ebullient decay
it’s funny isn’t it
the way we nod with our eyes
but disagree with the size
of an unspoken epiphany
and all the snips and the clips of we
trying to gather themselves up
to be examined
in the light bulb moment
that might change on the morrow
the nuances of sorrow
and the other venn diagrams
we find impossible to share
as we try to bear
the broken glass of the light bulb
in our hands
down a memory foam floor,
mind brake off,
jadeless tinted glasses
a treasured gift
in a shadow box on the wall,
to be smashed open in an emergency,
that page in the dictionary
torn out and replaced
with a hammer
for every day of the week
lateral spirals
horizontal corkscrewing
wine spilled, premature
harmonies pierce
with an arching linger
from those past knowings
we haven’t spent
forming familiar sounds,
floating
on to hushed hearts
in aching newness,
hands clasped while treading,
paths parallel but converging,
as deep translates
the haunting of melody
how I rushed headlong into the un understanding
I wonder about the phones we made…tin cans on the end of string
your voice so clear
so why did we start playing chinese whispers instead
hanging the whispers on the string like ornaments…
the inner circle
of my mind’s eye
likes to think that they are friends
my inner ear
with the binds that tie
is pondering these loose ends
of the things you have said
that I don’t understand
the hands of the clock
are made up of sand
if you’ve noticed
grit flowing
refining my thoughts
into panic
and fun things
the calendar has taught
please excuse
squinting ears now
they’re impatient.
crocheting continuity
in the weaving waves
of sound sublimity,
the embossing of the
dimensional trinity
by the cerebral unity,
g(r)asped by incredulous senses converted
to heights of clarity –
the aching symphony
scaffolding the wholing
of peace.
Confused by the vapid voices of renewal that languided out of the new year cake,
they did used to jump, she recalled,
she thought it was time to do something.
Something had to be done with this pile of the unsaid.
She searched for that wisdom file, the one they’d all spilt wine on at the new year’s eve party. How they laughed. Such a good night.
She wondered if she should rake through those coals over there. Some were still smoldering.
Melancholied by the cold she had a better idea.
As she cast the pile onto her knitting needles, she was struck by how colourful it was…
Remember that time we had an original thought?
Started by his voice
she put down her book.
The book with no pages.
Removing her glasses,
the ones with no lenses.
Her mouth stinging from a memory she couldn’t share,
the one she kept in that book.
Started by her inner voice
she paced towards him,
measuring the equidistance between them
to that thought.
Still right where it should be.
I must write this in my book she posed,
right after I find my glasses
originally posted Nov 22nd, 2016
a favourite from December last year:
attempts to alienate confusion
decaf, a necessary intrusion
I miss you.
float me past the contusions
the knots in my shadow crave fusion
I spill you.
the fragments in frosty perfection
arranging the shards of reflection
I see you.
memory’s space incandescing
cauterise weds convalescing
I place you.
the pieces not lifed in competing
the peace not in ice but the heating
tapestried sensed in the meeting
I love you.
I had never heard this before. But it’s gorgeously sweet.
so, is it my mouth
or my soul
shaped this way?
or is mind
in sibling rivalry
with heart?
vying for the approval
of discordant voices,
the lens of reality between –
cracked,
distorting blood.
I look at the music
pooling at my feet-
the beauty of its reflection
tearing my comprehension,
sweetly serenading me
from the red of the truth.
The older I get, the less I know.
Here’s what I do know:
sometimes
there isn’t a deeper meaning
sometimes
the layers are on the same plane
unzip your paranoia for a moment
and maybe I will too
but I’m pretty sure yours will take longer
so I’ll give you a head start
because
I know there are layers…
The grey sky and sea are one today.
The only discernible difference,
the texture of the latter.
The encumbrance of the matter
in mind’s funnel
distracts and disturbs.
Protracts and perturbs
still the distilling,
the stone at my neck
is blunt from the milling.
I ponder this song about addiction.
Another one I’m addicted to.
The frictionless sky
and the turbulent sea,
I sway between
the knowing way you look at me,
oh mind’s eye,
and the mystery of unease,
the sky gets me there so soon
compared to the past,
on the sea,
in a tempested moon.
so who turned it over
this un snow globe of ours?
is this up?
under the boat
i ponder when the air will run out
i ponder where the air actually is
this friend/foe shield of my likely imagining
protecting me from what?
the water around us
no conductor.
you knew.
you replaced it long ago.
Noiselessly punching
up through the water,
I watch from the dinghy,
shifting my weight,
the water heaving beneath
as you swim
relentlessly,
relapping.
Distracted
by air flecks of non snow –
music bubbles I reach up
to burst,
to release those pleas for you
to open your hand…
I had the most interesting conversation with a dear, elderly friend recently. Every time I do, it makes me lament even more how our culture doesn’t value the wisdom of the elderly. There are times when I truly grieve over stories lost forever.
We talked about the fear of man…
the fear of God…
the misunderstanding of the fear of God and how radically it is exacerbated by the growing fear of other humans, the context being, that we believe humans were created in God’s image.
The astonishing kindness of anonymous bloggers, their anonymity injecting poignancy straight into my veins.
I told him about the phenomenon of hikikomori which fascinated him, but he immediately responded with words straight from his mature, listening heart, ‘no wonder people are afraid of God. We are forever doomed to create him in our image…’ or something to that affect. Ugh, my awful memory does not do him justice.
And this post does not do this issue justice. but I want to get in the habit of writing more regularly so this will have to do for now.
Disorders. We all have them. One of mine is that I am an Australian married to an American. I kid you not. The exact nature of this disorder is a conversation for another time.
So we met at the seminary he was attending a few (cough) 20+ years ago, and what ensued were years of discussing the ‘problem’ Australians have with pronouncing post vocalic ‘Rs’. To say we are still in pretty intense negotiations over this, well…
But it seems, the whole world is suffering from PTSD.
And yet, we continue discussing things that don’t matter quite as much… like PVSD. (Especially because we know I’m right about PVSD…)
So really, Basil, my blog instigator, is about balance. Or, at least, one of the things he is about.
