Cold Lake Kinneret
by j. bryan shoup
I make music! Fishermen may strain to hear my footfall by the water,
but never on - not yet, not with such a yoke as this that makes me
such proper sport for the men & women of the Underground Railroad, as I
hold onto shackles & burdens long after manumission has come my way.
What can I say? I make music with janglin', jarrin' chains. But the
music that always remains in the back of my mind as I steal the pods
from swinetroughs is much less harsh (oh, it's so kind) and I find that
when the moonlight draws me to the lakeside prison window (calling me
out from between crusty, dusty sheets), there are no chains around my feet.
I dream so often of good friends sporting raven-wings as they say
nice things and pull back the jailbars that maybe the dreams are real and
the chains are the Dreamland. So when I wake I take a walk by the lake to
clear my head in the hopes that instead of walking between worlds I will
settle on stable ground. I found a certain fellow's signature in the sand,
with a piece of driftwood (I swear it once belonged to a boat) alongside.
I found a pack of cigarettes that were soaking wet - discarded as bait for
bigger fish? I wait for an answer, but it's standing right in front of me.
We all love a good mystery, but I think it's time to cling to the power &
the might that walked upon the sea. I believe, Lord - help my disbelief. So
I dip my toes in a cold lake called Kinneret and dream of the first time my
eyes met the bright but weary gaze of the Ancient of Days.