the currency geek

he was coming the visionary

from far away countries

with stories of the impossible:

people learning to trust one another

discovering the meaning of

complimentary

And the possibility of value

shared; created.

on the morning of his arrival

i didn't want to move

recalling his steel blue eyes

his long black mane

his hands, from farmer's stock the

nails bitten absent mindedly

as he typed as he listened to my

growing confusion on the monetary system

he once

held my discoveries with the gentleness

of an elder his eyes

laughed

when we let our differences come together.

Our first walk:

10pm in London, around and around

in circles of old trees and fenced parks and

cobblestone streets

I in my frock and he in his torn t-shirt

the nomad working

building an 'impossible' world

one community at a time through the creation

of the most important thing

the exchange the gift the value:

currency

he had almost nothing in his pocket

he sought a different kind of exchange

why spend money on anything

that would line the queen's purse and the banker's rule

he was harsh, critical, stern - even cold

always looking for what would push forward the mission.

he said, i don't really feel.

he spent his life staring at computer screens

creating a code for a world that didn't yet exist.

the first time he rejected me i took it personally

only later

when he held me

stroked my hair and we let ourselves loose time

just for a while did i realise

we all have onion-layers

we went around to the parts of town

where the ordinary people

sought an extraordinary realisation

of creating themselves anew

separate from that City that sucked life and drained

away integrity from the lands of peat and oak.

why had people stopped using the lewes pound?

they said what we already knew:

novelty rarely creates lasting value.

my friends giggled when they met us together said

oh he is so handsome! and so kind!

i looked at his face again.

his backpack was never far.

Yes, i suppose

but it was his voice in my ear.

what's possible:

communities creating their own value

he was doing the work the only way he knew:

a prophet on the road.

i would have him no other way

for this is his form - true.

now i'm not as clear

in my own destination

i resist moving

from my nest this morning it was all

too bright

the sunshine on the buildings of victoria

albert and stonemasons and deadlines colliding

i said - be warned:

i'm as dark as a demon these days

moody as a roller coaster gone a-riot

if i snap i snap.

and i'm making no promises about - anything.

past performance is no predictor of current capacity.

he said:

depression is part of the human condition.

No need for the warning.

I will take you

as you are.

Ah, you nomadic geek.

coding currency

valuing only the true:

that space between the hard

objects of our world;

it is so soft

the value only we can give one another:

this precious grace

moving stones

argh the stone!

i cried.

it is so heavy i

wish it could just roll away

down the hill

no more of this moss and liechen

i just want it to

disappear but

moving it

takes more strength

than i have.

she reminded me

at least you

dont sit in front of the television

with tv dinners. you have strength

my dear.

not that this is much compensation

for those who dream of flying. but i'm

sure she's right.

she usually is the lady

who works to

(re)move stones.

first we find it. then we measure it.

then we look for its leverage points.

figure out

the best place to

put our backs we need to

push

continuously. regular application.

of course

the stone can move.

of course

it always takes two.

of course.

even Mary

did not move back the stone

Alone.

how many of us are there?

not yet fully emerged

shamans healers ministers

we knew it in those early years

when the lightening bolt came

nearly knocked us down the

black and yellow and gold the

message the

Promise.

we who are called to Her side

to listen to the moaning

and bend our minds to task of gathering

evidence and people and ideas to

be awakening

I keep discovering us

scattered and embedded and striving.

living without hatpins

I've got this thing for hats

big wide white ones

curly cues on red ones

fringe on black ones

Covering everything:

extravaganza.

I've got this thing for this

somewhat improbable

attempt at practicality and

extravagent beauty.

Hats yes but not hatpins

They stick to far too fast so I

can never seem to keep the

damn things from blowing away

they require

so much holding on,

my fetishes.

In the past few years

I've lost a few good hats

and a few have resurfaced again

like your smile in my memory

when I had thought you good and gone

He said it would be a wild ride

the loss of consumerism

with the financial crisis

and all that

funny i haven't noticed

a lack of hats the

pretty girls at ascot

might be a different skin color but the

hats sure do look fine and the

consumerism

continues making good times

good for those who don't worry

about if they've got enough

for that total unnecessary

head garment

he kept removing it

the hat

saying my hair was so beautiful

maybe i should revel in the wildness

but i'll keep a few things

just in case he's right, the visionary

it might be too soon

before there isn't much extra room

for wide brims

that hide eyes and hearts and the secrets

of beauty.

invisible

Invisible -

he knew his most important work

was when someone else said his ideas

not even knowing that weren't his own.

He sought that most subtle

manipulative of powers the power

of the mind behind the words

the imagination unleashed from

the bondage of too many assumptions

quietly enhancing empowering

to illicit

the want that wants to be wanted.

That conversation

with the head of police

after the workshop -

his head bowed

shoulders straight - nothing but

responsibility

and too many late nights

and the sights that should not be seen;

despite all that

something was - missing

not a person a process an insight - something a

transformation.

Then the Invisible one

said a few quiet words

a question, posed at the right moment -

a breath of fresh air

in the light of darkness,

the coffee stained carpet gave way to

patterns to

recognition.

When the Chief

repeated the words of the Invisible one

into the microphone and the assembled ones

nodded in appreciation

He chuckled to himself:

a job well done.

That they walk far:

that is all he asked for.

But what happens

When the client stops calling

when the donations from the corporations

stop rolling in and the monastery

where he had studied and practiced the art of

invisibility

use up their stores

of bread and bones?

What happens

when people don't want his services

because they don't know what he does

when the shape-shifter

can not be found because he is shifting shape

too often?

What happens

when the invisible

must become visible

to be found

to be made

invisible

again?

It was the crisis that did it

forced him to play his card and

choose

a shape for the world to see

force him to take a pathway

in the direction of love done fiercely.

he could hide and possibly drown

in the rising tides around his

island of sweet lavender and oaks and

the cell of the celtic

or he could build himself the raft

of left over animal skins and new friendships

tie tight a few books on his back and

travel

to a new world where he

didn't recognise himself -

We've done it before we

pioneers. Who said we ever wanted

to be someone else's hero we just

aimed for survival - and some of us sought

-justice

for those others who had been invisible

far too long

who needed

the knowledge we had harvested

each on our own blundering pathway:

to step out of the

shape shifting role we had to say

this is who we are

and we have had

enough

of the invisibility.

when did all that humility

come to mask the perfectionism

'i'll do it all my way',

stop the publishing the

realisation of the visioning the

articulation the action the

actual birthing of

something that resembles

sustainability -

it is not so

soft.

when must the Great Invisibility

show Its face upon the waters -

when is it time

for those made in It's image

to emerge from hiding?

when the waters

are rising.

for the reed amongst the oaks

oh, those magnificent oak trees.

They have shaded you so long.

Their trunks so large that even you

dear man

can not wrap your arms around them you

who held the little girls in your arms you

who held thousands of patients' hands

checking pulse, breathing, eyes

and now it is your

pulse breathing eyes

that those white coats check

as the doctor becomes the patient

that familiar disease of so many of us

westerners living in the risk-world

of endless growth.

oh those oak trees.

may they carry

on the back of sunshine and shade

these blessings.

blessings for a man of kindness

a quiet man who smiles sweetly

laughs gently

a reed bowing to the Wind

i call and

you seem on another island

even further away than america

even further away than home.

how are things?

Oh, not so good

At least I can stay at home

And there is not much pain

And I can still walk

But I'm weak

ah, yes: weakness - i hear

the raspy voice

You were never thick

I imagine you now,

a reed whistling

with the wind

of life and death

there is something so

pure

in the sweetness of your

raspy whispering.

May those oak trees

bless you with

beauty

bring the birds song

and the flowers of July

into the life of your veins

shining out so blue

like the streams

amongst the golden hills

the streams of moss, fern and home

you in your wood house

filled with books and tapestries

you who have given me

nothing but kindness

well-wishes

and a heart fully open

even before this 'abnormal' growth

ate into your tissue and bones you

were always open

to wanderers such as I

who keep at nothing if not growing

Have I loved you well enough

you reed amongst the oak trees?

I wish I could give you

more than blessings

on your journey

from this world to the next

You would shake your head, smiling gently.

My dear, it is enough.

For you

I have always been

enough.

your deep

acceptance of me

(and, long ago, when it was we)

For this

I thank you.

May you

Know in these last days

everything of what you so generously gave

love and kindness and patience and gratitude

may you

put together all that needs to be done

so you can bask

in the warmth of your fine family

two daughters - successful, strong,

courage in their wry frames they always

reminded me of you

such a wife, familiar with suffering, sorrow, joy

the mysteries between two people are seldom

fully known.

the cats, they come and sit besides you the

flowers you planted the fresh tomatoes of

california sunshine you can

still

taste everything please

may each morsel be

easy

may the pain

stay far away. I may believe

in feeling everything but

really

there is no need for that.

may the love come even closer

the light even stronger

may you forgive them

for what they knew not what to do and

may you

forgive yourself

for all that you left undone and

may you find happiness

in the pain of breathing weakly

may your mind

rest and still move

(not in desparation nor boredom) may i

learn

not to put off that which most needs be done

that work only i can do

a sign of peace

a piece of work

a string of words

in meter and in song:

protest, truth, resistance and

liberation

may you

be held in the arms of the Lover

who walked with Death at the Beginning

before you were born she

knew the arch of your smile and the

shape of your eyes.

May the winds of the high summer

blow sweetly

as you greet

whatever

it is -

that is a road only you can walk

the oak trees

only you can see

the wind only you

can let whistle through these

last few - times

i - i can only wish

that for you the oaks

hold you in light and shadow

and the wind be soft

not too cold

just a soft breeze - just

lightness

for a reed

in the dappled shade

of the might california oak

ah - may you rest

in the long time sun

shining you all the way

home

noon-day poems

let me write only at dusk

with a cup of ginger tea

or in the early dawn

with mint leaves and honey

and the birds laughing their way

into the day

when the colours sweep across the pallet

of my typing

and the haze and the sweetness

brings words together

the sweet swallow's song

it is not that the mid day sun

does not bring with it the poems.

Indeed.

They come hurtling at me

assaulting me

with image and verse and rhyme

i become

desparate

to write and even more desparate

that they be read

and you dear reader

occaisionally oblige

but really

even though they

are

beautiful

they are becoming too painful

they become

that which I do

to myself

instead

of that which I do

for myself

you noon-day poems

take me away from

that vital noon day meal -

from

bread butter and self-sufficiency

i

just can not afford

the noon-day poetry

let my muse

turn my head towards

that which generates

income and 'real work' and 'success'

let he

show me what to do next

how to win the proposal

how to secure the outcome

how to re-write that paragraph

that will do the work

that reconnects the

academic and the practitioner the

thinker and the thought the

earth and the value of creation

the work

not only of networking but of building

the community

beloved

i seek poetry

actualised

poetry

manifested in brick and mortar

in reports and published papers

in meetings and invoices and human resources

transformed.

please

mighty poetry,

in all your glory

my dear muse,

in all your strength -

help me

seek thee

not only on this slip of a page

but in the world.

help me

build thee

create thee

form thee -

manifest thee:

beloved in the flesh.

the prickly pear

the prickly pear

she was at least 100

trained in the judgement

of medicine her MD

hang about her like a

stone

infiltrating itself

into the tightness of

shoulders wrists and knees

there was so much pain

in the stiffness of her glare

behind the broken sentences

but still she came

to the workshop on healing

with a swamp of cynical harumphs

enough to swallow

any who dare sit too close

the lady who came to herald

the grace of the creator

that can be found in the simplicity

of hands and hearts brought together

stared at this wounded child

the apple wisened past sweetness

this is what she was given

to hold: that which did not

want to be held.

what if

she asked

you just - tried it out?

just - experimented?

well.

the prickly pear

harumphed.

I suppose I could

just give it a go

And so, muttering,

she sat in the chair in

the circle of Members

nobody special besides a few

Ordinary Humans

(made extra-ordinary by Love)

And they came to her

hands outstretched

touching her

sholdures

hands

knees

feet

she

who had never really

let the grace of the ordinary

or the simplicity of the hands

the touch

of the lightness of the baptismal waters

wash over her

stones

she was, there, held.

later

those who held

spoke of beauty

of meaning:

to be able to care

to hold

the prickly pear

to discover

the smooth soft skin beneath

afterwards

she was quiet

not so many harumphs

something

indescribable

touched

the healer

for a few moments

healed

who knew that even prickly pears

could taste

such sweetness:

their own

oh!

these imperfect clay forms

in Your image:

You make all of us pears so

precious

requirements of the cheerful order

The founder of my faith

did not merely say,

'walk cheerfully over the earth'.

The Fox said,

'walk cheerfully over the earth....

spare no deceit. Lay the sword upon it;

go over it....

Spare no place,

no word, no pen;

be a terror

to the adversaries of God

and a dread;

answering that of God in them all.

Ye have the power, do not abuse it;

eye the wisdom...

the wisdom of creation...

that you may be

ordered...

may you live...

where glory

and life is.'

Deceit.

Foolhardiness and fooling - ourselves

of anything less than -

the glory the life of god:

action truth beauty

stand on top of structures; tear them down

this requires

a fundamental

life-transformation.

why didn't anyone tell me that

walking cheerfully

required

such radicalness.

that the Christ

is nothing if not

revolutionary

that without revolution

we just keep spinning

the same fabric of destruction

not knowing where to turn we

move: myopic animals just

turning randomly floating endlessly

un-ordered.

but there is an order there is

Love

who comes with the sword

of the word.

into the long

Turning the bend we imagined

they would greet us like Giants

these Mysteries of the Isles. instead

they were so much smaller

just a little circle on a hill-side.

In that strange blue-florescent bright night-light,

we'd be hard pressed to find a ritual

much less a druid

here; instead just

raucous squeals, twisted dreads of that

breed of mostly-young hippie-consumers:

even before midnight,

beer cans and plastic strong-bows

litter our path.

That throw-away culture

colliding defiling melding - defining

the usually clean 'English Heritage site.'

Long: the plastic forks for the stringy wok noodles

will take decades to decompose

Long: the squeals and yells seemed to never end

just pass from one flippant smiling baggy-jeaned girl to another

Long: the pull, the pull of 5000 years -

we kept walking

Long: the sacred walk, the ancient walk,

of breathing and rhthym and rhyme.

picking our way amongst

debris blankets hash

we walked the walk

we had never been permitted to walk before we

crossed the barrier

that tonight of all nights the English Heritage

did not police

we crossed the barrier

that even we did not understand:

the young coming to greet

the Old Ones

She gasped as we crossed the barrier

Took my arm; her hands were cold

she said can you believe it

they suddenly seem so

big

So much smaller than anything in London

When we crossed the barrier

size reconfigured itself to a world

without skyscrapers just human

muscle and laughter and (perhaps) faith

Oh, these stones.

Crossing the barrier

that my parents crossed

before I was born when they

stood here

I now stand

I now stand

Amongst the standing stones

touch

5000 years of lichen and cold and warmth

nothing but compassion

we all reach out

to touch the Long

Not noticing

if we stand on beer cans.

All night we

kept staring at them.

She popped a little seed

told me it was acid and would only take

a few minutes to work -

He opened and drew back the strong bow

glowing golden light shining through plastic -

she carefully laid out the flimsy trash bags

to protect us from the wet -

(we were without wool blankets.

we were not our mothers.)

and we stared into the Long

embodied in the stone

----

I waited till after midnight

to fully enter into it, into the Long -

i feared a mosh pit

but the press of so much living flesh was more

akin to swimming among a thousand seals.

After my sholdures

began slowly to move

(how did they get so stiff?

how did i forget the rhythm?

Where have I been? - oh yeah - Lost

in the short.)

I took up the meaning of my given name:

princesssan, wise woman, minister-ess

she who (got away with) laughing at god

now standing on Stones

Not so high

as a corner office i could still

touch the head of the drummer

who came to sit beneath me let his rhythm

overtake me

dancing and spontaneous yelling

embrace me

as i stood on the (sacrificial?) stone

celebrating the longest day

through witnessing the shortest

(misty chilly) night

Raise hands above head

draw down the moon

(dear druids please forgive us

we mean no usurption just responding

to that calling we have all almost forgotten:)

raise up that old life force

that beats so strong here

here in the long

looking amongst a sea of laughing untrained warriors

who do not know the ways of the druids

who do not know the chants or the songs

who do not know how to care for the dying

who do not know how to properly wash the dead

who do not know how to harness the energy

Who are looking ahead only dimly, drunkenly

I see the stones

holding the hooting descendents of their makers

such immense imperfection

In this time of such planetary destruction

we are the ones they must rely upon for protection?

(or are they the weighty Guardians?)

do my fellow dancing fools know the collapse of the system?

regardless: the stones hold them.

they have seen so much more than I they know

the rise and fall of how many kings, civilisations, children

In the flashing lights of cameras

even the stones in their stillness seem to be moving

opening

Maybe in the old days

it wasn't always proper somber rituals

by chieftans

but sometimes

people came to laugh drum scream

awakening, the stones danced in their stillness

on the longest day of the year

I in my remembered-role

the men came to me

dancing, telling me

their confessions:

how they would never miss this night

how it gave them energy for months

how they couldn't explain it but

how they came to reclaim

their heritage, not to be bought

for 7 pounds - concession.

These men

emerged from finite hundrum isolating frustrations

saying: these people - my tribe

wasn't it so beautiful

the dancing young

amongst ancient standing stones

Yes, I said. Yes.

And you from America! they laughed

that their cousin might see what their sister

who stayed at home to watch tele

did not.

They came

men in big boots with strong hands that reached

for booze and women

and for the stones

they

ran their hands over the stones

in hommage

into the long

----

After the dawn broke

When the fields were filled with summer's colours

21st century England's barriers between

clean and filth, ruler and ruled, the poor and the proper

re-emerged

in the form of yellow-jackets with sharp teeth

the bobbies pointed to the exit - that way.

(as if a circle ever had one exit.)

suddenly the

lust

for the stones increased

inadvertantly compulsively we ran to them

reaching out

to caress them

to touch

the Long

we who have too many barriers

to one another we

not knowing how to trust each other we

hoped these

Guardians could teach us

of that which we can not remember

oh how long till we can touch them again?

that one, the tall one

his blue-gray skin etched with wind, rain, and kisses

( i suspect also - swords) i could

stand next to him and lean

and he would never

leave

just murmur the sweet nothingness

of the Long

that accepts infinitely the sorrows and joys

of those trapped

in the short.

but the yellow barriers resurrected at the orders

of class and power which these days

says 'heritage' is to be 'consumed'

at a distance

(without touching, any distance is too far)

came sweeping in their bullet proof vests -

(we who seek to love are clearly dangerous)

instinctively no need to scold me! a flash of anger, though i knew the rules before i came

i know how to

re-cross the barrier

(this walk of leaving, at least, i've done before)

Suddenly everything

(myopic animals/ election cycles/ quarterly reports

my time here) was

too short.

Leaving (not again)

I kept looking back we all kept

glancing as if afraid

they had moved,

shuffling back into 'tourist mode'

from the top of the hill

they looked small - even short.

Certainly cleaner,

tip bags piled neatly

in the far corner.

But my heart,

re-aligned by Giants

still remembers their rhythm.

I pick up someone else's trash

join the bus, the chatter, the 10am pub crawl

dozed on a train filled with suits

considered talking sense into a silver-cufflinked oil-man -

my fellow travelers they somehow have confused

stones and humans. where is the open heart?

may they also journey

into the long

before their short-termism

goes on far

too

long

that they forget

the terrible curses that befall grave-robbers

(especially those who burn fossils into fuel)

and the burial grounds

(where shall they go, do they know?)

and the henge

of standing stones

On Father's Day

My father has a habit of dying.

The most recent time -

a hundred miles an hour so fast

through a tunnel

with more darkness than light

partial light - into the dark,

until the end of the road to The End

but that end was Dark. So.

Turn off the engine.

Wait.

A woman. Gently. Eat this - honey.

Her voice, such sweetness: drink this: water.

Dim light: some loneliness, some joy.

My father dances with death

The way I dance with life -

One foot in and one foot out.

Except, says he, the day I first made him a father.

At my birth, he saw nothing but Light.

Such is the naked power of the babe

the miracle of dark tunnels, a bit of light

and then the screaming.

When her father died she

shreaked

the howl shook the house. the chickens squaked

and the dog cows horses neighbors joined her inner chaos.

No attempts to hide (control) just

intense pain

if only she had left earlier but he

was healthy not that long ago -

There were (always?) so many if onlys

After his father died he

wrote and wrote reams

pages of poetry and scribblings

that which was never able to be said.

And now he talks to his dad,

Casually, with ease, and openness, and simplicity.

he says,

My relationship with my father is so much better

Now that he is gone.

When his father died he

sank to his knees in relief

let the sweet salty breeze wash over him

at last it was over

years and years of holding on

both men finally free

(The tears came later

when his cat passed over

he could barely work

the house was so empty

without her quiet)

She often wished

her father would die he

never said anything of kindness

she kept near but he never

said those three words -

the writer had no articulation except in tears

she could only keep working - hard.

When his father died he

was lifted, Ennobled

His father's grace, glory, beauty

passed like a torch

into his very being and he

stood taller, wearing destiny proudly:

to be the son

of such a great man. Now even his stride

sang his father's tune.

When his son died

the marriage followed suit

the house left not long after

and the cacti in the desert

heard his song of heartache

its sharp needles and sweet flesh

bore witness to life (what was left of it).

When he finally left the desert,

it was with the cacti's small bright flower in his heart.

After his father died

he watched them. Those two

little boys now shining into

strong reeds of manhood with their

white suits on green grass

fierce concentration

generous laughter - such fine qualities

Here, for once! (and forever),

he loved - and loved well.

At least his father,

(who had always found a

few quiet moments

for his frantic mother - now not even he

who fits into the old man's suits

wearing well the protector's steady posture

can ever fill

that empty space

next to his mother

she now sits alone.)

got to see his sons like this:

growing.

The first time

my father played with death

I had no experience of

growing.

That came later.

Then, it was more like

being buried while breathing.

Even so from my father

who flirts with death like a lover

(his favoured danger-pleasure)

Death, who won't ever leave him - not like

the others -

my father

(who hates hallmark holidays)

my father -

ah, bless him.

for those hard-earned teachings, such lessons as

holding on when everyone said

he would never cry moan complain think

again

somehow papa just keeps on

living

a manifestation of (what else) the wry humour

of his Father.

at least today i know gratitude

he is only dying, and not - yet - dead

and I?

Still learning

To turn this process of dying into one of

living to go through that tunnel slowly

burning brightly

close

Close

I mean we never meant to get so close

so close that we could possibly get so far

away as across the street

you are

so

close

and i am

so

far

close we never

were going to get close

just some light flirtation

you

and even i are not exactly the most

available

for closeness not when it is the warrior

and the lioness

pacing and growling she

wants - everything (and he has little to give)

to feel

the wide spaces of the sarengetti

not these

paved streets filled with preditors and then

there was you

leaning against a lamp post

stronger, harsher, much more the warrior

than i had imagined you

i nervous, restless -

you became like a willow tree

by a sweet brook the sun was shining

and i was

quite content to lay in the dappled shade

and just lounge nestling my mind in paws

a period of

not trying to get anywhere

and then

suddenly

i was too close

I didn't mean to get so close

i just

have this thing for the human heart

tender and beautiful and your

branches stroked my hair and the

breezes whispered a memory

and i

wanted to touch you

just to reach out and touch

after so much distance

if i remember correctly

i might have

touched

some part of you

gently

and you - flowed. at least for a few moments.

such gentleness in your hands

that hold such such wicked weapons

as pens.

(i should know.)

and now

you can't keep me far enough away.

from willow to cactus

i am here

push pull close far

i can only offer

something that resembles

peace and blessings

first for myself

and then (perhaps) for you

its not that i don't like cacti.

i can appreciate such stark beauty.

Lionesses also

walk long without water

go far without shade. I've

walked further and longer

and closer

than this.

my breed is not as soft

not as sweet

as we might first appear.

But i gave you my softness

not my teeth

and even now

i'd rather swish the tail

than strike out.

(do you want - claws and teeth?

you will have to play well.)

and its not like you didn't warn me

as clearly as a man can warn a woman

to stay away

from his prickling spines

a warning that came out like something

said many times before

or maybe a dare:

will I still want to taste

the bright flowers that even cacti create?

your spines: such potent burdensome gifts

all that

socio-economic radical critique.

but tell me

where is the root

that finds the source

of the waters

that sustain

desert cacti and english willows

and even the huntress

will you come back

or will you find another

cat

to play the game of meter and rhyme

and i?

another brook

Reflecting shadow and light?

Maybe.

Or perhaps

there is a space

between close and far

that is balance

(heh.)

neither desert nor willows' preferred

swamplands

the savanahs - ah, the savannahs.

i wish

that were true.

and that we were not headed for

desertification.

but these days there is no cool

savannah breeze

in sudan.

cattle bones lie parched

too much exposure the bald vultures

in big jeeps and black sunglasses

taking over.

maybe we are both looking for

brooks

that won't run dry

deep waters

not used up by

others those ghosty ancestors who came before

i ever reached to caress your cheek

waters not covered by too much

machinery

those fossil waters

that used to sustain even deserts now

so close

to being

gone

the thingness

This world this thingness

milky tea

no ideas but in things

pens, surface

stones - papers

poetry, such materiality

of grief and love

our daily life

must shine

irregardless

of work and money and relationships

scrub clean the toothpaste

and find the olive green branch beneath

elogies

there is a hope

in giving things up

there is a hope

transcendence

grief can return you to the other

its here if anything

mythologizing a godless world

softness of tea bags and cold beer

after you went to someone else

celebration and rennovation

praise as a response to Overwhelm

One to be with us

whomever we may be

Translating human life into landscape

look after the natural world

the super charged language

of the open

Oh the marvels the marvels

of the thingness of the world

that sweet almost unexpected

kiss

we whose minds gallop across days

captured briefly one another

in this our

thingness our substance.

red bus, lillies

Lillies of the valley

clothed by The Glory

seem to have no anxiety

unlike this precious creation

nail biting, nirking

constantly shifting thoughts straying

fretting about such impossibilities as the past

mattering the worry stone often.

those lillies

(tigers, easter whites, everyday sunset orange)

reminding me

nothing is as perfect as this moment.

And why not?

Why not believe that this moment is perfect?

The laws and regulations

the systems that malfunction

such crazy-making

where the sane are locked up

or locked down

or locked in

locked around one another

trapped

quietly desparate

may there not be (is there?) perfection

in the unemployment

the injustice

the cry of the

dispossesed

the grim joy

of the filmmaker documenting it all -

the reaper

or even

the woman who laughed

when she told me

of the slaughter

how she made it here

to an admin job

filling somebody else's papers

she

born to a village of sweet potatoes

green beans, maize and bright mornings greeted

by chickens who ran free before

the men came who

tore it all apart

now sits besides me on this bus that

sways with colour and carbon fumes

it doesn't take long

to connect

our hips touching now turning we're looking

(so rare, here, to really look.

but we do.)

a moment of openness.

all my hours in front of a computer

hers: that long walk

out of Africa

fades even as it defines our shape and

for a moment

we are just two lillies

on a red bus

swaying

in life's chance-winds

possibly maybe even this is

Perfect.