Indigene's Hand

Out of the hollows of abandoned bones

a liminal hand strikes in stone

the silent pulse between dusk and night

there carves the image

of sound and light.

Turtles Flying

It Isn't A Dream

Fog in the brain, body, spirit. It isn’t unpleasant. It might even be sustaining.  What is missing is that edge of reach, that window maybe doorway - sometimes sharply defined sometimes liminal and discreet. What is missing is the thought that is a blade cutting into the fog which cloaks the stars and opens the piñata-like fruits of creativity hanging always nearby and out jumble ribbons floating like wings to dangle and entice or truly wrap round you and bear you flying beyond all boundaries and edges, dispersing the haze and sharpening the focus unto an intensity beyond anywhere but here, here in this fog. 

The fog is warm, soft, soothing, and everything that is highly sought after when anxious, sleepless, stressed, unable to be. It’s eiderdown to a cold bitter day, it needn't be night. Even so, even so, one shoves stubbornly against the sheltering fog because it is thought one should look sharp and out of that attentiveness shall come...something. Is one afeard that with comfort, creativity shall stall or even die?

Is this similar to an opium dream? Though in an opium dream, one isn’t pummeling and pushing aside the visions to look for a creative spark unless one is insanely driven.

Calla Lilies

The calla lilies have bloomed early this year,

before the vernal equinox.

Thought forms

To some, I am attached. 

Like cheeky spiders they

drop from the ceiling

without invitation or warning.

Others stand aside,

deftly shelved next

venerable old tomes

I may or may not have read.

On Valentine's Day

on a moonlit morning

we'll have a cup of tea...

(to be continued as it is continued
in the morning's moonlight probably)

Solstice

here's to a

Happy Solstice

keeping warm
through this longest night.

-------

Deja vu

.......

scrolling

words rose from the page like smoke

sweet smoke from an ember tipped wand

scented smoke from a warm glowing ember

chapter upon chapter
the ruby tipped wand

made light of the page
in the unlit room

words curled like smoke

caressed the ceiling
leaned back

kissed the window

the page turned
 words gripped the page
like tallies of worth
with talons distended

the ceiling fell

in a puff of smoke

a few last wisps 

clung to the glass

of the night darkened window

the ember paled leaving
an ashen tipped stick
in its stead

.......

The Elephant's Room

It's ten before midnight.
December's in twilight.

The cards face their falling

in an unfinished drawing

near the end of this year.

It's ten before midnight.
December's in twilight.

The book is recycling

as the tree pens the writing

near the end of this year

It's ten before midnight.
December's in twilight.

Time is kept swaying

by a waltz that's been playing

near the end of this year.

It's ten before midnight.
December's in twilight.
The cat knows who's hiding.
The doves know who's flying

near the end of this year.

.......

Fall Leaves And Berries

I've lost many things,
my way unfound,
but never far from hand
that which I love.

...

Our House

In front of the door 

sits a large grey cat with topaz eyes.

It has no intentions of moving.

Behind the cat 

stands a small white house
with a door the color of jade

guarded by the large grey cat.

In front of the house 

grows a tall tree. 

At its feet 

lay the amber leaves of Fall.

Inside the house 

before the smoldering hearth 

with ruby coals

sleeps a brindle dog with eyes of onyx.

Beside the dog 

a spinning wheel rests

wound with flaxen thread
twisted in vermeil.

Behind the house 

the sun sets in a sapphire sky 

streaked in turquoise, copper, 

and an unearthly rose.

Beneath the window 

before the sky

sits a bed piled with pillows 

covered in dreams

topped by the large grey cat

with topaz eyes.

Outside the window

in a garden of peridot green

grow potatoes, pearls of the earth.

In this garden perches the lapis jay

watched by those topaz eyes.

Beyond all this

upon the sea

flows a shimmering path of gold.

....

The Man And His Mud

"More water." said the man as he stirred the muddy hole in the ground at his feet. "Where's that stupid boy? Where's he gone to now? Always disappearing when I need him. Useless."

He lifted the shovel and slung a large splash of grey mud onto the tall mound before him. 

"Almost finished. Another soldier." He dropped the shovel and began smoothing the damp sludge across the front of his statue. He carefully stroked the mud as it dried, creating half-closed eyelids on the statue's face. 

"Almost finished. It's a good likeness. I see life in this one." The man kneeled down and scooped up mud with both hands. He stood and slapped his hands downward on each side of his statue, evening out the shoulders.  "I feel life," he announced. He surveyed his ordered rows of mud pillars. "Too many to count," was his dismissal of those crumbling off into the distance. "Ah the fruits of my toil. Thick as trunks in a forest." He smiled. "If they were trees, by next year they'd be growing."

As he turned back to his work in progress, the statue lifted one arm, then another. "I've done it. It moves. It is alive." the man whispered then repeated his revelation as a command. 

The statue lifted one leg, then another and began walking away from the man, the hole, and the resultant legion of mud doppelgangers. "Come back, come back!" The man called out as he stumbled and fell. 

"Stupid man." said the boy as he wiped the mud from his eyes and kept walking. "If they were trees, they'd be stumps." 

Come back, come back, be with me, be mine..." the sinking man incanted over and over again from the hole where he had fallen, until the mud drowned him out. 

The boy kept on walking. "I already was yours. I am your son."

....

Elephant Dung Paper

This is an ink drawing on elephant dung paper of Libbs and her three chickens and me making rosewater. I love drawing with ink and old bendy nibs on elephant dung paper. It is impossible to assume control and each hand made sheet is so individual and subtly beautiful it feels almost superfluous to draw on even though it asks to be touched.  Most of all - it makes me laugh at the silliness of taking one's small self oh so seriously whilst next to the noble elephant and its dung. Far too much seriousness lately. As quick as can do and without thinking...

crazy legs

wispy arms

caverns are always dark

turtle eggs

frost that harms

icicles stick up and bark

soups hot

butter's cold

lettuce wilted 

now I'm old

surprise surprise

it's a party day

tomorrow will also go away

creatures get comfort

the sky is bold

i am blue when i am cold

resurgence is dignified

lying sucks

i am broke without any bucks

lottie is fat

jack is mean

percy's a poet

a bean can be green

this is silly

no it's not

what is silly

is to sit and rot

the world is crazy

maybe it's alway been

when the way of the world

is the way of men

if you go to the store

with an unkept look

the clerks will follow you

like you are a crook

if you have no money

and struggle to pay

you will forget to look

at the sky each day

if you don't laugh

and forget to play

a miserable life

will come your way

when will you laugh

at the people who snoop

in other's business

because theirs is poop

if you obsess over

liars and cheats

you'll end up bitter

they'll get all the sweets

meditate on the divine

burn incense and precious oils

say this is mine

leave the trashy to their spoils

stay free of the critic

and wary of the leach

be they idiot or psychic

they do well in speech

tell the universe

you are stuck, uninspired

you've lost your purse 

in the sludge you are mired

know this is temporary

there's no ghost to give

talk to a fairy

wake up and live

it is better to try

and end with a mess

than to sit and to cry

over somebody else's mess. basically.

it is now late in the day

and early in the evening

what's better than a play

to set the bells ringing

ring ring ring ring

take a trolley to the park

ding dang dung ding

sing a song in the dark

the end

and now to click on the 'publish' button and don't look at this till tomorrow. But wait, here's a link (which must be copied and pasted) to the Thai Elephant Conservation Center. Click on the 'Process'  tab at the top to see how elephant paper is made:

http://www.elephantdungpaper.com/fact.html

....

Floating

Slip sightless into time's true entrance...

Be with time, alone in time.
It is an art
 this journey with time
the companion who has translated
 everything we have known

into earthly form.  

Even so, time is only one way to travel.

There are others. Like fallen leaves
they littered the land before it became
flat then round then flat again

 as we nailed down the ends of the world

called it civilization and came to recognize
 only those thoughts
which followed one after the other

and were easily translated into words.

...this is only difficult when I search for a beginning

when I search for a time
when this was not so.

...

the streaking rain

the rain was 

for twenty seven days

stopped for two then

began again

within those two days

which should have stepped clear

in the sun

nothing stood

nothing shone

that wasn't sodden

when those two days ended

the rain streaked through

making burrows

for our dreams

like druming and strumming

make dwellings

for our song

.

Where Is The Logic In This!

oh, it has gone

those dastardly protean thoughts

came  

and carried it away

it flew out the window

astride the allure of

clairvoyant communications

 it is in crypsis 

in luminiferous ether

disguising itself with the indivisible 

sum of its parts.

It might return   

in symbolic form,

one day. 

...

Passenger Number Three

When searching for a dragon,

the one who sleeps at sea,

take sail with a Phoenician 

in a boat that carries three.

With you and the Phoenician,

of three, that makes but two. 

That which fills the space that's left

is woven from bamboo.

This basket's lined with mirrors

reflecting moon and sea.

This paper covered lantern

is passenger number three. 

Don't look into the lantern.

Ha! this you shouldn't do,

for all that you will find there

is a mirror holding you...

...alone with your reflection

in a boat that carries three.

Beyond your sight a dragon

crests the surface of the sea.

.......

(the moral of the story - when sailing with Phoenicians,
wait till you get home to look in the mirror.)

Drumpath

Drums beat steady

one upon another

not far beyond

a stone's throw away.

You wade into the river

and lie down

in its mossy shallows

the floating green

curls and shapes around you

like smoke

your thoughts fall

into the haze
dreams fill the places

your thoughts

have been.

They are just as vague.

Drums beat steady

one upon another

not far beyond

a heart's beat away

Drums beat steady

one upon another
true memory follows 

the path of dreams.

(in loving memory of Bryan Osper)

Trees' Roots

each tear a story tells
every tree the story knows...

Lean your head against 

a tree to cry

 and know

trees' roots go far down

and take your tears

to all the waters

that carry all the stories

and tell them back again

so as to know

you do not cry alone.

Self Adorned

I was once a rock embedded in stone.

Now, I wear rocks on my fingers

with the help of metal

pounded thin

in the hollow shape of a ring.

This one isn't heavy, that I notice.

It matches the solidity of my bones

the rock does. The metal 

bends and wraps around my finger

now that I've embedded 

a rock within its coil,

polished as a precious stone.