It was not the kind of place
you'd really want to be in:
even when they 'did it up'
they kept the same stained carpet.
One-eyed Jacques
(no one knew his real name)
stood,
kept his drink close
and people at a distance,
unable as he was
to take in anything
with any real depth.
The scattering of old men sat,
mostly silent,
their lives and wives gone,
too tired now to be bitter
though that's what they drank.
June was there,
glazed as she was,
with her crepe paper décolletage,
her obsession with the King:
she'd show you her tattoo
before you could say
no thanks,
sing with her broken voice
the only songs she'd ever allowed
to mean anything.
And the barman,
nicotine-yellow he said,
cirrhosis to anyone else who'd cared
but nobody did,
nor did they want the caution.
Once a day, the pack
with more years ahead than behind
would stumble in:
cheap food and booze their magnet,
they brought their excitement with them.
The patron sinners,
as the barman called
his only source of familiarity,
looked on, confused,
reminded as they were
of something they'd never had.
June loved this kind, uncaptivated audience
to share her same stories with each time,
while Jacques' resentment
would build until
the smell of his fear
was overpowering,
his incoherent mumblings
became shouted bouts of rants.
It was the kind of place,
surrounded by
nosy but uninterested parties,
to lose the one you loved
and find someone much worse,
where people lived their brightest days
in perpetual darkness.
voices
so many voices
asking to be heard
begging to be heard
shouting to be heard
so much noise.
when is there silence
to hear the sound
of my own sweet voice?
the one telling me
soft now beloved,
soft and slow,
doing and being
needn't be enemies.
and I know why I have
stopped my practice:
because everything
has become a meditation
everything
an opportunity for this
exquisite listening
to the sound of
my own soul
calling.
The old woman sits,
her milky eyes see nought now
but shapes bent out
by the flames of the fire beside her.
Her bones still strong,
her skin the give away,
made as it is of the sheerest silk
crumpled and dyed in hues of purple and blue.
She can no longer hear the stories
which now fill her belly, her heart:
her mind, though bright, has absorbed
all the cries for attention it can absorb.
So she sits and others gather
While she pours forth her timelessness,
speaking of the love she learned
in a lifetime of heartache and joy.
A strong voice radiates her light, her dark,
valueless and priceless in equal measure.
She is who she is with no apology
and all who hear her rest in that.
My heart speaks to me
In curves, pictures, zen.
It does not remember like the mind,
It simply lives.
Open, it touches all it sees;
Closed, it softly restores;
Always in perfect balance,
Though I may not always
Understand it's odd rhythms -
The times it skips a beat
Or runs away with itself.
There are no words
But those of my heart
And it is boundless,
Its armour lighter now
Than years gone by:
Heavy plate turned to
Nimble leather, a second skin
To clothe me when I need it.
When you feel as light as air
Something is needed to
Keep your feet on the ground:
My heart has an untethered nature
Conscious of its many layers,
So throws down anchors
From time to time.
But it knows to cast off often,
For, unbound,
It can let go of what it loves,
Trust that leaps of faith
Bring untold riches
That all the positive wishing in the world
Can never hope
To manifest.
I allowed one moment
To define me
For years and years.
Now,
I let it
go.
I could choose
another
In its place.
How about this one?
This one
Or this one?
The possibilities are
.
.
.
.
s
s
e
l
d
n
E
We move through hot and cold,
Hot and cold.
There is grass;
There is sky;
There is breath.....
Are you paying attention to the
Punctuation?
The pauses:
There to let you take your time;
There to allow a slowing down.
There is no hurry.
Let's start again.
We move through hot and cold,
Hot and cold.
There is grass;
There is sky;
There is breath.....
Solid earth supports us;
And there is more air
Than we can ever draw into our lungs.
There is a woman of years,
Her thin, soft skin
Sags gently in paper wrinkles:
I want to follow them with my finger,
Experience such delicacy
That could tear open,
If pressed with more than the lightest touch.
Dragonflies dance,
Flashing their iridescence
In waves of sunlight.
Their turquoise hue matches my mascara,
Though I don't think they've noticed:
They are utterly absorbed in what they are doing.
Here is breath;
Here are fingers;
Here is flesh.....
I am steadfast as a tree trunk,
As light as a leaf.
In-spire.....
Out-spire.....
No need for anything more.
