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
midnight genuflects,
introvert dreams revealed by
moon’s silent sculpting
it’s always the same,
the way time travels through
my state of wellness, slow motioned
behind my lightening thirst for sensical,
my cells’ disarrayed dismay –
begging for meaningful placement
in the shadow
of this storeyed tattoo.
A big thank you to another one of Christine Ray’s fine works, as a particular memory was triggered today.
~*~
Over twenty years ago, my husband and I were on our honeymoon.
I know. I have already shocked you in that first line. Or maybe I mean, me. I’m shocked.
Not just that we have been married for over twenty years. But because it wasn’t too long ago that life existed without GPS. And cell phones!
We did a camping road trip. Through the SW of Colorado and into Arizona and Utah. And probably New Mexico.
With dodgy maps. And a simple desire to just keep driving and camp when we were tired.
The amount of natural beauty we encountered was rather overwhelming for this young whipper snapper from Australia, and I would have been happy to camp anywhere, just to hug the earth. Or whatever…
(Note to self, find out what the heck “whipper snapper” means. Good Lord, I’ve used it for years so recklessly…)
One night, we found ourselves in Kanab, Utah. We decided to stay in a hotel and found a place that evidently was a resort to the stars. You know, in the 50s. When they were there to film westerns. Everyone’s favourite genre. Well, at least in ‘the Lego Movie’.
What an incredible coincidence that I had bought a swim suit that looked like it was from the 50s…
We decided to swim in the pool.
Best decision we could have made.
Because a storm came up.
Out of the blue of Utah skies.
A thunderous lightning hurled rage of patio furniture slow motioned right in front of us in the deepening darkness. My husband gently suggested we leave the pool…
(Kids, it’s past your bed time. I’ll give you a moment. Don’t forget to put the cat out. Or whatever you do with your cat.)
That’s right. I didn’t leave the pool.
(Something kids should not try at home, apparently. It was something I never considered before, as I often liked swimming in the ocean in the dark and in storms, and rain and whatnot. I guess you could say we were raised by people with differing parenting styles…).
But I convinced my husband we were safer in the pool, and if debris flew our way, we could dive into the “safety” of the water. I think that is the moment he realised he had, in fact, married a genius.
(This was the cassette I played the most on that trip if I remember rightly. I loved the title song. It is based on a Maori legend, I believe. Once again, please don’t correct me if I am wrong. I like thinking that).
the way toddlers dance to the notes in between the way DNA composes the seams notes of divine harmony and unexplained dreams the reticent wavelengths shudder unseen at unanticipated syncopation
the pause in rotation
uncentering my core
unsettling the fore-
gone conclusion
that one day
my spirit
will settle down…
I got a heart full of rubber bands
that keep getting caught on things…
(NB May be some coarse language…and I don’t mean when they quote Australians…)
I have yet to understand how our accents can be so different.
I watched a whole documentary once. On the plane. To New Zealand.
It answered not my questions. It was an hour long exercise in finding different ways to say
we have no idea
why the New Zealand accent is as it is
(Just between us, my husband was pretty excited when the air hostess started talking about “door sex”. He thought we had, indeed, found the most welcoming country on the planet.
“Door six” the person next to us so helpfully pointed out…)
When checking out of our hotel in Auckland I had to ask my husband to translate,
my American husband to his Australian wife.
I am not proud of this fact. But it is what it is.
(I mean, my ear was filled with Americanese, because we lived there. And, well, my husband speaks it.)
He is better with languages anyway…
Lyrics:
There is something exciting
About leaving everything behind
There is something deep and pulling
Leaving everything behind
Something about having everything
You think you’ll ever need
Sitting in the seat next to you
And i watch another white dash
Another white dash
Another white dash
Fly beside us
And I watch another white dash
Another white dash
Another white dash
Fly beneath us
Away away
There is
Yelling of an engine a constant rattling door
There is serious deep and mumbled
A conversation I’m not in
Flickering lights shadows of trees
Makes me blink my eyes
Makes the land appear like a really old movie
And I watch…
And i watch another white dash
Another white dash
Another white dash
Fly beside us
And I watch another white dash
Another white dash
Another white dash
Fly beneath us
Away away
I got a heart full of rubber bands that keep getting caught on things
And I count another white dash
Another white dash
Another white dash
I drift off at eighty…something
And I count another white dash
Another white dash
Another white dash
Out of time with the music
Something exciting about leaving everything behind
There is something deep and pulling
Leaving everything behind
Something about having everything
You think you’ll ever need
Sitting in the seat next to you
This is a reworking of a poem I wrote a couple of months ago, after visiting an old friend in Arizona. These gorgeous trees surrounded our camp site. A night by a campfire, sharing sorrows and burdens with an old friend, is one of the best things in life imho. Thanks to Charles, the reluctant poet for inviting me to join ‘the back side of the night’ theme started by The sailor poet. I really appreciate their encouragement, as well as that by Davy at Davy D blog. Thanks Guys!
~*~
How those maudlin woods enticed us
adorned so enchantingly with unprecipitation
and the black of trees’ core,
begging interpretation from the sympatheticly dressed.
But we decided not to indulge them.
Or
maybe us.
We held hands instead.
And ran through.
Through
to the back side of the night
where together we watched
the eyelid opening at horizon,
where we no longer dream
of windows wiping clean…
heart breaking nuances
their tenderness slicing me painlessly
in new breathing segments
clarifying the hemispheric movement
that clogs my heart
and clears my eyes.
home through a new lens
that refracts key changed colours
a reunion with peace
as from a refreshing sleep
I can only dream about…
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.
your name
written so beautifully on the map
to leave a lasting impression
and reminds me of a song
(I never understood),
your people so rare
they’re fireflies as we pass
filling my eyes with tears of relief,
the embrace of the scent of a dreamed past.
this floury cloud
clothes me in the silk
of your colours undiminished
by winter’s gloom –
these gifts so sharply edged
but now willingly, intuitively blurred and fall softly
into these waiting arms of gratitude
(this video is beautiful. And I agree with the sentiment of the video producer, no one place is God’s country. Well, except that Sedona, may, just may, have made me question that a little…)
