I climbed the wall
I wrote a song
There was no one~
Patterns
Category Archives: Poetry
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~
Worth
dread of days on earth
the mercy of shade
pause for the discarded~
Off Head
if asked, she—-
the woman without a head—-
might have responded
with intoned brevity:
« cacophony »
leaving her interrogator
either quite satisfied or
(more likely) edgy and wanting,
therefore a passing observer might
have employed quickened steps
might have averted a glance
indeed full face to hide
an inevitable smirk,
for some caught by fate
dead centre amid events
having nothing to do with them
do often enjoy the
exchanges between others,
especially if spiced with dynamics of peril.
All is conjecture though,
isn’t it, when an exchange
is no exchange at all,
when a question rises yet
remains unuttered except within
an inquisitor’s mind.
Potential answers flit and bang off walls
as bewildered synapses
there may be temporary destabilization
fear or disgust.
For one of courage though,
with curiosity or the patience to lean in,
there may be a flooding
observation—even an epiphany—light
enough to see, though just a sprite,
no longer a head
something else emerging
from unknown seed
something bold and green and lithe
reaching beyond the prison of skulls
having discarded the heavy robes
collected in the rotting carts of Time
answering to none but clarity,
the melody of eternal silence
a new formula for life~
Then A Bird
a bird then
not new
who hasn’t mused once
about the grace of flying?
to escape
to rise
to witness below from above
just to soar
unaffected
beyond the quotidian
to alight in a leafy tree awhile
ponder or chirp or peck
while a song of the heart rises
undaunted by threat
out of range of earthly chaos
I choose bird form for this drift
this brief suspension of human shape
temporarily exchanged
for expanse of wings
transportation dependable and stealth
for subtle feather layers
armour for a bruised heart
and soul bracing for turbulence
sights on an ebullient horizon~