Analogy

as i lay amidst
tempered ginko shadows
hyper against that eddying sky
of dis-enthralling,
clouds
of self betrayment

i thought of
lying midst warmed night grass,
legs and heads
skyward;

eyeing the low tempest
that bred in our cores.

i could have
grabbed at that greyed green branch
and handed you a handful
of crimson stamens
to show my simple, homely love.

but that red, tome-like shadow
rested its dead weight of resentment
on this animal body

anchoring it to attachment.

the brotherhood clear,
this dead weight head sank
indulgent in breathing
indulgent in night light.

this fragility analogised
in that juncture pointed
below that civic sliver of entwined humanity;
punctuated by that lone black robot suitcase,
isolated in its un-giving.

i felt that pain, that frustration,
that turmoil of cycles
of mutuality,
of people;
their hidden agendas.

the basked path breathed
its warmth upwards
forcing that russian steppe cold fire
that brewed a foetus' life long
to the wedge on this shoulder,
to the grey haloed hearts
then.

then,
the tome spell was broken;
the resentment sought solace,
the loyal sought company,
and this wild fire sought implosion
in passing on the burden

that was the red tomb of resentment.

x

Samsara

my mind is restless, 

running many a mile with memories of my last few years' worth of india trips. 

i re-visit my photos, 

and even the map i have, 

hoping that i may apparate to this land that you so luckily inhabit 

currently.

i imagine the smell of wood smoke tinged with bidi scents, 

the rising fogs of the early morning, 

the coughing and spluttering of the race course 5am walkers, 

the mosque, the temple, the gurdwara,

the pressure cooker calls.

it calls me.

but so does the seeded, rustic, summer grass of our garden, 

the melting tar nether my feet on my summer walks here, 

the rattling of the mud guard on franki the bike, 

the tui's call at 5am, the morepork at midnight, 

the flax burdened with nectar laden flower beaks

that iridescent fist sized birds flutter about.

i can have both worlds; one with memory, and one sensually.

got my first christmas card today,

from grandparents

enclosed with two photos of us in 1993.

photos i have never seen/don't remember.

just got back from a dinner at a friend's house

a 3 minute cycle ride under a star lit sky,

and cradle moon.

gentle fresh breeze,

weaving through the balmy, muggy night of 20 degrees.

been uploading photos onto facebook

of various social gatherings and events;

 a habit i am getting used to as my laptop breathes its last breaths.

it is 1am,

and the balmy of the weather has got the better of me,

but so has the music.

my fingers have been unconsciously typing for a few hours,

and i no longer am resisting my eyes wide shut.

i envision ragged skeletal hands, with protusions

and deep purple veins

frantically trying to placate lost friends,

in lost times.

i am troubled to hear that your beautiful house

wedgewood hall

needs so much work on it.

which asks so much of you.

it is really never ending.

i suppose one can understand why some people

spend their whole lives flatting

to avoid money and energy spent on maintenance.

it is a vicious cycle.

but in the end it may be to mental priority?

we do prioritise love.

immaterial as it may be,

it imbibes materiality.

you give off so much love and empathy

that needs to be spread and not isolated

(in a chilled vacuum of apathy)

i just hope it is never taking its toll on you.

how i have sought silence,

and how now my thoughts echo

while my fingers search for the words,

in fragmented plastic keys that will

convey who i am to you on this night.

how strange this detachment is.

how strange, too, that claire mary wood

spoke to me as a body with warmth and love,

only to be ash a few days later 

flying with the pollen,

the atmospheric songs,

the meteor showers,

the twinklin' stars

and the sweetness that is death.

this wind strips me bare.

x