Evening light pales into my windows from behind the palms,
piloting in a fruity breeze to stir the pages
at my desk. I’m 30 percent writing,
25 percent sipping tea, 9 percent listening to jazz beats &
63 percent certain my poetic Muse has taken the day off.
In the azure distance sails a boat
with one triangle sail,
bowing east, heading east.
Her going is unnoticed by those practicing yoga,
spinning frisbees, balancing on purple slack-lines
at this grassy knoll at the base of the volcano.
I cannot take my eyes off her,
so sure of herself, so pointed—
something so certain of direction deserves applause.
I will thresh the mind with both hands;
fingertips of golden afterglow to select only nuggets
of naked tranquility; to
throw rugged shards of infancy behind goose-like shoulders, to cede
this habit of bare toes on dust.
In overthrowing infamy,
brevity demands we be good in the mind, good in the body,
good in the soul—and what cements
into habit dyes the soul a certain color. It’s
Fall colors warm her sweet face,
deep reds and blushing oranges snuggling
into the gentle wrinkles at her cheeks;
the low light off the fading greens
bounce from the brown of her sweater to my eyes,
the softness I cannot myself believe.
Contained in one tiny, aging human
is the breath of ages seen and past—
each petite wrinkle is a memory of
laughter and play, the meadows at dawn,
the whimpering brook of the forests, the
birdsong in the high branches of the willow.
& tell the abyss the darkness is
temporary.
The moonlight is warming &
the breeze which sweeps
transposes the seeds and growth is in
the underbrush. Tell the abyss it’s
nearly dawn—that time runs parallel
to furrowed brows and intersects
Ribbed and scurrying, a bus passes me;
the sweat in airy beads drips to my
bicycle knees. I am going everywhere,
today. The ride is smooth, my mind is loose,
the breeze is flesh and sweeps me—
snatches of light-petaled afternoons.
Pedalling backpacks to Point Chevalier,
to the holy lips of Auckland harbours. Eager gusts
helping me over wire-knit fences. The trees,
bent and ardent, committing in droves and I, flocking
them all with my library copies, with my hands full of
apples, with my eyes to the sea.
I give you these poems
at the tail-end of the trade winds
at the cost of an espresso & my reasoning soul.
I would sit in the midst of Kalakaua traffic
simply to relieve this hounded mind with a pen.
Here, enfolding the slender tipped shepherd,
facing such fragrance of relief, I am rendered
Thunder resigns the dimpled sky to fatigue
and stirs my Delphian soul—
Around my brow clocks circle, clocks in heat
in twenty directions the ticks tock—
When the lights flicker, I come to.
Lucid puddles seep into shoe beds
I’m a Fiat roof rack I’m the
bicycle lacquered in red lights I’m the
afterthought after the period drops.
I’m dizzy with it all and too sleepy to wait
til Christmas. Let days just be days—
they’ve been overlooking my permission for ages.
There are 7.8 billion poems about the moon;
having read none of them,
I wonder:
If all her glowworms cast their eyes to her size
and whimper amongst themselves: why she so low—
then what does she do?
Diddly.
Continue reading “Moon Dance”
Borrow the car
Borrow the flour
Borrow the book
Borrow the shears
Borrow the money
Borrow the tuxedo
Borrow the pencils
Borrow the clothes
Borrow the tampon
Borrow the vacuum
Borrow the ice pack
Borrow the envelope
Do not borrow
the soul. The soul is yours.
