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~
Seventeen Hearts Door
Tag Archives: writing
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~
Purveyor of Sad Songs
Jorma Kaukonen is 85
he’s picking acoustic with a friend
a Dylan song
I sing along
and it’s a brief beautiful thing
something good on the monotonous scroll
something melancholy too
I find inspiration in melancholy chill
the blue light shines next to Buddha
I plugged it in for mystery glow
my old guitar’s dusty from waiting
but tonight I find the strum
It was Jorma in the video
old man picking
never looking up from his hands
they know their way
I got the D Em G A sad song melody
skip syllable lyrics
something about a river
and morning light
tuned to the key of cliché
I like the sound of water’s flow
my unused voice quiet searching
there’s meaning in the role
of the witness I suppose
Even if I never finish it
the ten minutes of slow strumming
repetition shimmers in my bones
my fingers know the way when I forget
lose the path
they climb they fumble slip they go
Maybe it’s these loose moments
brief suspensions of expectation
redefined imperfection
embracing that
buzz clang chaotic shout
quandom review
reverie fossil
death misery and shame
sustains us through this
travelling spinning flummery
this stumble dance we do
stop time without falling
improvised rhyme
carry on to see where it leads
tomorrow if I’m lucky
if the clouds don’t obscure the moon
and hummingbirds return to shelter
unafraid
I’ll remember how this fledgling
flicker of something whole
made me feel
hold it awhile in sway
one more dance around the sun~
Slowly with Pure Intentions
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~
And So
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~
To Want For
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~
Banks
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~