beneath snow packs
somewhere water
purifies all
already past
a few drops
a trickling
new routes
in terra weave
listen
your tranquil heart
life’s rhythmic drum
beats eternal
glimpse
rainbow reflections
disguised as you
within a glass orb
balanced on bare limbs
fragile as breath
stellar’s jay laughter
breaches the quiet
of forest’s winter sky
unseen
like promises
you swear
to the mountain
to keep~
for now nothing but the rain
in the aftermath of solstice
subtle rivers flow on
slipping into depths unseen
stars hover in the cosmos
guardians or voyeurs
too distant to discern
moon lingers into dawn
quiet light
reflects in your eyes
what thoughts have you today
what troubles what joys
what promises do you make
to no one in case you don’t
follow through
praise the winter moth
there amid a strand of old man’s beard
and cedar bark from the forest floor
hope fluttering in its wings~
this week a man at Costco commented
as I ripped a U-turn with my big cart
to avoid collision with him and another
you know how to drive, he said
I take my time in cavernous big shop spaces
but I’m focused on getting out too
what I need vs what wants to come along
this is the dilemma
one of many
in the land of plenty
a place I am grateful to inhabit
but wary of its wiles and beckonings too
the pull of acquisition stirs
good price oh nice might need so pretty—
this day I didn’t succumb
my U-turn was not to circle back
return some object I didn’t come to buy
to a shelf in an aisle stacked strategically
with merch for the uncontrolled
half a life, maybe more, to comprehend
the deft nature of marketing allure
to acquire discipline
the value of resistance to getting more
than I came for
I don’t mean to mislead
to feign immunity to gathering stuff
I’m a junk store treasure forager
a button and stone collector
a loose string puller
a fallen feather rescuer
an adopter of artworks by unknowns
a reacher for electronics and shiny odds
I regularly check those cardboard boxes left
on boulevards with invitations that read
FREE propped against them
the hints of who is this wanderer
how I see, think, have been
have come to be
what amazes, comforts, pleases
all around exist these extensions of me
After my wake, there can be an auction
pieces of my collected assemblage
redistributed
arranged according to others’ penchants
proceeds to benefit the curious future~
she goes to the river
most mornings to watch and listen
to pray
she likes the soft ripple of waves
their song barely audible above
whispering leaves and rhythmic steps
of wanderers on the nearby gravel path
she brings bouquets from her garden
tied with wispy ribbons
or string bits she finds in the street
trees are gods she thinks
deserving of these quiet gifts
they take in talk and laughter
hear confessions
absorb human moanings and sighings
rearrange and purify
transform and lighten them
absolve
she knows
she brought her own
stowed them deep in a hollow
she owes her freedom to a tree
to the river flowing past
winding its way into the bay and out to sea
she goes to pay homage
drops her petals of gratitude
encircling the tree with blossoms
she is a pilgrim
she goes to the river most mornings
her river her tree her temple
and though she cannot yet swim
is still afraid of climbing
she will and she can~
the look of red leaves on dampened earth
the way the little maple endures
gaunt trunk bent in deference to wilder
one season to next never thicker yet grand
its full red glory reflecting August’s fair light
leaning away from the giants encroaching
to catch a sliver of sun
its shimmer inviting juncos to alight for rest
while waiting their turn in the bath below
the shade of her wide mid summer canopy
the subtlety of her muted autumn shedding
scarlet leaves loosed one x one on windless
days to spin sway turn in improvised solos
each one an exalted prima in high spotlight
while a mere human in slack jaw wonder
slow breathes as single witness
awaiting anticipating
the last leaf’s graceful landing
a funeral hymn’s replay expected
mourned like the loss we always thought
we’d never meet again~
rainclouds darkened the sky the morning of our departure, marking the end of so many days passed in spring sunlight
everything eventually fades
the day before, we’d ridden bicycles for four and a half hours, exploring the ribbon of trails through a corridor of green along the Avon
sunlight and tranquility
after the quakes whole neighbourhoods crumbled and remaining landscapes fell into zones deemed off limits for human inhabitation, allowing only nature to reclaim and resettle
all stories are impermanent
the river still winds and flows, pūkeko and black swans complementing its rippling grace, sedge and flax flourishing along its banks
birds don’t mind an absence of humans’ homes or driveways leading nowhere, their songs rise amid remains of once well loved gardens and wild seed growth between new stabilizer trees
denouement and emergence
we ride and ride and ride, read signs naming emptied cul de sacs, conjuring scenes of houses and fences and children—sounds of lives that once were
a melancholy, sobering parade
renewal flourishes and we mingle with the fabule establishment, voyeurs floating on wheels among muted ghosts still searching for taonga that might somehow have escaped the great rearrangement of order
an embrace of hope, memory, and resilience~
concept
am I or am I not
an echo of consequence
accumulation of matters
existence
there’s that photo
child in a jar
eyes arms knees
bridges
when suspended
breath words steps rhyth
um mantra rescue drum
listen
city street sculpture curves
midday highlights
numbers out of sequence
Time
remember
how basic were firsts
awkward digits shift into
music
forgotten
intruded upon
a silvereye landing
in the grass
at my feet~
vibrations
impactful
permanent markers
your words
your imprint
your legacy~
have you
ever wished
you had
your own
Little Chair
safe inside
an impenetrable
glass dome
shiny clear
could it
become your
comfort place
would it
be like
another home
a chair
a dome
you alone
who might
approach your
Steel Stairs
step light
hoping for
interaction while
you sit
naming all
the stars~
This might be the cover of my next book.
It might not take so long as the others have to write as I think I might leave the pages of this one clear of any ramblings, rhymes, and stumbles.
Can the subtle sound of blank pages turning by one’s own hand lead to anywhere worthy?
If I were to leave a copy of Grace on a park bench, would a passerby take it and carry it along and then later in their room slowly turn its blank pages and be stirred somehow?
Then close it again and put it away.~