Wisdom of Light

Daughter, I have searched through misty valleys, suburban streets, city galleries, fields of canola

Let me tell you this: I know not all, not even close to the much, but what I have found, I found within

It sounds cliché, I understand

We lost your favourite blanket when that relative decided it was theirs and you stopped asking

You, always stoic, and I, a coward, of sorts

Who am I to lead you? I can only keep you warm

You will need to search your own streets; a pilgrim on a busy road

You will need to learn to stand, even when you suspect some wish your fall

I believe in you, I know you will wave your flag

The light demands you rise

And when the light sits in your hands and you begin to play, please know it was always yours, just waiting

It takes time, I understand

And I love you,

I love you,

I love you.

Bad Ghost

Whenever you meet a ghost, don’t run away. Because the ghost will capture the substance of your fear and materialise itself out of your own substance. It will kill you eventually because it will take over all your own vitality. 

So, then, whenever confronted with a ghost walk straight into it. And it will disappear.

— Alan Watts

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.  

 

Blue Balloon

In memory of JD 

‘A peaceful warrior’

 
My friend left his body on a 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 believe 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.
 
 

Dandelions. 

Ether slip: playground of light

Existence rule book: when you blow out the candles do not announce your wish

No one ever questioned the logic--very superstitious


When I was a child wishes came from dandelions 
but now, 
as all the dandelions are on fire

My wishes are prayers to no God
 

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
Pineal glands decalcified 
under a 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 Smiles. 

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 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.