love carved in stone..

love poem

and if briefly you are none the wiser

a request please, to censor me not and eat me whole. morning noon and night we are inclined to believe and build, brick by brick, homes we will and wont inhabit. somewhere on the periphery, an absence, which is an always presence. shades of the dark make the light brighter. i see your tracks, but might not follow. a suggestion to unearth the roots and take the back roads, to marvel at how it came to be; the authenticity in and of the first gesture, where the only way was wholehearted and the names were learned by heart. names that are more than words, of those with whom we are secretly in love. the glen holds the bright and the weather in her open arms, waves crash against the rocks when yesterday the water lay still as glass. tomorrow again a change. yet always water. stark lines against low and trembling clouds. it is only three glorious summers since first we met.

for R

"...We are animal in our blood and in our skin. We were not born for pavements and escalators but for thunder and mud. More. We are animal not only in body, but in spirit. Our minds are the minds of wild animals. Artists, who remember their wildness better than most, are animal artists, lifting their heads to sniff a quick wild scent in the air, and they know it unmistakably, they know the tug of wildness to be followed though your life is buckled by that strange and absolute obedience. (“You must have chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star,” wrote Nietzsche.) Children know it as magic and timeless play. Shamans of all sorts and inveterate misbehavers know it; those who cannot trammel themselves into a sensible job and a life in the sterile suburbs know it.
What is wild cannot cannot be bought or sold, borrowed or copied. It is. Unmistakable, unforgettable, unshamable, elemental as earth and ice, water, fire and air, a quintessence, pure spirit, resolving into no constituents. Don’t waste your wildness: it is precious and necessary. In wildness, truth. Wildness is the universal songline, sung in green gold, which we recognize the moment we hear it. What is wild is what drives the honeysuckle, what wills the dragonfly, shoves the wind and compels the poem. Wildness is insatiable for life; neither truly knows itself without the other. Wildness is the luminousness of a bluebell wood at twilight, massing clouds boiling up their rain, the weed that cracks the pavement and the river that floods its banks, the creeping jenny run riot. It is the first “fuck” on television, it simmers in the feral intoxication of jazz, it explodes exuberant in carnival, it honks with laughter in the magic-mushroom season, it smashes the clocks above the factory gates and sucks up the now, it blazes in your eyes and it glories in everyone who wilfully goes their own way..." ~ from 'wild: an elemental journey' by jay griffiths

concerning miracles

the green is coming. gently, joyously parting the ancient and mysterious skin. before our eyes, beneath our feet, it's all handed to us on a plate. the concept of edges, as always, solid and imperceptible. i march into the sun, vow to bury a piece of my heart in each of your bones, to be the idea, that about which you wonder. tonight, a silent passage home. the sun throws shadows long on the ground and it seems to me that love blooms on broken stones. they, which is it, sit crossed legged with worlds strapped to their backs. gold mines shine behind the cracks in their sternums.

(re)drawing lines

for too long lost

in the middle of the road.
 

but then bones revived from idleness.
 

so easy

to recall the way roses used to smell,

the way you would open the door to all your little hells

and, squinting to see through the shadows,

enter.

the way it mostly all happened without a plan,
 

but sometimes

you create the arrows that point the way.
 

push the corners.
 

fight to try to get it right.
 

close your eyes and study your reflection.
lay your pieces on the floor

and with tender hands start.

we'll never be so old and so young.

so potentially perfect.
 

the dirt always cracks and opens

for the flowers in spring.

there is always room.

always a chance.
 

you hold on,

shape the day with your frozen hands.

paint your ever changing expressions to the world

on the canvas of your body.
 

blood rises to the surface of your bitten lip

and the light in the sky grows.
 

my stars,

how our wings will quiver.

"the design in the stars is the same in our hearts.."

 

oh my goodness, i have the most profound desire to share this. to share a heart that speaks of such things. it will confirm your absolute rightness to believe in a life of love and all that is holy.

me? tears. big fat tears. and a heart just burst into bloom.

 

please listen..

last night the moon did not hold the sky in the arc of her cradled arm. (or - some ineloquent thoughts)

last night the moon did not hold the sky in the arc of her cradled arm, instead pregnant and blooming she grew to give birth to the night. then came sleep before morning before being roused by birdsong to vertical. open windows allow the room to exhale. the swollen river called and, of course, what can you do but accompany part way on it's serpentine journey through the green of the city. amazed and grateful for the way the earth readily accepted and accepts your feet. poems collected along the way - a lichen clad twig, a sprig of last year's ash keys and pine sticky fingers. there are trees that keep the names of lovers carved in their flesh the way we encase our memories in amber. for always you have prefered the woods to the sea. the green and the dirt and the life and the death. and of course the magic. have you ever noticed the way the clouds sometimes merge in to one? at these times surely they could muffle the way a heart sounds as it bursts, or breaks. there are moments when the body speaks louder than words from a mouth so full of diamonds. you want to be love and believe there are many ways to kneel at the alter.

unlike stars that turn red before they die

i make a poor first impression

and sometimes the days just aren't long enough

to recall all the things we left unsaid,

but go on knowing anyway.
 

all the beautiful things stick in my throat.
 

your face tomorrow i imagine painted

with the silence of one lost for words.
 

with my body i absorb

the light from other people's windows

and gather you from my corners.
 

today in the library the unmistakable scent

of the perfume in the egyptian glass bottle

that sat on the bookshelf a million moons ago.
 

prone to exageration, but still

so many ways to time travel.
 

dear sacred heart, there was a time i stopped short

of feeding you the marrow from my bones,

but wrapped myself in clouds and waited.
 

longing to be the light for which you dug so deep.
 

fingers would fumble the rosary
of nights strung together like star studded onyx,

but (the epiphany did come) your heart, your vision,
ultimately were restricted

by the thin slats of your beautiful eyes.

benedicto

"may your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. may your mountains rise into and above the clouds. may your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you - beyond that next turning of the canyon walls."~ 'benedicto' by edward abbey

all the bold sweet hearts

the wooden slats of the blinds shut out the world
trapping the flickering gold that bathes the room.
candles dot the floor along the skirting boards.
by fire we are surrounded.
flames burn to mark the edges of our world.
as though it had such things.
the feast has been prepared
and the year is beginning to run out of days.

may you one day realise we are living our future memories.
they should be worth the remembering.
resolve to breathe life into the dreams
and scenes painted on the interior of your skull.
we are blossoming flowers whose colours drip
sweet and sticky from our fingers.
lick your fingers as you fill your cups.
raise them to praise this sweet communion.
and drink.

deep.

the world,
even in dark,

it glitters.

to all the curious souls who come here
by chance or through choice
i wish you a beauteous festive season
full of peace and joy and love enough to make your heart explode.

i am grateful for the jewels of friends i have made,
for our collisions through the ether,
for your support, inspiration and wisdom
and i wish you all courage, love and all the best things
to greet the world in the coming year.

for you all
i am grateful.

*




“Let me peer out at the world
through your lens. (Maybe I'll shudder,
or gasp, or tilt my head in a question.)
Let me see how your blue
is my turquoise and my orange
is your gold. Suddenly binary
stars, we have startling
gravity. Let's compare
scintillation - let's share
starlight.” 

~ by nicole guenther

"...they must be a rare blessing in that wilderness..."

my throat is dry and i keep coming back to the blue dress

my throat is dry and i keep coming back to the blue dress. somewhere along the line i stopped talking in feelings, replacing them with 'facts'. i think of all the non-sexual ways i've made love. one day it will be my own heart that destroys me. the bigger heart. the metaphorical heart. skin holds the low roar of a lifetime's worth of small victories and defeats. memories of myself stretched wide opened daring the world to bring it on. i still open the doors to let the sunlight shine straight through. other times the rain quietly kisses my eyelids and whispers "you are welcome".

i.
cool air and the perfume of the blue hyacinth in the teacup on the windowsill linger in the room. despite the season of dark and dying she reveals daily her flowers of lilac-blue. mother knew what she was doing when she saw to create flowers. even now we hold each other's hearts with their enduring spirits between our teeth. above the dirt her delicately layered bulb sits and in full technicolour bursts forth expanding into life. the only thing she knows how to do.

ii.
and all the eyes that read these marks, which are the world according to me beneath this bright moon cut in half, resemble stars glittering in the night worn at times like a cloak of dark. or else a magnifying glass revealing an intimate piece of the interior, concentrations and dilutions of translations of a filtered image. what i like is the power of standing naked whilst being in control of the revelation. a slow undressing. of peeling away layers. of drawing the edges and saying "look, here"...