If snails could speak
imagine the ponderous space
between utterings
slow soundings of kindness
freed from syllables
their headpieces
tasting wind
so near the earth
following no path,
leaving shiny trails
unnoticed
in their own view
carrying home
as a natural weight
bellies
propelled by ground
their words
in shapes
of silence.
There were four triangles
resting under ice
in my freezer
left there at Christmas
when my sister,
who made them by hand,
went home.
I was prostrate
to listen
that day in the sun
before the grief welled up
and although meditation
sounds like sitting still
my body’s wisdom
turned on the oven
waited for heat
let those four delicacies
warm my kitchen
then my belly.
So when the question arose
that prompted my sobs
knees on the ground
the sweet taste of salt
was already in my mouth
the tears added savour
to unravelled caring
all this love
pointless and deep
lonely
and connected.
Not quite crazy
I let myself be touched
by the freefalling void
the utter senselessness
of being alive
or dead
meaning
is just a convention,
syllables sounding
in a muscle
under a scalp
and somehow shared
occasionally
in almost-empty rooms.
Speaking of illusion
seems cruel
so we mask ourselves
in kind intention
and envy the freedom
of the naked.
Despite my yearning
for beauty in any form
what touches me
keeps peeling form away
roughly
gently
with each awkward
breath.
Those beautiful women
singing
each with her frailty
lighting her face
yearning and delight
in nimble fingers
strumming and plucking
a sweet kindness
of pine trees
more real than hothouse rose;
weaving an invitation,
gently commanding our yes.
Help me to be horny
for joy
spreading through this wave
of muscles and sensations
not just my own
but all of us
feeding our appetites
for kindness
cleaning the air
with our choices
stopping the bombfall
because there are better games,
more heartfelt
ways to laugh
sharing food
because people we love
are hungry.
Let me learn
how to love
fall consumed
by shine
on a leaf
hear the snap crackle pop
in your voice
even as I savour
my oatmeal
be licked
by stray dogs,
bring them home
without leashes
a pied piper
with a crippled heart
and dancing refugees
honouring sweet goodness
in all its forms.
Mid-life can be like
waking groggy
from an afternoon nap
with some regret
for the angle of the sun,
how the golden evening
is here
and there is still time
to play
but the day
is receding quickly.
Some go reeling
when they hear
the herald call
of dark,
frantic to stave off
inevitable shadows.
Some feel the late sunshine
pierce their hearts
and remake their agendas.
Me, I am so grateful
for my regrets,
how they teach me
depth of caring,
how the evening sun
puts haloes
on all that is here.
The wag end of a dog,
flick of a tail
pointing to instinct
and pleasure
expressed by the planet
through years of evolution
in one brief wave
so much of what I do
the same involuntary movement
except the planet can see it
when I do
having evolved these inner eyes
I choose to open
volition more ancient than me
wagging my tail.
Pick me up
by the scruff,
shake me
on this journey
letting me feel
the loose camouflage
of this skin,
the jumbled bones
within
the helpless hanging,
alert and shining eyes
willing to be carried
to safety,
set down
in new alignment.
So much of what felt true
has tumbled,
I would be adrift
but for this warm bite
near my wobbling spine,
surrender to a voyage
with paws resting briefly in air.
All those telescopes in tune,
filling a field,
expectant listening,
receiving and distilling,
attentive and moving by fractions,
planted and supple
and not just yin,
but also thrust,
the vivid squint skywards
beyond what is known,
the questing thirst
to find new edges
from which to stretch
the field collective,
harnessing the brightest on offer,
pooling vigilance and spark,
patience and push,
mirrors sharing perspectives,
eternal changing views.