pain
And takes the steps to see if the rain
Has stopped yet, to go again and
Shuffle, stumble, walk in her way
To the top of the battlements,
Securing them from the attack of Time.
Knowing that her work is done
Only when the castle stands.
Oh ye of little imagination and ken!
Know that here is thy better! Thy matre!
Do not spurn her any more,
She yearns for embrace.
Yet solitude is how she builds,
Both on the mount
And in her mind.
None are her equal.