Stones

not about the Rolling Stones

We were the ones that the builders
refused,

 

 

rebel stones rolling with a vibrant,
vicious tenacity.

 

 

stark grey on green hills edging out
to the quarry,

 

 

drunken stones, stoned stones, refused
and overgrown

 

 

We did not quarrel with the quarry,
for each

 

 

was beyond reason, the quarrel and the
quarry.

 

 

We became beach stones and river
stones,

 

 

thrown through the world, skipped by
children

 

 

across the ocean. We were no longer
refused,

 

 

for there were many masons and many more
stones.

 

 

Homes were thus built of us, cities and
thrones,

 

 

we bellowed as whistles across Mayan
villages

 

 

while we hurricane warned, we stones of
science,

 

 

the stones of salvation, foundations of
civilization.

 

 

Rebellion is coming again, Stonehenge
is leaving

 

 

the geometrical alignment in a summer
solstice

 

 

in a rebellion of youth and voracity,
no longer

 

 

grandfathers to be pined over. The
Aztec stones

 

 

are marching through Mexico and on to
California

 

 

where the stones who rolled wait
willingly to

 

 

adopt their insubordinate brothers,
building stone

 

 

co-ops upon the mountains that tower
the beaches;

 

 

the home of the stones. I walk among
them,

 

 

growing granite legs and rolling along,
through

 

 

the mountains to the beach, past stone
children

 

 

and families, to place myself at the
head corner

 

 

of the rebels, the wanderers and the
stones.