The river flows beyond you or I. 

In it ride many things:

Bullets, pebbles, wedding rings

Coalesced tears of those who cry

Washed away letters of those too shy.

The river runs from mountains high:

From underground springs

Falling forever, from the sky

An endless waterfall, a sung sigh.

It curved out a course already laid:

It burned and it writhed, it floated it flayed

It drowned and it dived, the land it enslaved

Able as Caine, a brother deprived and depraved. 

From a trickle to torrent it tore through:

Till the war at last won, allowing peace to pervade

The race run to the end, the water urged to renew

The mouth opening to oceans, an alliance made.

It breathed out all its woes into the sea:

The mingling of the waters, a pact of mixed hues.

All the vestiges from ages past, a broken history 

Amalgamated unburdened from you, from me. 

No man ever steps in the same river twice:

It seems no man should feel the cold or the pain of getting old

But this is a certain as fire, as ice, and for every man will suffice

To life we are beckoned and to the river we are called.

With every inch of me

With every ineffable atom

Each pulsating cell and organelle

Each crust and crumb of my mind

There is a beconing, a burning

A broad aching call

Heated hands headlessly

Wonder over what holds you

Searching for the life within

Folds your conciousness in

Sorely needed, kneading

Yeast, the sun in the east, rising

Warmth from within: forever held

Break bread with me, here

In the house of the risen sun

A host, a body for bread

There is a limit to our love

A barrier to our bodies

An end to our provision

A circle to the ceaseless vision

An inevitable hunger at the setting

Give us this day our daily bread.

The pain as the crumbling of the crust

That surrounds your understanding

Falling away, fuel for the feathered

Crumbling, food for the foolish flocking fervid.

Reminiscent of Delacroix, impasto and impassioned

The blatant exposure, torn asunder, an exposition, exhibition

Some kind of light shone through, illuminated you

Maybe finally I will see, not what we are but what we aught to be

We walk often in shadow, un bel ombre

And now the light has become blinding

Each time it takes longer to become accustomed 

To the death of night, pierced through by morning

The red is almost magenta, a horizon blood body barrier

I see it now, let the odour seep in, a sharpness

A lingering logarithm of growing sweet metallic

A forlorn dawn -its bossom cracked open in crimson

Like the spinning of blade on bone, light in the eyes

My grandmother watched, weathered the unbearable sound

The young boy’s heart naked as the blinding morning sun

Pulsating, beating under his broken bird cage

His backward broken wings, his red fleece of openess

Split as the light dark dichotomy, coccyx to collar bone

A red breasted rogue, a defiant sun bird

Beating his tiny heart a winged fluttering

Shining, incandescent, oil on water shimmering

A life not lost but fleeting.

Because my heart knows

I do not need to see your face

Just a passing gush of air

Or a falling leaf

A line on the horizon

These are all aspects

Foreign, familiar and few

That breathed life into those days

Of spring that stumbled to begin

Like the new-born calf in the meadow

Standing on it’s knees

And in the rich wetness

The frogs sang of the rich dirt

The steaming fecund soil

I nearly slipped on that torrent 

A once path now stream

A red river cutting through the grass

The lone lilies weighted with water

The last winter rain

The first spring shower.

translucent:

tissue paper fine.

crinkled:

the remanents of a smile.

crows feet? 

but they aren’t black,

there are no furrows,

no frowns.

only a heron:

pastel pale and faded.

petals for skin,

like the softness of age:

papery and relenting.

the arrangement,

a set of gently folded hands.

I see a crevace where a crease should be:

the blank page has been marred by scrawl.

the fantastic vision is fading:

snowflake petals fall, sated and spent.

does this mark the end?

the heavy lidded close.

pollen in the air:

hanging in the half light.

Do you think one day

There will be sense?

Do you think the Floating

Edges will meet?

I saw the pink cloud lining;

A sunset siloutted

Horizontal light

Like a south paw jab

In the jaw.

Beauty lay me low,

It made my heart 

Feel like the trap door 

Beneath it was open.

I run, I run, I run.

Tossle and push, with thoughts:

With ideas, with emotions

Notions, motions.

Maybe there will always be

Pink edges, horizontal light

And the breathless speed

Of clumsy legs, but the heart to

Feel it is not garenteed.

Somedays the trap door beneath

Will open, a hangman.

What was the word anyway?

A stutter, a thousand broken images

Seamlessly sewn, a serenade:

Un Sospiro.

I can’t be black to back

I feel a blushing crow hovering

Trying to forget the future

An inconsequential quest, an inquest

Unfortunately I fear I’ll float.

 <br>

A freudian slip: saying one thing and meaning amother

A hard edged samurai stimuli, no where near last

Ambushed by nothing less than bushido

When one gets oneself in a hole,

It is advisable to stop digging.

 <br>

Today it paused, stuttered and stilled:

It all got thrown up in the air,

torn apart and stuck there.

A  free fall suspension

Some kind of lesion. 

 <br>

You use pictures, you let people create stories,

You said you found them beautiful: beauty and truth are always sad.

You said to build rapport, build on what? 

It made me feel like it was all a farce, a facade.

How can you help someone out of a hole without knowing what a hole is?

 <br>

I went right to the bottom,

I found the deepest place I could

I sat there for three hours 

I needed the leaning in shelves

The swelling inwards, the shirking outwards

Hanging up in my head:

Two theatre masks, worn through.

The crescendo, the paralysis

A panic attack climax, a classical signature

The knock kneed, wide eyed rippling.

The maddened butterflies inside, a rising, a fullness.

That our depth allowed us to hold more laughter,

And when humour did rise, it was as Lazurus.

Alive, thriving on hilarity: that the lugubrious

Could be transformed, metamorphosized, thwarted.

A black butterfly, a night light, a day star,

Which no one sees. A thriving tide, a skiping:

Up in the air a flawless wit, a width, breadth, depth.

Quick, a flicker and fade - a spot light:

A refined rugged, a senseless truth, a stupidity

A light heart, a swift head, a scimming of the water

A surface tension breaker, an apprehension,

A faker, a funny, a stomach muscle stimulator

A master of self deprecation, of dark humour.

Silly science jokes: where knowing too much 

Seems like knowing too little; where intelligence

Is inversely proportional to social skills.

But it was no matter, not when you could make people laugh,

Make them cry and hold them there.

That you were heavy, a depth, allowed sufficent space

For the standup sequester within, to begin.

In face of trouble:

When waters are uncertain and seem overwhelming,

When there is a churning and change seems everywhere and yet nowhere in sight, 

When the waves run like seams of a never-ending garment black-blue. 

And all is indeterminable, yet clearer than ever before:

For in the midst of the tumultuous turning there is a stability,

For contrast can only be seen between the dark crevices and the ladders of light,

For we only find ourselves when we have lost all semblance of identity. 

Here we emerge forged anew:

Of a new substance neither light nor dark, nor in between, 

Of new thoughts alighting like moths drawn ever closer to the light of illumination and peril, 

Of sentiments and alignments that at first seemed askew, for we have bent as horizons have broadened.

We are the pupils of the the earth’s eye, ever expanding, ever contracting,

We are are those who see and yet do not see in the sense that seeing perscribes,

We are alone and yet all of us follow the exact same path in library silence. 

But it was to be:

Seamless

When I was young

I wanted to become a mermaid

I wanted the forever suspension

The newborn feeling Of warm water

A seamless blanket of floating

A slumber, a watery sleep

A timeless oblivion.

I had a dream, where I kept shouting,

Screaming: I want to be brand new!

As blank as paper in sunlight

Blindingly void, an anti-matter white hole

A reversal, living my backwards life forwards.

I want to be brand new!

A screeching meconium covered inner alien

Crying for the wretchedness and wonder of the world.

Let’s pick up sea glass and shell shards,

Pieces of ships, a porcelain poetry

Deft and delft, a drowning siren, a singing sailor.

Chandeliers of shards, a brocken light

As light through water

A refraction, deflection, distraction.

Young Mariner steer your course:

Suspend your disbelief And please,

Be kind to birds.