Ichealious Borge

In light of my dearth of creativity today, I found a poem I wrote last year. Its title is, 'Ichealious (ick-eel-ee-us) Borge.

Ichealious Borge, sitting upon his outside porch, grew bored one summer day
so he said to his wife, sitting by his side, 'I do wish this sun would go away.'
And in return she looked at him, her face anything but grim
and sent him on his way.

Up from the porch stood Ichealious Borge, stretching his long, lean bones,
he was going to grab the sun from the sky, and put it back to where it had come
and then once more he and his wife, and his children, too
could relax in the summertime sky of blue.

He took an axe with him, to chop down some trees for wood,
and left on nothing else food-wise, than what his spinal cord withstood --
and many a mile he hiked, the slender old man,
until he came to a dense forest, a new tree growing at the breadth of a baby’s hand.

With his chopping tool, dull from many time’s past use,
he cut down tree upon tree --
and he never bothered to yell “Timber!” upon their falling, mind you.

And Ichealious Borge hacked and he thwacked his old axe about,
forgetting entirely, food or sleep to aid his bout --
but a month passed before he realized
that he had a much greater bounty of lumber than what was worth twice his trouble.

In the heart of the green forest the man did lay,
his stack of wood, now neatly chopped,
piling itself up to where Heaven did drop.

And the next morning Ichealious awoke, only to find, to his absolute horror,
a great oak taking a smoke, a pipe wedged into its widely grinning lips.

It opened its eyes, and found Mr. Borge, his mouth rather open, limply,
and asked the man kindly if he could turn himself about, for the tree was not people-friendly.

That day Ichealious wove some twine
from the roots of plants and things upon the vine --
for to bind together much of his wood,
and then attach it together: make a ladder, it would.

He would work without tire, and the sun would refuse to expire --
but sometimes while Ichealious Borge did labor, the trees would gather about him,
much to his unbeknownst,
and would watch, taking mental notes.

Alas! the ladder was complete -- only half a month of binding, it did replete;
to no being in particular he mumbled words of thanks, forced the ladder upright,
casting deep shadow over the nearby mountains, and stone cliffs, and river banks.

To his dreary, his greatest demise, the ladder did not touch the sun, in his eyes --
it passed over a few clouds, scraping the sky slightly,
and as Ichealious looked upon his month-and-a-half’s work,
he was certainly not proud.

After dismantling the behemoth, the smoking tree approached him,
holding out a handkerchief for his weeping to loan him.
And the tree said, “We’ll help you, never fear.”
“How so?” cried the old man. The tree beckoned him near.

And as Ichealious Borge was led away from his small camp,
the great oak burst out in some horrid song,
music to the trees,
but to humans -- torture, prolonged.

In a little grove the smoking tree had led him,
and the old man looked up, with shocked contentment:
for playing before his tired eyes, the entirety of the forest was climbing upon itself,
a makeshift ladder that would reach to All Else.

After some time, waiting, in the deepest amusement,
Ichealious was called to climb upon the trees, but to be careful in his movements.
The forest had its feelings, too,
disrupt them over-terribly, and surely one would be slew.

Now Ichealious Borge was a clumsy man in all,
and found that ladder of trees intimidatingly tall --
but his efforts persisted, nonetheless,
with the same determination as he had given the rest.

Some trees, upon his passing, gave him cries of happy greeting,
while others yelled, 'Watch it, man, can you not see that I am eating?'
Some tries writhed after the quick touching of their ticklish spot,
and from these Ichealious Borge hoped he would not fall off.

When, at length, he came to the top, many trees were deeply asleep,
while others wanted only for the climbing to stop;
and Ichealious looked at the sun to his left, taking out a large canvas bag --
he swiped the orb of light into it and -- Ha! -- the sun was had!

Though now the sky was bleak and gray, the air no longer heavy,
the atmosphere about him, cold and not making him sweaty,
when Ichealious Borge reached the base of the ladder of the trees,
he found that summer had passed into autumn had passed into wintry freeze.

Ichealious Borge promised no longer to reach for things out of his grasp.