The Nature of Daylight

A weekend of sun brings...

and I feel


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Hands cup around waves of sun and sky
splash them across the face like dense clouds,
GASP, pull down a towel, wriggle into a shirt,
breath freedom upon the breeze
deeply,step out.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.

Far safer, of a midnight meeting
External ghost,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.

Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,
Than, moonless, one's own self encounter
In lonesome place.

Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror's least.

The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O'erlooking a superior spectre
More near.

~Emily Dickinson



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...Lotus, your feet thick with marsh amidst the brush,
pretty as apple blossom swimming naked, pink as blush...

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Strange that even the steadfast and hopeless rocks
lay adorned in velvet regalia, while the trees disrobe.
Even the sateen sky pitted with holes in its darkness
seems dressed in sequins, its navel smiles at a heavy belly,
pregnant and fluttering with bats, moths and owls... :siteless

The breeze bathes in lilac, then enters the room fully dressed through the window to steal the senses… Romantic zephyr it is. Wandering the plains and fields in search of the perfect window, the most delicately sheer garments for to shed its hyacinth... siteless


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Sometimes the telephone transforms to feathers,
light as song.
Sometimes a day seems perfect, sometimes there is isness,
sometimes faith is a feeling deep inside leading each step.
All the time there is thanks for all of that and more.

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Coins, two in each sock for dancing on the hearth; apples
cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg on the stove, taking a mead bath.

Lust, you have to love it, how it surpasses love every time, it’s the almost...
Just about...
If I just step off...
Virtual ability to take a fragile web on the wind and fly with it. Hooked by a wisp of wind, up to a high stratum cloud, just taking in the view, breath taking,,,,, hand the oxygen quick quick, before some one passes out.

There are skywalkers up there, dressed in blue robes and incandescent effervescent body lotion. They wear after rain perfume, they are the aristocrats, they teach music and dance. They entertain, and call the shots equal, they don’t see decaying smiles, they see slackened muscles and shot nerve endings, nothing a good night of star skipping and sounding off the beat, wind surfing and fire twirling couldn’t fix.

They mouth rinse in mead and almond liquor, finished off with ginger and cloves. How their attire just fits, gracious soft and flowing, waves of dazzling light absorbing and light refracting sateen like gossamer like mists. They are shadows.

They get so busy rejoicing in that void they don’t see beyond their own light show, drowning in melodious hypnotism. What do they need with water? They are pure atomic energy, they might lose their speed, get all caught up and conducted, they don’t need a conductor. They are the perfect symphony, they can shoot straight though the earth’s core, they don’t find it solid at all.

They are the fairies, the ghouls, the cherubs, Pegasus. They are gods and goddesses, they answer to no one, they just are, because some people still believe them into the ether, so they just are. They dance with our dreams, and place flowers in our hair and take our hand like peter pan and teach us to soar,,,,, If we don’t beg,,,,, if we sit quiet, of them we listen to carefully.

They helped design the atom, and the snowflake, and the rainbow, and the clearest crystal, they pressured coal till it became diamonds, because they like permanence.
Mostly their work goes unthanked…. They are but our imagination, and we could let them die,
not knowing what we had,, with doubt alone.

:siteless


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Lior Lior... oi oi oi



hehehehe


Do other beings inhabit our biosphere
Whose life is one and whole? I cannot tell.
I only know at moments everywhere
I sense their presences in earth and air...
(From The Wild Bees)

whadryadoing? But thanks

the horses the horses are on the track....

roses day.



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VICTORY-PHASE-TWO

'VICTORY-Phase Two'
Names are coming out of your skins.
A name of a rose: rose is a rose is a rose is a rose............
Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na
Names are coming out of your skins. Names are coming out of your skins.
Names are coming out of your skins. Names are coming out of your skins.
Names are coming out of your skins.Names are coming out of your skins.
Names are coming out of your skins. Names are coming out of your skins.
A name of a rose: rose is a rose is a rose is a rose............
Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na A name of a rose: rose is a rose is a rose is a rose............
Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na
('Ga Ga Na Na' is a myanmar word which means 'knowing thoroughly')
Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na NaGa Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na Ga Ga Na Na

Names are coming out of your skins.
A name of a rose: rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.........

Names are coming out of your skins.
A name of a rose: rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.........

Names are coming out of your skins.
A name of a rose: rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.........
THE WHOLE IS DRUNK WITH SELF-STORAGE ORBIT SYSTEM.

Nyein Way

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The Flowers that bloom:

When flowers are in bloom, it's an awesome sight.
As they spread their petals to catch hold of the light.
We water and feed them, and take special care,
As we want their beauty to always be there.
The colors I see are a shock to behold,
They can blend together or stand out bold.
But if I get careless and forget to feed,
I open the door to some dark ugly weeds.
If left untended, they can block out the sun,
And before too long the damage is done.
That's how the memories are in my mind,
As back in the paths of the past I wind.
There is the good and there is the bad.
They both make up the life that I've had.
The question is, which one will hold sway?
Which one will I let take over my day?
Lord, give me the strength to only make room,
In the paths of my memory, for the flowers that bloom.
© 1999, Jerry Ham

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Both feet on the ground, clover, rye and rain between the toes, sun on the face a poem on a palm heading up the arm.

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"I'll make a broken music, or I'll die."




- Roethke




.

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Things of beauty:

Coffee brewing and
Lilac and
Gardenia and
Vanilla and
Daphnia and
Rain in the summer time and
Wild horses,
Mossy valleys and
the ocean in its calm,
coral trout,
Rivers and mimosa.



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Why bow to watch your toes?

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Poetry is....


this….
Capturing the river in its meanderings, and each swirling current caught on a snag beneath the surface, the sparkling jewels over the rapids, and the smooth river stones wet and rippled in mottled tones.

Its painting the clouds as they hit the peak of a mountain range and rush like smoke fireless down the other side, or sit low in valleys, a blanket sheltering temperate forests where the only sound is the small droplets of condensation rolling off one leaf onto another stepping down from lush canopies to marshy groves where vines form the solid land mass.

Poetry is melting sand as it falls through your fingers forming delicate glass cascades to be forever frozen in time transformed. Understanding what the gnarly old tree has withstood for over a thousand years against the elements of time, and how the rain now burns its roots. Its dancing with the gypsy behind her mysterious eyes weaving her wrists to the sun all tiny bells and elegant fingers splayed just so just right.

The tiny mouse foot prints spilled from an ink well that was left out of an old Rembrandt master piece, hopping across one of his beloved books on philosophy blotting out the lines about an inner light he searched for, but he loved his shadow so dearly in his loses.

Unbolting each finger so as to send them away to be reconditioned to remedy writers block and stiff knuckles from that last nightmare where you drove your own nails though the palms of your hands.

Its counting each fragment as you attempt to glue together that china dinner plate that was thrown to the floor, and the feeling it left in your stomach at it smashed.

Poetry is walking naked on a warm summers day through empty fields and describing how the gentle breeze plays with your hair like soft feathers over your back and causes pleasant shivers through your whole being inside and out.

The feel of soft green grass on bare feet.

The courtship of the bowerbird and his obsession with the blues, and why his lady thinks him more attractive the bluer he is.

Poetry is the whispered prayer from those who don’t pray, rituals of candles and neroli oil, Pettitgrain, pencil, paper and tear filled eyes.

Poetry is hiding in plain view or begging to be heard or bleeding without blood and dieing without death as well as throwing open doors, breaking windows, opening chapters, swooning openly, lusting after life, and love falling through pages like lead shot.

It’s a child’s kiss goodnight and sleepy morning eyes.

Pillars we build our selves to pink nebulous like magic dragons and galactic stars of old where weightless we drift in admiration for the endless expanse of imagination birthed in dreams and possibilities.

I don’t really write of any of these things, beautiful things, I am not a poet, but I try.



:siteless

Those words come honeydew n nasally like an afternoon of sadness’s,
I like to imagine the extra gleam in your eyes looking at her, enthusiasm of smile,
dancing with your children, beautiful bird, wings in my heart.


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Of all fires
love is the only inexhaustible one.

PABLO NERUDA, O Magazine, Feb. 2007
----------------
There's a country spread out in the sky,
a credulous carpet of rainbows
and crepuscular plants:
I move toward it just a bit haggardly,
trampling a gravedigger's rubble still moist from the spade
to dream in a bedlam of vegetables.

PABLO NERUDA, Dream Horse
----------------
Ah, love is a voyage with water and a star,
in drowning air and squalls of precipitate bran;
love is a war of lights in the lightning flashes,
two bodies blasted in a single burst of honey.

PABLO NERUDA, Morning XII
----------------------------
Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.

PABLO NERUDA, Evening LXXVIII
------------------
Hate is like a swordfish,
working through water invisibly
and then you see it coming
with blood along its blade,
but transparency disarms it.

PABLO NERUDA, Autumn Testament
---------------------------------
I say love, and the world populates itself with doves.

PABLO NERUDA, Get Used to Seeing the Shadow Behind Me
-----------------------------
From each crime are born bullets
that will one day seek out in you
where the heart lies.

PABLO NERUDA, "I Explain a Few Things"
---------------------------------
My poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.

PABLO NERUDA, Memoirs
---------------------
Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

PABLO NERUDA, "Your Laughter"
----------------------------------
Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?

PABLO NERUDA, The Book of Questions
------------------------------
I watch my words from a long way off.
They are more yours than mine.
They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

PABLO NERUDA, "So That You Will Hear Me"
----------------------
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death
Perhaps the world can teach us
as when everything seems dead
but later proves to be alive.

PABLO NERUDA, Extravagaria
------------------------------
In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?

PABLO NERUDA, The Book of Questions
--------------------------
Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

PABLO NERUDA, Winter Garden
-------------------------
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

PABLO NERUDA, "Tonight I Can Write"
-----------------------------
My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

PABLO NERUDA, "Your Laughter"
--------------
Only do not forget, if I wake up crying
it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child
hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.

PABLO NERUDA, Sonnet XXI
--------------
Laughter is the language of the soul.

PABLO NERUDA, I Explain a Few Things
------------------------
Love! Love until the night collapses!

PABLO NERUDA, "Come Up with Me"



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Dragonfly of sky of kaleidoscope wings
free from mud of bubble-skin streaks
miniscule rainbows
beaconing

Would have thought to love a poet
of fragile mind webbed like a widow
a heart full of disaster,
aching marrow full of midnight silences.

But rather this perceived catastrophe
this caterwaul this cacophony
a sarcophagus full of sunshine
an empty nemesis, at ease in quietude.



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“Only from the heart Can you touch the sky.”

Jalal ad-Din Rumi


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“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”

Jalal ad-Din Rumi

-------------------------

You were born with wings. Why prefer to crawl through life?”

---------------

When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.

Jalal ad-Din Rumi


Jalal ad-Din Rumi

There is a beauty in stabilised ruins;
rusting scaffolds, prickling hessian
and summer rooms vapoury drapery
limp before damp frosted glass.

Daphne permeates naked timbers
porous cracked and powdery bricks;
roils in on floor draughts up dingy passage ways
drawn by cold chimneys to each room.

I can’t believe everything’s still here.
I can’t believe summer hasn’t taken them.

I can’t believe the roof still stands
under four seasons of leaves; fallen from
that old walnut, bare, girdled tightly by ivy
murdered by the merciful sun last season,

it would offer up sweet fruits
if only someone could beat the cockatoos.

I lean into the garden, gather up jonquils
shiver to feel this old place was never left alone.

I can almost smell raisin toast, cinnamon,
hear those children excited by brand new lambs,

but the breeze nipped the back of my neck, tucking memories
right back to yesterday when I forgot.

Though I remembered enough to pick the jonquils,
and bring them to you.

:siteless

then there was something lovely...

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Some pages oxidise until five cups of coffee persecute ghostly fingers till they look pink, feel warm,
when all they want is uncultivated cerulean knuckles,
a guileless collection of incentives, a tattoo original forming a carnivals carcass spine weaving along the road; taking the long way home.
Another page out of some book, due for return, tomorrow.
:siteless


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...the tree tops sparkle so,
perhaps the stars are up there,
perhaps they come down to roost until the sun goes down where they begin to shiver and burn and float.

I think little bats might fold them in their wings to keep warm in their sleep.
The rest of them stars must be why the tree tops look sparkly white,
when I know they are green and burgundy, that must be why they look so burgundy to begin with,
the stars leave warm spots where they rest under chilly drought blue skies...
:siteless


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BEYOND KERGUELEN
by Henry Kendall

Down in the South, by the waste without sail on it,
Far from the zone of the blossom and tree,
Lieth, with winter and whirlwind and wail on it,
Ghost of a land by the ghost of a sea.
Weird is the mist from the summit to base of it;
Sun of its heaven is wizened and grey;
Phantom of life is the light on the face of it --
Never is night on it, never is day!
Here is the shore without flower or bird on it;
Here is no litany sweet of the springs --
Only the haughty, harsh thunder is heard on it,
Only the storm, with the roar in its wings!...


...Soft were the words that the thunder then said to it --
Said to this lustre of emerald plain;
Sun brought the yellow, the green, and the red to it --
Sweet were the songs of its silvery rain.
Voices of water and wind in the bays of it
Lingered, and lulled like the psalm of a dream.
Fair were the nights and effulgent the days of it --
Moon was in shadow and shade in the beam.
Summer's chief throne was the marvellous coast of it,
Home of the Spring was its luminous lea:
Garden of glitter! But only the ghost of it
Moans in the south by the ghost of a sea.


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somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
:by E. E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands


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Ubi Caritas Ubi caritas et amor Deus ibi est Congregavit nos in unum Christi amor Exsultemus et in ipso jucundemur Et ex corde diligamus nos sincere Ubi caritas et amor Deus ibi est Simul ergo cum in unum congregamur Ne nos mente dividamur caveamus Cessent jurgia maligna, cessent lites Et in medio nostri sit Christus Deus