Category: Poems

If you turn off the lights,

present in darkness,

there is a time before morning

when the cold fingers of moonlight

have released their trailing grasp

and the sky tingles with uncertainty.

A time when sky suffers

in bruised patches of grey,

discernible areas of isolated transitions.

Faint lines of bright

scratch pale in the east,

the promise of day like deep blue welts

on a passive skin that cannot move.

And yet…

the watching brings movement,

the slow suffusing broadening of blue,

awakening and orientation.

Passive sky is warmed by rising azure spread,

grey bruises healed in the passage of time

as watching builds anticipation.

Alert, the sky attentive to its toes,

the heat like icicles melting on the eastern edge,

watching for the piercings of dawn.

This waiting in questions,

this not-knowing,

a wallowing in distrust….

slowly consumed by the movement of light arising.

And the gift of this tree

outside the nurturing window

brings me to the now

in a way that touches on

both yesterday and tomorrow

its lush dancing at the end of summer

deep green with just a hint of dry,

the wind blowing a frenzy of joy

and its thusness

includes the yellow orange celebration to come

the riot of extinguishing bright light

the slow spinning into freefall

a gradual stripping away,

the purification of a branch

and blanketing of earth with brown possibility

the stark lovely grasping

brave against the dark

until soft snow

and bitter ice do their work to armour it

a brittle layer of lonely isolation

that will melt again

to juice up with tenderness

the vulnerable buds

and the soft shedding of their protective tips

will create a new unfurling

for another wave of dancing.

Grumbling toward enlightenment,

there is movement in this whine;

it is not as loud as yesterday,

not screeching down my spine.

I’m making room for silence,

for the buzzing flies to still

but they make insistent music

on my nearby windowsill.

They are trapped and hot and bothered

and they want the nerve to fly,

but although the door is open

they can’t seem to find the sky.

Swatting doesn’t kill them,

it just makes them mad as hell;

feeding them just seems to be

a useless plan as well.

But sometimes they are quiet

as I breathe and don’t complain,

and their iridescent wings provide

monotonous refrain.

Grumbling toward enlightenment,

there is solace in this pain,

there is quiet from the might-have-been,

and moisture in the rain.

This radiant glow,

active serenity pouring from her pores,

stimulating bright responses

from the yearning room

… this lined reflection,

furrowed brow working too hard

to distil understanding

from a wearying world

…this slack-jawed snore,

a pattern of pillows

etched in puffy putty,

escaping through decadent repose

…this dance from lip to eye,

a widening smile of wonder

as she watches tousled heads,

extending her face into wide open arms?

These sorrowing eyes, spilling salt

on ravaged skin,

over lips that clench to hold back words

incoherent,

the pain that stabs the belly and the heart

but merely trickles down the face

of her who finds true stories

rising and falling

and rising again.

This asymmetrical life

reflects the mountain range in view

– crags and hollows,

rough cohesion bespeaking form,

a slow tenderizing where chunks erode

or crash unexpectedly.

No perfect cones,

unmanicured,

a profile wrought by nature’s hand

without imposed adherence to measurement

– vitality and presence,

a mountain from some perspectives,

a belly roll from Gaia supine.

And at the base, no mountain

– a land of river or hill,

or field with uncertain tendency to lift,

tilting.

The search for balance

requires new embracing,

beauty without symmetry,

deep resting in chaotic flow.

In this kind of strength

there is such wobbling,

such surrender to the shaking fire,

wet wood damp around small sparks.

These shambala warriors

in soft robes,

no clanking armour…

deep familiarity with fear,

a humbled kinship

with those who feel its nauseous bite.

Compassion as a slithering shield,

unsteady protection when the gripping is released,

suffusing air

with the tender opposite of walls.

Under the gentle raiment,

a beautiful assortment of old scars,

new pains crippling their current postures;

beauty redefined

in a war without winners and losers.

Perhaps it’s the weather,
the fear of cold’s long fingers
creeping under doorframes
making this beloved town so timid.

Except, in spring’s wild warming
the blankets stay wrapped around ears,
phones on call display,
caution primly masquerading as risk management.

Ah, but the sweet taste of boldness…
Viagra of the heart,
one drop in each water cooler
to stiffen resolve
– en-courage, en-liven,
make frisky with possibilities.

Pensions and prestige
lure mountain sheep from rocky heights
to nibble mildly in their pens
… eagles ensnared
in the tangle of lining their nests,
forgetting how to fly.

Wild sheep need no shepherd,
eagles no falconer.

A whiff of freedom,
one sip of compassion’s rich bittersweetness
brings confidence to ruffle feathers,
willingness to soar.

When the pedestals have all been sold
and stand as lonely reminders
of a beautiful god
now manifest instead of adored

… when mass has forced energy
out of the Christ holiday
so that love and questions are all that remain

… when the certain shape of God
has been melted down
and dissipated into its billions of incarnations

… can we still sing praise?

Like Inuit in snowy spring
we grab onto rough hide
worn with years of pleasure,
pulling together on the strength of our circle.
Our many hands – some weathered,
some strong from sewing,
some weakened by the hunt,
some smooth with vital possibility
– secure us to the playing field.
We lean out, occasionally slip,
and rise again in shared power.
Our blanket is patchy,
secured by the tension of our alert presence.

And in the centre,
a place for joy –
where our collective radiance
spills laughter over each attempt at flight,
murmurs encouragement
as we show our skill,
our willingness to be tossed.
In gathering for play,
for honouring our circle
and the circles that extend from it,
we feel the glowing incarnation
and give voice to our genuine worship.

The unstoppered flute,
full open holes,
seemed like the sound of liberation.
No blockage,
exquisite wrapping
for air hugged by structured body.

With breath,
the manifestation of music
sounds,
unequal, divergent,
trilling and keening,
funereal and ecstatic.

The flute dips, sways,
manhandled and stroked,
empty
yet filling the room
with constant change.

Calligraphy in malls,
he wrote.
Or with a grubby 8 year old
thrilled with new pens.
Or a circle of song in a room of resilience
and messy tables.
Or a place of retreat that wheezes quietly,
empty, full, empty,
without a glossy flyer.
Or poems lost in notebooks
in millions of basements.
These lives that are not so big,
with moments of expansive large
embodied in small shortness,
have been judged and found wanting.
Underneath the wanting,
there is a trickle where all wants are filled
and the bead is content
with its indistinguishable place on the string.