tinker bells and shifting shapes

too much shape shifting
serves neither
shifter
nor shape.

there was a shape
or at least a shadow
there
on the wall
by my window
a rather tantalyzing
figure
tall and dark
head bowed
eyes looking up.

his nos slipped
towards yeses and his
yeses were conditional
on a world of moving particles
where he fell
bouncing,
moving between them.

it just so happened
his own substance was
fit enough
so that his movements
rippled:
an attractor,
strange enough
on panels and committees and
dinner discussions
of those critical goal-changing games
popular on a finite planet
of nearly endless possibilities
worlds upon worlds
interweaving and contradicting
innovative shadow-systems and
entrepeneurial black criminal holes
lovers and liers and leapers -
anything could occur
except that:
we have only
one.

disgruntled with dishonesty i pace
the distance
between words and paper.

his words echo
reverberating in fear's canyon:

I do not want to wake up in my 50s
having fallen into
something.

and there was that man, tall:
hair turned grey in 4 years
running again,
running fast
and not fast enough.
he who (still!) fears the Stance
of Shape.

there was the woman
i would have gladly married
but never mustered the courage
to so much as kiss -
and then those i buried
myself into, steaming up
windows and blushing strangers
but would never
ever
marry.

there was that paper
i didn't actually publish
and later someone else
won awards
for lesser work.

there was that meeting
with the top man
and the top woman
and the top go-between.
i've sat with them all.
but still i sit
quiescent.

none of that
past
matters now.
it just got me here.
and that's enough.

now darkness
takes over the earth.
amidst short red skirts
clicking heels and
tinker bells i
stride
can i make
this emerging shape not
fall
through time

he is learning
a new shift
into a shape
grounded in
soil and stardust and
even a shimmer of
teleos.

we from our depths:
to move past the shadow
through the door that opens when
windows
waiver
blowing closed:

to take our
place amongst the
constellations that
raise their eyebrows at our
destiny (such potential!)
that we are still
learning to
summon
where our yays are yays
and suddenly all is
simple
and the world is
(somehow even now)
well.

resumption

What's this
fooled
again?

there was such
clarity
on the mountain top
but then I
kept wandering in your
forest

as if dark damp shadows
were to be preferred
to sunbeams

I've been a cave dweller
in the forest
surrounded by
monkeys

I knew enough:
these waters were
poisoned
by decades of extraction
legitimacy's inconsequential

why didn't
I keep traveling
to the spring's source?
because the road was
steep

now looking at your
reflection in the
darkness of the
waters:

you never mentioned
her.
(bless her)

I guess I'll
go back to
climbing.

whats and whens

so when.

so many books but the question is not of
more information
its in the writing
in the shaping of words
and the communicating
who hears this

the whens.

some planets circle long
i didn't see pluto returning
until now
black and cold
that force that
turns my head
And then there is Saturn
heavy and deep
Compelling: that question
that begs to be answered.

ah, the whats and the whens
not just the ideas
that flow like water
but the concreteness
of exactitude finite calenders
the timely ordering of planets
the right ordering of our lives

the weight
and the pressure
of so much that we love:
when, when, when
shall i see you
again
what what what
will i say
when the thoughts are gathered

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.