I surrender,
no fight left,
the holding gone…
green shaking as the aspens dance,
trembling joy diminished into words,
semaphore of aeons fore and aft,
drowning in a tender gasp of gratitude.
Be loved
beloved;
grace carries all this breathing;
aspire, inspire, expire
as a way of making room
for universal air.
I’m happy to see
the rooms you’ve made beautiful,
pleased to watch you show your treasures,
glad to smile at your newfound wealth…
but will you let me peek over your shoulder
through doors just slightly ajar?
Can you hint at uncertain chaos, lurking?
or the promise of spring,
an open window unvisited?
May I walk beside you
to the edges of what you know?
Will you hold my hand to soften darkness,
and dance when there is music?
Start with what you have,
soft muscles that relax
to make space for air,
some movement in the body.
The memory of love.
A yearning pang of need
like a bell on a train,
music on a journey.
Watch how you listen to it ring;
do you leap, alarmed and urgent?
Or is there time to listen to it echo,
to hear it rattle and shake,
to breathe in unexpected resonance?
Is there any room to smile?
The scenes flit past,
and can you tell that you are travelling?
Are you free from the burden of destination?
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?