To be a Flower, is profound Responsibility
–Emily Dickinson
Children are walking peace symbols. Children are the flower in the gun.
do they love me, do they love me not?
will they draft me, will they draft me not?
will they bomb me…will they bomb me not?
When politicians sitting at long tables try to use you as their pawn, or, provoke you into becoming their gun— remember there are 7.9 billion reasons to be a flower, to protect all flowers.
2022.
The Gods-spit of stars trillions of miles awayoffer theirbless you
Photo by Wil Stewart on Unsplash
You were never mine,
how I swam your blue.
Upon your fin,
blades of grass
penetrated
my soul.
I was, as if, tree—
and my roots,
like waves,
reaching for my shore.
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.
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 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 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,
Gaia 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 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.
We met under disco ball Synthetic perfume clashing with testosterone Some hideous teenage nightclub where all the kids touched the void I was just a teen, my old head on young shoulders He was a brooding thief Green eyes filled with sin, pain, shadow, death I breathed him in until, so high Calloused boy and wannabe man Motorbike rider, flowers in hand He pierced my thumping chamber with his hook So caught in his swim I didn't mind the oh, so handsome drowning We bonded over desire, chaos--the music I inked my open heart on to every page of my journal It wasn’t unusual to find him out of his pretty head Suicidal or with bliss One day I heard a howl from the cemetery He was digging up the dead Bare hands bleeding Horrified but impressed I called in a rescue But for him no poetry That high changed him And big black widow spiders burrowed Inside his head From then on he killed me So tactically I almost dug the grave To fill with my every bone And poem My song has long since remembered itself But he still chugs down the liquor Doctor Karma prescribed Every now and then I send him Forgiveness
Em Burgess- Gilchrist 