a mess of words. or nonsense. maybe..

the gift of mellow tones
in the low slant of light
for the times when your heart grows sore.

words rarely leave mouths in a straight line,
so we become masters
of interpreting the shapes they make.

with cursed skin and tongue of fire
i run my fingers along every edge
that the light appears to make sharper

and marvel at all the layered meanings;
at everything trying, but failing,
to hide the world's heartbeat.

it's like some kind of velvet morning
during the reign of kings
sitting atop their pile of bones

circled by the shadows of trees in the clearing,
a collage of memories of this house of kindness
to which the majority is oblivious.

night falls soft and fast these days

amongst september constellations my eyes are drawn to one particular shimmering star during my night walk home. and the thought strikes me that (were it to even possess eyes of it's own) this star sees me not. and for some reason it saddens me (oh, ego!), but brings with it all manner of perspective. we are each specks in forever. so small within the grand scheme and yet infinite. worlds within worlds creating and orbiting our own suns, a constant even if changed several times within a lifetime. millions of miniature solar systems made of flesh and blood and the kind of heart that is neither. drawn to those who possess that light around which we spin; the light towards which we gravitate. and blessed you are if fate or luck or chance bestow upon you the honour of being sun to another... by the time i reach home i figure that this golden ghost up in the sky, even if it were to squint with it's non existant eyes, may not see me and the worlds of which i am composed, but it sees the world of which i am a part of. this blue green world throbbing with seven billion heartbeats added to it's own. what thunder we must emit into the darkness! and should anyone gaze upon us from however many light years away i hope that if the light shines just right that we too are golden.

 

heliocentric universe, harmonia macrocosmica

 

 

nesting

thought (I)

our pasts we carry
with the potential
to create a thousand futures.
life is my lover, is myself
and your mouth a flower
in full bloom.

the trees are holding themselves so still

the trees are holding themselves so still. even the sky barely moves. rowan berries drip from their branches whilst i harvest the colour of these early mornings. it floods my heart. sometimes i pray. to my two mothers... i could tell of all the ways to make me fall in love with you; a different you on a daily basis, but always you.... a stream of incense smoke dances erratically at the window. the strangest things are making me cry lately; nerve endings spread like the root systems of myself planted in the bucket of seeds growing at my front door. autumn is on the doorstep transforming the world into it's own version of a sensualist's dream. i want to savour it, not waste words. walk in the woods, along the river. be. criss cross the days with journeys profound and small, and ponder the wisdom of winter, who holds it all in, waiting and knowing that for everything there is a time and order.