thin time

setting sun:

that thin time

when the spirits between one world and the other

pass like gold leaves

between our fingers

we miss one another in the

hurry of the morning

only to come together

in the eve of our beginnings

the dark time

of magic and chaos

shreeking goblins

and laughing children

and a woman frail,

barely breathing

what Trickster guides this game?

where oh where

is the man

who quietly stoked the winter fire

chopped the wood and bent his sholdure

to what was needed

So close to her now,

his empty space

(no, no, don't even try to fill him, you have

your own)

ah, Old Hallowmass.

dead dreams rise like ghosts

bury the apples and carve the way

for those whose names we have forgotten

complexity: it is never the same

twice.

Fear not.

Nutmeg, mint, Heliotrope.

mulled wine and beef stew.

Obsidian.

such gold as the falling leaves:

fleeting wealth of life fully lived

turn now and turn again

to the dying and the dead

keep in the living:

not you not yet

do not run away

face the the Crone and Her

Consort but come home.

come home come home

sunbeam's shining boy

to the earthy darkness

of your ancient mother's Ways.

veni veni

to the space between:

standing close to the doorway

again on the threshold

you don't

have to

run

away.

Me, I'll

take your

hand

facing ...

(a break in between metaphors and models and cups of tea and shadows on walls)

face this, then: white clothed lady

a slight man with a big smile

you'd never guess his story

till the telling of tales begun:

pizzas sodas donuts cheese

until his feet became blimps

red sirens stilled into white hospital beds

the successful financier

enough stones overweight that

several nurses had to work together to turn him

until he was there with tubes and wires and his

concerned indian mamma

scolding the man who never grew up

only then did he see the desparation at the end of the tunnel

the powerlessness

the fatality

of his attempts at survival

face this then: hooded blackness

he was tall, handsome, oxford-bred

he was quick to assure me english was

not his first language

somewhere under thirty with the cynicism of the comfortable

the indian said he was beginning to think life was just a game and

really he preferred economics, the simple numbers at the end of the

day

sure it was meaningless but at least it was clear and

if they didn't listen to you just throw more graphs at them:

no one wanted to admit ignorance

but what, i wondered, are you really ignorant of

have you really

looked in the shadow land

beneath the curve of the supply chain

have you really

sat with those who have

nothing

dont talk to me of resilience

you who have not faced

that naked siren of a woman

who will lure you to her Shadow- Master's door

before the postman

notices you didn't

collect yesterday's mail.

face this then: a shadow where there was once substance

the memory came sharp, pungent -

the sound of his voice in my ear

i was 5, 15, 20, 25....

ah, i'd manage to forget -

the taste of death

not today

by god

not today

improvisational contact points

autumn colors paint the redbricks yellow

sing the sweetness of the hereafter

in the dying leaves bursting

life into just a single point

of contact

wrist touching wrist:

stillness

man watches woman watching man

mirrors upon mirrors

of difference

in breath out breath

stillness

i'd cry out for everything but for nothing

until the still point moves the

point of contact

(it is only in one point)

wrist then arm then sholdure then back and suddenly

we are moving

wrestling leaping flying rolling

where can we go

but here

the true fallacy of nothingness made concrete; the wind

blowing through the leaves it is only

here

that we live

push away no hold back come close stay put

move

fall head first duck roll run still bleeding

come

you: never ending eyes

in that stillness of deep listening i

rest.

such intimacies -

the stranger

who touches your hair

like a lover

the man who lifts you

like a babe

the woman

who says come play

in the wilds

of the imagination

between the body

and the soul

the beckoning

under the blue sky

of a Meeting

Gathering

ah, to dance, to dance

to sway like laughing trees

and make poetry

of such silly things

as bodies

and minds

and lives

too briefly lived -

when each movement lasts forever

before tumbling into the next one such

stillness

as grace.

coriander seeds

she was one of those women

who had to stand on tip toe

at the edge of the podium

and still people could only see

blonde hair (dyed) and the edge of her

wire glasses.

but her voice

easily projected

to the back of the hall you

were surprised

she was not

taller.

hands gnarled

from years in the soil

stooped the slightest bit

from the bedsides

of child birthing

and the heads

of desks and meetings she

meant business:

mortgage paid

bills neatly sorted

taxes done early.

forward planning:

the freezer stocked with

homemade sauces, pies

and handpicked blackberries.

Tulips? Planted!

The bright white lines

on the garden steps appeared

after that fall

and the broken tooth.

the orange buttons

on the kitchen gadgets

came after

the gas was left on.

today she

found the new recipe i left on the counter

voice rushed and tight she asked

me to read to her the ingredients

before turning away into a corner;

neither of us saying

it was anything other than normal.

she said,those seeds?

looking through her spices:

she had no coriander seeds

would ground coriander do?

in the conservatory

pressed against the window

the yellow flowers are

wilting

against the unusually bright

autumn sun.

ground too fine

coriander seeds

blur

into dust.

the night frosts:

as if we needed reminding.

winter is

quickly

coming.

island stories

she said

your eyes are like green blue rainbows.

looking at hers

i could only guess

she spoke true

what do i really know

of my own eyes?

on top of the world we have

an entire island beneath us

green hills curved around blue seas

silver sparkling memories

of pirates and empires

who knew how to duck in and out

of armadas and slingers and black deaths

this

tiny little island

now slowly drowning

in its own hubris

we laugh

what craziness that brought us

to where we are outsiders on the inside

of ourselves

hands on her hips

that perfect curve

that only a woman has

oh how i have missed

slopes and curves and wide buttocks and hips

i reach between layers of cotton

to the softest of flesh

between hip and breast:

pull close

small sharp intake of breath

hers or mine?

i could

oh i could so

fuck her.

instead we stand swaying gently:

dancing trees.

pressure rises up

pushes down:

the inevitable opening of the

gates

desire stains

my jeans

stick together

whimpering;

a lioness

roaring, unsure about

such peculiar pleasures

as waiting

asking

is this really

what you want

older couples walk by

hand in hand

they don't seem to burn

they don't seem to

need to

fuck

they watch the queer women

she without much hair and i

in a good pair of walking shoes

which one of us

is which?

they walk

too close.

i wonder if it is just age

or if i

american from head to toe

endowed with the eyes of the

sea maidens

those sweet sirens

who shaped my name

before i was born

and brought me to the island

at the edge

of the old

falling

loosing everything it once knew as true

if i never belonging am just

unusually horny.

those sea creatures told me

pirate stories

forgetten during overgrown empires

of loss and recovery:

its never too late

to ride the ocean of desire

to steal the world anew.

death came a-leaning against my door frame

on that day when i was stained

wet

with the desire

known by blooming roses

leaning over tall stone walls

veni veni

there is no essence

like bones

dried and white

empty sockets staring

nothing like the leaves

torn beneath crushing feet

and what they expose of you:

the bare branches

the gleeful children,

remembering

gathered together we

spoke of the things that matter

holding nothing but

tea despair laughter

over the most common of terrors

that there will be no letters

from the postman

nothing to weave us into the

richness of the life of the caring

and the meaning-making

and the substance of well-being

bills letters funeral arrangements

and that in meeting our obligations

we are forgetting our real duty

to the dead:

to pave the way

for the unborn.

when death walked by

in the guise of the half-living

i had her pressed against the church

wall

soft against soft

i might have

fucked her

then

but for that strand of convention

and the inconvenience

of skirts and jeans and such material

things

instead i just left

stained

no virgin pretentious pureness here just the

flesh and sticky nectar;

memory of your hands

before you ambled back to your

shadow-lover