it was me
and my
long straw broom
a hot house room
and butterfly
because we met
because flowers bloom
one of us
can still fly~
The Right Time
All posts by fhaedra
What Surrounds Us Becomes
I am sitting on damp ground
in my ragged garden with light rain
There is something kinda peaceful
in gardens when spring’s all around
A robin—maybe the same I’ve seen—
lands graceful and soft for a drink
From down low my noticing is keen
look at the single blooming black violet
See how white sage has emerged again
yarrow’s leaves lift and fall like wings
Old chime in the juniper is rusting
but its song’s still subtle sweet
For all these gifts of life I am grateful
quieting voices of conflict and rage
I wish for everyone a space of garden
to be alone awhile with the solace of light rain~
Why Poets Write Sorrow
conversations sometimes
begin in the eyes
someone asking if it’s okay
to say something say anything
to a stranger maybe
who won’t turn away
this world can feel so lonesome
losers and winners collide
each one clearly identifies
believes what heads and shoulders say
about features they need to recognize
their own kind
See me in the mirror
I know who I am
See me at the bus stop waiting
a fellow passenger
one more hood-eyed ragged man
I met a father looking for his son
I met a woman who threw away
her chance she said
she knew she’d only have one
We are passers on these streets
fearful of who or what
we might meet
Poets roam the in between
hands in pockets heads in word stream
Listen for whispers
catch a fragment of your dreams
Neither above nor below
human frailties trail like streamers
in a perpetual human parade of floats
Seekers without answers
Wanderers without maps
Collectors of visions
Imagining meaning
Defying surrender as an option
Believers in Wonder
Connectors of Spirit
Temporary guides holding the hands
of fellow travellers
temporarily stalled on the side
of the freeway
Mumbling aloud our inadequate lines
scribbled on ragged pages
ritual practice over and again
Attempts to explain or to expel
our cumulative awkward nature
To shatter its power
To shift the boulder in the trail
To nudge the harbinger’s shadow
To strike the first note of the song
How to navigate the chasm—
the high wire between starlight
and the abyss~
Patterns
I climbed the wall
I wrote a song
There was no one~
Around We Ever Flow
oh news–
radio voices on and on
timbre swell
trained so well
in even speak
hold modulation
gas prices
human kills
traffic jams
airspace bravery
economy
moon phases
displacement faces
scandals winners losers
jokes and truths and lies
spring opens again
buds on the fig tree
big bombs away
new episode
breakthrough discovery
status quo
ebbs and flows
history herstory theirstory
our vocabulary
experience in retroview
future’s in the navel gaze
lost in an inchoate maze
peace a timorous
flicker
melancholy
distant whisper
awaiting invitation
to try~
It’s Not Over There
when others across the world
suffer the crush of violence
my focus wanes
my mindfulness splinters
my equilibrium screams
how long how long how long
and again why
every breath takes effort
all serenity rattled
if my attempts to hold to the present
unravel and I stagger—
summon the spirits of the dead
whisper their names
though I do not know them—
are my actions those of empathy
sorrow for innocence bludgeoned
or do I only seek a glimmer of survival
a walking cane to aid me
until I regain my footing
step over this knowledge
this decaying humanity
unvividify my imagination of scenes
too far away to witness
horror beats its chest claiming a new win
leaking its vile stench for all to inhale
I withhold my breath
one day one day one day
leaders worthy of the role may lead
« put down that weapon
or we’ll all be gone« *
over there over here they are we we they
I listen to the birdsong after
morning’s rain
from a distance thought I heard
a peace prayer rising
voices across the world refusing
to surrender
I leaned in
and chose again to believe~
*from Midnight Oil’s Put Down That Weapon’
In the Wind
lightness of being
this is your last breath
what is there to hold back
the attraction to falling
inhale
deep as you can dive
close your eyes tight
twenty seconds is enough
time
consider options
no distractions
go on go on
give in to lachrymose beckonings
succumb
it’s a dirty old village
perpetual tears and moaning thrive there
look over the edge
listen
symphony of the abyss exists
exhale
but don’t go
you don’t have to go
it’s only today you’re on hands and knees
from your belly
survival summons
between your core and the earth below
soft winds of possibility whisper
last night
did you see the seven planets
effulgent angels dancing
can you feel the touch
the kiss of this new morning
hope and promise in your sky~
Social Scene
‘nice to meet you‘
the greeter said with insincerity
long as a dog’s tongue
‘have a seat next to
someone you might
like to get to know tonight‘
the room was hard
the acoustics adust
the floor uneven
the walls opaque
we gathered in a fish tank
uneasy with present company
hungry for commitment
unwilling to remove our jackets
or seek each other’s eyes
the experience was twitching
the chairs magnificent
the seats were cold~
Seventeen Hearts Door
sign of our times
hunger remains
blood rivers
hope songs flow
through our veins
seeking remedy
a child’s play
colours an empty street
slow steps quiet day
human hearts beat
Love waits~
The Man in the Chair
He is there
on route 53
the man who sits
on his white plastic chair
He is dressed
in black
He has
a dusty black hat
the man who lives
in his white plastic chair
He is a watchman
He is a guard
He is a marker
He is a constant
He is an always
All seems right if he’s there
He is the man
who sees us
who marks each passing day
from his white plastic chair~