Where is peace? Peace is in the garden Where is power? Check the stirring seas Where is truth? Truth is every instinct of the wild animal Where is hope? It is in the seasons, my dear Where is love? Love is forgiveness Where is divinity? All of the above
Be careful when you claim “Non, je ne regrette rien” because the very next day the universe will call you on your bullshit and place that ghost from your past right next to you in the supermarket line, only you won’t know it’s him at first so you will say, ”oh you go ahead, you only have a few things” before you look again and realise exactly who it is.
You will not spit at him; you will wish you had.
Later, when it is quiet, you will light the cigarette you promised your son you wouldn’t, and as you drink whiskey from a wine glass you will admit you have not forgiven and never will, and you will berate yourself for ever claiming such a foolish thing, and there will be no one you wish to burden this with so you will post it as a reminder that you are tellement bon at lying to yourself.
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 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 of the garden
olives, fresh bread, a summer afternoon in Crete.
She leads to water,
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–
plucking at guitar,
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. ”
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.