Here We Leave

When all has fallen,
fallen to the ground
and, deeper still,
into the flesh
and the ashes have subsided,
the storm has passed, eye and all
we are in the calm that follows, that precedes,
that is
without deception
calm

here we make our decision

here we make our peace

here we leave

Come to Me

Come to me
In my hour of need
Lord, you sustain me

Come to me
When I am weak
Lord, you sustain me

Though my lips may fail
And my heart be overcome
You sustain me

Come to me
Lord, you sustain me

I cannot see a path
But you are with me
I do not know the way
But your rod and your staff, they comfort me
I am drowning in myself
You lead me beside still waters
I wail and tear at my hair
You make me lie down in green pastures
“How?” I cry, “How can this be?”
You restore my soul

Lead me out of my anger
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
Bring me back to peace again
I shall fear no evil
What do I do when all are enraged around me?
You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies
Oh Father, Father, comfort me
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life
Grant my broken heart release; take away this pain
The Lord is my shepherd
I come to you
I shall not want

Come to me
When I am weak
Lord, you sustain me

Come to me
In my hour of need
Lord, you sustain me

Though my lips may fail
And my heart be overcome
You sustain me

Lord, come to me
I will dwell in your house forever

Don't Let This Be the End

“Stop!”
Ears pressed
Hands straining
How many voices need to speak before silence comes?
I am three again
Stop, please stop
Please stop, please

Lassoed into the middle
Not the middle
Lassoed nonetheless
Why did you have to tell me
Everything?

Stop

Please stop

Angry words are steel swords
They aim to rip hearts out
Leave the whole bloody mess on display, dripping

Why did you bring me in?

Do I join the burgeoning war?
Or choose to hold my fury mute?
These inherited passions threaten to kill, maim and destroy
I want, with a calm mind, to reason
But my mind wants to rage
And the raging mind disembowels

Why can’t you stop?

Hurt blossoms at the fingers of wrathful hearts
Pain births its children
And I am
in
pain

why could we not have been patient instead?
calmed our hearts to seek
calmed our minds to understand
it is not our place to decide the motivations of another
and yet we do, calling it righteous fury

Life and death lie as choices
On our hands
on the hands of everyone rearing for expression

I want to scream so you will stop
Why
Why did you choose this?

Destruction has expensive PR
compelling branding
an award for the path of least resistance
Its fans, its followers
Hold to their lips a megaphone
Preaching quick success
All while
The jaws of their master
Tighten unnoticed around their waists

I am pulled by its sway
It promises distraction with cacophony
Security with chaos
The assurance of everlasting invalidity
My senses are assaulted
Do as we do
And you will be justified
Your foes will be quelled

But they aren’t my foes
They aren’t anyone’s foes

Is it simpler
To drown in the sea of perception?

Wait
Wait
Eyes closed
Head down
Quiet
Quiet, please
No more

Volcanic winter falls as fire ebbs
Ash in hair
Mouth
Breath
Like snow, minus healing
Excrement instead of clean water

We have ruined this island
It stands disconnected
Sullen in its cover of failure
Will it re-emerge?
I pray not
Its land may become fertile
But only when the volcano dies
Alive, it forms clouds
But soot can neither bring rain
Nor dissipate

And I am afraid
Afraid of this island dying
And staying dead
So please stop
Please
I am afraid

‘Come to me,’ whispers life.
‘Come to me.
Bring me your sorrows,
your detached, bleeding heart
Bring me your blackened life
and watch.
Allow a single drop of rain
onto your dying skin.
Cup the leaves of one seedling
in your hands
whisper songs to it.
Calm the force behind your violence.
It is not what you think
Build again those dreams and visions
Yours, and of those around you
Strengthen the architecture of wonder
Do this
And you will turn around
To find beauty
Already emerged and flowering
Already waiting
For those who have eyes to see
Come
Choose me;
your world will burst
into green.’

Can’t you hear it?
Won’t you hear it?

please stop

listen

before you destroy each other

But you are still yelling
How do I turn away without shutting my ears?
My eyes?
I want my heart to receive sight of you
I want to breathe in your words
Please
Don’t let
This

Be


the



end.

Farewell

The birds have flown
go on, go on
Their dark-rising shapes giving way
To the dark-arriving clouds
Thick with thunder
and the cleansing rain

From Two Comes All

There was a goddess who pulled two points together
Unconnected
Unrelated
They were nothing
They were something
She held one in each hand
Lifted above each shoulder, as if in blessing
Brought her palms together
Not enough to touch
She didn't need to
She knew
The points only needed proximity
A moment
Before pulling her hands away
And an entire web expanded between them
A world, created on two poles
A world, created
By two points
Two hands
And the possibilities have never stopped growing

Eseteij (A Storm-Dance poem)

Chorus
It comes, the wild storm.
It comes, it comes,
The wild storm, it comes.

Man
What, ho, is this
That churns the trees
And chills the air?

Chorus
The wild storm
It comes, it comes.
The wild storm, it comes.

Man
And what wonder is this,
The soft edging of the breeze?

Chorus
It comes, it comes.
The wild storm,
It comes.

Man
I must go to it, awe-of-all.
One foot I step
Forwards
Into what I have heard but not seen.

Chorus
Don’t go, don’t go;
The wild storm, it comes.
It reaches forth it find you.
Hide, and you will be saved,
Or else it will hold you
Until you are no longer man,
But beast
And the ocean and hills
Will mean no more to you
Than earth’s song
And earth’s pant,
For the wild storm, it comes.

Man
The winds have embraced me
Soft through with magic
No longer threads
Tiny arms, hands, fingers,
But a woven fabric
And the sinuous limbs
Of the liquid spell-stuff
That caress my skin.

Chorus
It comes, the wild storm.
The wild storm, it comes.
It comes with teeth and claws and sword:
Not a caress, but the whispered edge of a blade
Drawn from its sheath.

Man
But, O, how the wisdom of my forefathers
Has turned to ash.
There is nothing to fear
But the snapping and fall of branches in the gale.
Gladly, I go forward.
I find no danger here.

Chorus
Don’t go, don’t go,
The wild storm is here.
It rasps your skin and grows your claws
Sprouts fur and feather, twists your limbs
From square to round to inverse*
To a knot.
Can’t you see?

Man
Oh, God, I see!

Both
Eseteij!


About this poem

Why would the foremost expert on the most dangerous natural phenomenon in the world walk right onto the path of that phenomenon?

Magic storms with the ability to change humans into monsters plague the continent containing the country of Asebei. In the country's language, Abei, they're called eseteij in the singular, eseteijo in the plural. Defending settlements from these storms used to be little more than a hit-and-miss, with no one knowing why what they did work, or why it failed (as it invariably did, sometimes more than others).

Vjaited Roz changed all that when he invented a reliable defense against these storms that could keep entire cities safe. For this he is praised. Of course, he's also considered a madman, because the last thing he ever did was walk straight into a magical storm.

This Asebei poem, meant to be performed aloud, is about him.


*This line refers to the cursive form of the Abei writing system. Some characters have an overall round shape, others have an overall rectangular shape, while others cross themselves and are referred to as inverse. The line is saying that the man's form will be changed and, eventually, twisted beyond recognition

(This poem is in the same world as Aish of a Grey Lion.)

Plane Travel

            Plane Travel:

You                              start

like                              this

            elbows in

         ankles crossed

         never touching

       but      s    l     o      w       l        y

you start to  s

                        p

                          r

                               a

                                     w

                                              l

Because       HOUR   HOUR   HOUR

                     HOUR   HOUR   HOUR

                     HOUR   HOUR   HOUR

                     HOUR   HOUR   HOUR

                     HOUR   HOUR   

                                                is a really long time.

            Elbows bump.

            (sorry)

            Knees touch.

             Sorry.

A baby’s foot brushes your leg.

             Sorry!

It’s not a problem. Also, he’s adorable.

            …Thanks!

This is how friendships begin.

Is fourteen hours long enough to make

                        a friend?

            Maybe.

     in the right time

     in the right place

with the right people.

            Either way,

             You   can

              now sit

              likethis

The Weekday Sun

On weekdays, I

board the bus or

ride the train

just one in a shifting sea of thousands

washing up against the shore of necessity

working to provide

food

clothes

shelter

toys

In every vehicle

on every road and track

they sleep

eyes closed against the harsh realities of morning

sun blinding bright

dew soaked and new

headphones

to block thought

sunglasses

hide souls

windows tint away

the poverty of the streets

poor in

food

clothes

shelter

respect

The sun is bright in the morning.

It hurts sometimes to see.

A Conversation

The set:

A moving vehicle

ten over eighty

on a sunbright morning

a steel grey afternoon

a shining, shimmering night.

The cast:

A husband, thirty-five;

competent driver.

A son, three and five

weeks, back seat critic.

And me. Observer.

Recorder.

The script:

“Go faster, Daddy! Go faster!”

Ten, we recall, over eighty.

“Can’t, son. The policeman

would tell me off.”

A pause. Consideration.

“The policeman would tell you to stop?”

“Yes, son, he would. And

if a policeman tells you to stop,

what do you do?

“You stop, Daddy.”

“You do. The policemen are there

to help you.”

The observation:

My heart

crumpling in my chest

crushed because

my son is white.

For him,

the policemen will always help.

What Is Saving Me

I am late to the party, because

I always am

what with one thing or another, but

here I am at last,

and I bear cake.

I

What is saving me is this:

wonderful blogs,

space of my own to

say what I’m thinking

think what I’m saying and

somehow align the two.

Wise words, beauty in strife,

small moments captured

in the hecticness of life.

II

Dog poo.

III

The Small Boy has

cried and

fussed and

refused to leave my side.

I strapped him on and wore him until

my back muscles cried, working

in the warmth of a pre-spring afternoon,

sunshine gilding his hair, like

yellow Labrador hair, and

the smiling eyes of our dogs.

I moved, and

used my body  

the way it was designed, and

carrying a child so close felt like the small

Heaven of quiet-soul moments,

the sunbright warmth of

connected people, like

happy dog fur, which is both

happy-dog fur, and

happy dog-fur,

tumbling freewheeling spiralling in the breeze as I

scoop and shovel, scoop and shovel.

No one knew that dog poo could be spiritual.

(Well, possibly they did, but my soul had never heard it.)

IV

It’s putting him to bed, forced

into slower rhythms

of twilit rooms, of

soft white humming, of

the washing machine and droning

from a far-distant TV.

It’s knowing I can’t leave because

he wants me close; it’s realising that I

need him close.

When I have nothing better to do, I love

these night time rhythms.

I have nothing better to do.

V

I lie on the floor, still singing, still humming, and

for the first time all day

I relax, and

putting him to sleep is no longer hard work

draining work

but solace in a frantic day, and I

thank God for a small child who needs me,

even though I am tired of need,

because I need need, and he

needs me, and it because of this that

I am lying on the floor soothing

myself

as much as him.

VI

One day, I will remember these lessons

learned in soul-quiet moments.

The moments will run thicker – like

honey, maybe,

a sweet glaze over a life

well-lived, slow

and luscious and dreamy.