agapanthus globe

flower-1398785_1280
pixabay image

 

Inverted in space,

suspended in the north

with a southerly persuasion,

my heart grown in two,

homes.

 

Bejewelled moments

I want to break off to keep,

but my weeping hands

sift the fractures in wrong places.

 

I hold on instead –

ached to this perfect petal,

floated away on familiar

rivered Breeze.

 

 

originally posted 30th Jan, 2017

auto cortex (ode to auto correct)

IMG_20160901_211955345.jpg

it’s in the title

or it isn’t

I probably meant that

or I didn’t.

am I awake now

or I’m isn’t.

did I mean that

no you didn’t.

where’s the pilot

don’t look closely

but we want that

Process?

or

It

Will?

Only

You

Can

Decide

When…

(please stop eating everything.)

 

this was written after a chat with Tony Single. Thanks for the encouragement Tony!

 

galimatias?

that gibberish you wrote
on that napkin

if you folded it into a swan
or some other kind of origami

(the process of which
eludes and/or evades me),

then maybe we would get somewhere close

to replicating?

encapsulating?

elucidating?

the mysterious grasp
of sentimentality…

 

 

(published March 1st)

 

 

inversely stack shaped (take two)

An old one, but a favourite. And I’m feeling a little old today.

~

old-photos-089

I always thought
I could stack up my regrets
and one day

I’d dig out that really helpful ‘ten steps to freaking whatever’ instruction manual

and while holding it in one hand
kick the stack over

into the wind.

What a gorgeous day…
this self sufficiency shit really works.

But that’s my parallel universe.

I so love it there.

I ponder it
from the bottom of this deep hole my regrets
have dug…

 

for Melissa

harmonica dream

swirling and seen

as we drift into sleep.

 

so long in the past

our impressions were cast

our friendship to keep.

 

our young minds so moved

the lyrics manoeuvred

to capture the steep

 

rise and the fall

of broken hearts’ call

the standing that’s reaped.

~

Thirty years on

our friendship, blessed, strong

lament’s aura seeps

still,

into sympathetic hearts

joined forever.

~*~

For dear Melissa, my friend from high school, the times we fell asleep to this gorgeous song. (I was so tempted, Mel, to write, “manooved” in the poem 🙂 )

And to those who struggle with serious addiction. My heart is filled with empathy ❤

 

 

 

childhood (condensed)

img_20170219_151828_466-2

tomboy in a tutu

achingly moltened by music

that conjures the swell

and spills you

my heartbeat craving to express

the unspeakable

unsing-able

truthfulness

of cascade four dimensional

electrodes through to terminal

sated by chords of complex clarity

translated without disparity

in a child’s

plasmaglobemind.

(The seed for this post was planted by Yassy. Thank you!)

don’t touch me

This wonderful poem

In Amber – Howl Davies

reminded me of this wonderful song, by one of the most remarkable poets, imho.

Nick Cave lost one of his teenage sons over a year ago. It was tragic, he fell from a cliff. I wondered at the time if something as catastrophically devastating as that would paralyse his art creating. But of course, I was wrong. We are talking about Nick Cave, after all…

 

IMG_20170628_172616
I have been fortunate to have seen Nick Cave a couple of times in concert. This rather blurry photo is of a concert photo given to me by my photographer friend, Ken Binns.

unseasoning the season

The immutable reality of change

the longing to keep “before” in range

it’s cratered the cortex of my being

and reverse refracted all my seeing

my inner core blinded by the white

lasering the absence on my sight

the snow in sympathetic silence

weakening the contrast in my blindness

reaching for the knowing of the past

the sewing pain of beauty will not last

or the hope is, it will, in fact, diminish

and these lines, for now, remain unfinished…

a little hungover WordPress?

 

 

First day of the year.

Evaluating movement through life’s substance. (Or is it residue?)

Remember when you told me Vaseline was made from gasoline, and here, have some for the healing…

Remember how we wanted that clown for the party?
Me neither.

(I tried to publish this three times and WP didn’t save it for some reason. Hence the title 🙂 …I thought it was just me. Maybe it is…)

origamied

The words of sages

supposedly wise supposedly.

 

Ancient repackaged as new.

 

The air choking with nuances amiss and/or askew,

complacencing my view.

 

The forest floor

thickening under my feet

as I run. (Is this running?

maybe walking. maybe crawling.

maybe breathlessly clawing.)

 

The impact

folding me in

until I’m sure I can’t be folded

any more.

Cutting in all those places

I don’t want to be cut.

Of course.

 

Living in hope

of being taken out of this drawer

and being in the understanding.

in the unfolding…