The stream (all workshops)
Just a shiny little apple, still growing up
But that shine you see in the pictures
Isn’t really there
I just reflect it off back to you
And maybe it’s what I was
But I’m far from you now
I’m far from the tree.
Maybe we are the same
Could you live without your stereo?
Did you live for Pinwheels
and holding someone’s hand?
Did you sing?
Were you angry?
Was it me?
But now I’m far from you
Now I’m far from the tree.
Mind
is used up or consumed
ere the
Body
is buried or exhumed
and the
Soul
is invisible
as much as are
I and you...
Period.
The Clock Master. Set 1.
Don’t wind me up anymore he raged
at the key of sleep, I’ll stop your heart,
take your hands off without so much
as a peep.
The key ignored his screaming
round face, continuing to turn even tighter
at a more pertest pace.
ONE SNOWFLAKE
And here we freeze
one snowflake now descending
like spring blossom disguised as water
floating
on currents of air
down light
the white of winter's cast off gown
make pale the distant hills and town
in shrouds of thin soft greys
the wash of water colours
on the page of days
that should be filled with rays of sun
the flowers begun to burst in celebration
shut now every one
A thursday silent as a sunday
ascension day
they say
with wistful fitful quiet
With each heart beat
I see visions…
Faces…
Of kinsmen from next door
Burning in domestic flames
Screaming out in mortal pain!
With each drum beat
I see…
The Bloodshot eyes of young people like me
Balancing guns
In their premature hands
I watch in horror
As they spray bullets into the thoraxes of others
Familiar tunes play in my head
Of songs continually sang
By my mothers…
I hear them whisper to themselves;
“Was it better for our babies to be born alive?
…Or…”
We have heard the rattle and rhythmic clings
Of metals, and woods and plastics
Breath out music, melodic inspirations
We have even heard the dulcet humours
Tunes of our hearts beat rhythmically
And our troubles rest their tides
But the rhythmic clings of terror
Sound rattles of the riffles
And the millipede march of tanks
In and around our neighbourhoods
We only hear music of cries, stench
Of fear and awful aroma of death
Who sends me gifts of lilacs,
their mute scent clamoring
with my city, its carbon monoxide
mouthing words I can not hear?
The forest is unremembered here,
a sad dullness spikes the spring air.
Vacant fields of yellow emerge.
Come, pour the wine. Inhale the
elegant chandelier of air. Loosen
your lionheart before we forget
why we smile sometimes.
There is no reason for beauty.
SAY, “CHEESE”
“I’ll see you when I see you”
I said.
By that time
I will probably be dead.
How nonchalant and cool
of me.
I wish you well”
“Go to hell”
Is what I meant
But A thorough thoroughbred
am I.
And so I hung up the phone
faked a voiced indifference
And began to die
again
Say, “cheese and smile”
A candle glitters there in memory's distance
It keeps aflame to ever hold the story
of previous high-spirited existence
when every season's hour was filled with glory
At times I think I almost taste the essence
past emanating from that taper's fire
and from the burning wafts forgotten fragrance
(but still familiar to blithe heart's desire)
I'm looking for what?
A search that has taken a lifetime
Seemingly to be never satisfied
With what was found
The wanting of that special human contact
Which I thought I found, but did not
It was only the perception of my own mind
Projections of my wants
On another human life, without regards
Of what they needed.
Which leads to the human relationship crash
Created by the unawareness
Of what truly matters.
Me!
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