Month: August 2012

Help me track my life

like a paintbrush

sliding on the day,

daubed with unexpected colours

that leave traces

where I am moved,

the supple tip of my wet bristles

delicate in connection.

Not the mover,

not with some grand design in mind’s eye,

held by an unseen hand,

sometimes with precision

or gripped in a stronger passion,

knowing I can be flung aside,

but still and hard along my length,

flexible where I meet the day,

trailing a messy beauty.

Awake through the storm,

I saw dark clouds

and listened to wet disturbance,

watched as gossamer billows dumped water on the hills,

felt cold that looked like snow.

I witnessed the sad burden of the grey,

the struggle of no visible dawn.

Startled by the hole,

the southern break,

a flash of sun and blue,

I watched the emptied white,

the fluffy scrub that wiped towards the north.

Cupped in two dark hands,

the vista is caressed,

bright radiance contained

in stormy contours.

More like a garden

than a flower

… the withering and blossoming at once,

red fruit still green underneath,

deep purple falling off the branch

or pecked by those who need it.

The fertilizer smells,

supports the hidden bulbs,

feeds the brilliant lilies worshipping the sky.

Weeds choke the upward thrust,

or maybe they’re exuberant survivors,

tenacious and grateful travellers

expanding their zone of safety.

No linear time,

decay is here;

brown dry stalks

whisper to fresh green,

pods burst with full abundance,

seeds fall and feed and grow

or die to nourish soil.

There are no useless flowers,

each petal changing shape,

a supple moist reflection of pure light,

creating a symphony of colour.

She plays at being a poet,

the garret not too tall,

while the mermaids and princesses

and cowboys and mimes,

the bakers and seducers,

dance and yell and play close by.

True nature is a ball of light,

a river of love,

a diverse sameness flowing through it all.

Under the masks,

the light peeps through,

the poet rests in her observations.

Come and play,

whispers the princess,

motions the mime.

Play, and come, grins the seducer,

the cowboy.

Swim with us, gurgles the mermaid.

Taste it, the baker offers.

Even as the garret melts,

she lingers at the edge,

amazed by her own reluctance

to join the game,

her fear of jumbled costumes freely given.

Is she waiting for the next invitation?

When the children all gather with outstretched hands?

Children don’t play like that.

There is freedom in the circle,

a loose binding,

a jumping wildness,

no leader in shared rhythms.

Light refracted,

bent light moving through each prism,

or bouncing off the leaves

or mermaid scales

or cowboy hat

… colour blossoms through the bending.

Play with masks and costumes,

clutter up the games,

notice where you’ve lingered at the edges;

welcome you into belonging.

This silk scarf

is for sharing;

you can play with it on the lawn

or dance while it supports the fluttering.

You can watch your women friends

bring out their own intricate and bold beauty,

show your men friends the sleek colours

that can soften the room.

You can wrap your head or shoulders

so that each bow, touching earth with forehead,

is not just a descent

but has the airy slither of decadent honouring.

You can drape it as the last cover

to be drawn back

in the hot tension of the bedroom,

its cool protections sliding to the floor.

Bright days and dark,

you can spread it on the dirt,

the artistry of paint or pen or leaves

can change its tale,

a daily re-imagining.

He howled like a dog,

filling the space with sound

to greet the day,

and was startled

when our neighbour howled back.

He flushed,

and grinned

and begged me to howl

and I encouraged him

and yipped a little

but could not find the sound

for bellowing my presence on the land.

A tenderness of leash,

of perceptual unfreedom,

a skittering of ego

on the river ice in spring,

a moose afraid to drown.

Lessons in captivity,

these awkward losses

poignant in their pregnancy.

 

Poor Noah,

the neighbours wondering why his mind had crashed,

that boatbuilding in the desert

– all that learning,

and cajoling his family to belief

(or just scaring them into it with wicked tantrums).

What does a sand dweller know about boats?

Did he really think there would be a flood?

Or did he rise from his bed

too early and often,

compelled to work on this project

from a place of surrendered and purposeless drive?

Was he relaxed in his response to the muse?

A happy trust? Detached from outcomes?

Or did he move in desperate caring

with a terrible vision making constant noise?

Was he surprised by what took shape?

There is a fierce altar

not far away

or hard to find

but frightening in its simple design,

its stark demands.

That which you hold dear.

The deep mutton of your beliefs,

drag these live and kicking beasts

or old carcasses,

feel the weight of resistance in your body,

your tears that fall or refuse to,

the secret dreams you would die without

– feel the texture of each offering,

the softness of the silks you have spun,

the jagged rocks of pain,

the breathing, tender, live beings in your care.

Loves and compulsions,

fears and steady joys;

empty your pockets

then take off your pants

– the altar has room

for a naked you.

I have a maiden aunt inside,

her world wrapped up in me,

the niece with great potential.

She barges into lines, unafraid

to push ahead for my security,

has snide remarks for all the other girls

and makes sure I go first.

Her vicarious love

has pushed me onto stages

and curled my hair and whispered words

that sound a lot like praise,

encouraging my extra effort;

has dragged me by the hand

off my couch

to see the world and be something.

Without her bustling confidence in me

I might never have moved,

lost in the rhapsodies of childhood.

And now, thank god, she is weak

… she needs my gentle thanks,

my listening to her grief,

my caring hand to tuck her into bed

and watch her die.