Blue Balloon

In memory of JD.

‘A peaceful warrior’

 
My friend left his body on Wednesday,
I did not notice.
I was caught in the colours of my graduation gown,
the one with the two yellow stripes;
an angel on my shoulder was smiling,
on occasion I like to please her.
 
Later that evening
I walked his street with my daughter,
we took turns carrying a blue balloon.
We were only three blocks from his house,
I did not notice he was missing.
 
It was Sunday,
I logged on to the Face registry
there was a post from his sister that read:
DEAD.
He was dead.
Never have words leapt from the screen like a punch.
I buckled,
I could not breathe.
Oh, his precious heart.
Moments later, a rare sun shower
I knew it was him.
 
So I went to my secret box,
found his letter---
his magical love letter.
Upon the tea-stained page,
the ink and the sentiment---
untouched, despite fifteen years.
 
And that night 'his song'
played twice over the radio
as the bats put on a show
before several swooped into the pear tree.
 
The signs came all week:
'his' song concluded the festival
and the whole crowd sang along.
 
In the crematorium I felt a hand upon my shoulder---
I knew it was him.
I waited to say the final goodbye.
 
And a little voice inside urged me to floor it as I left the cemetery.
I knew it was him, by my side.
The passenger seat appeared empty
still I smiled for him,
asked him to stay,
understood that he couldn't
plus, that would be selfish.
Then I felt him leave.
 
It was his love for me that kept me from him,
I will spend the remainder of my days with this knowledge.
 
I have read his letter so many times
and all I can do is think of that damn blue balloon
and how it floated in the hall
before popping.
 
 

Human Windmills 

Human windmills in earth liquid
we swim the billabong after dark
clanking through
hydraulic operations of the heart---
excavating every misery of flesh
Big kids with twenty-nine-year-old bones
whooping, splashing under stars
the mud inches under each nail until,
our hair is caked
Under January moon,
full of noise and moan---
we rave.

Lady Rosa 🌹

Lady Rosa: Lady of the garden

her scent—

olives, fresh bread, a summer afternoon in Crete.

She leads to water,

flowing aqua,

quartz fountain—

where every bird meets for bath or hymn.

Lady Rosa whispers

beyond roses, thyme and constellations.

I never catch what she says yet,

I always remember the meaning.

Lady Rosa is a friend amongst dreaming–
ghost, song

plucking at guitar,

hinting,

“Patience—“

Lady Rosa: sky sailor,

queen of all garden folk!

We plough the dirt,

Zeus fills it with rain

I build a moat

and we sail away—

to the land of Lady Rosa.

Where as birds, we frolic

in garden, sky, or shallow swim

then at night, sing—

” Lady Rosa is the day of the morning;

the midnight of afternoon. ” 

Gaia Smile 

Upon watercolour sky,
Gaia bathes.
The greasy haze of humidity, softening
heady satellite traffic.
She notes
tiny, iridescent rain drops
await the sun's return
upon flower petals of every hue.
She listens
as all her birds sing.
She watches
two pigeons come to the woman of the garden;
the woman extends her hand to offer fresh fruit and crumbs of five-seed bread.
The ancient communication in play,
so far above the mechanics of modern day language.
For just like the heat, the rain and the pigeons
Gaia will always return in kind;
as will the woman of the garden,
taking notes.

In Transit 

 
Where oceans
meet fire
 
Where mountains
taper to grain 
 
Where lightning strikes
zap to snow
 
Where snails evolve
into singing birds 
 
Where night is fringed
by rise of dawn
 
The morning, bound 
by musk twilight under full moon
 
There we are, dancing
rainbow lorikeets in a storm
 

 
*The Rainbow Lorikeet is a species of Parrot in Australia

birthday week 

Broken party hats
hang in the cherry tree
yet the party has not begun.
Their sparkle,
holographic
under sun's rays.
As tiny balloons
filled with only two half breaths
bounce along the concrete--
this is the way my son prefers his balloons
'tiny, tiny mummy.'