Only Handle it Once
Soft rays of light, so low, at odds with dust.
A tomb, a shrine, it’s here they rest sublime.
Without it’s cool, in here cool too – combust.
So still I’m hushed, the room, me thinks is me.
Old oak, old nails, your sails are gone alas.
But precious shoes, the earth you walked, it waits.
Some gold, a pot, no grandeur to surpass.
Now eons ashore, dry, how you must hate.
The temple sleeps three, Oseberg so frail.
My soul, though stirred by muscle, seafoam, pain:
Who Gokstad, tough skin and panges did sail?
The Tune timbers’ ancient tale refrain.
Not quite perfect? A plan is set. Please halt!
This shrine lies right. Want New – mindless gestalt.
What if something is just right? In our development-centric world “just right” seemingly cannot be accepted by the powers that be.
I was moved by my visit to the Viking Ship Museum in September; I knew I had to write a poem. This is my first serious attempt a sonnet-styled poem.
Especially surprising to me was the intimate scale of the museum. The building seemed to just about perfectly compliment the ships. The spartan architecture dignified the burial artifacts and promoted contemplation. Shortly after my visit I learned that plans were afoot to create a new museum. I am unconvinced that it needs improvement.
Photo notes: Feature image filtered in “Chrome” all other photos filtered in “Noir.”