assorted writings

how blessed it is

to walk on stones

and feel

the weight

of these bones

pressed against the earth

below

beneath

to stand

steeped in stillness so

o

truly we are blessed

to be

to believe

to write words whose

meaning

remains to be seen

I don’t always arrange the words

carefully

the way you’re supposed to

Sometimes

I just grab a handful

and fling them into the air

(I love the sounds they make

when they fall onto the page)

Don’t get me wrong

I like the shapes of letters

and the pictures they make

and how they make me feel

But mostly

I enjoy the taste

‘Twas a full moon night

And a monk was sat

In a candlelit room

With quill in hand

When he heard a scream

And he knew ‘twas not a dream

For he heard it again

Then the hairs on the back

Of his neck did stand

And a shiver ran down his spine

Tight in his throat

He donned his cloak

Fearing what he might find

The monk descended

A flight of stairs

And what he saw

Stopped him in his tracks

Two silhouettes in the doorway stood

One of evil, one of good —

An old man fighting for his life

With a monster twice his size!

The werewolf snarled

And the werewolf struck

The innkeep across the jaw

And the innkeep begged for mercy

Lying fallen on the floor

But the werewolf bared its fangs

And raised its head up to the sky

A beast with no humanity

It howled a terrible cry

Seeing this the monk rushed forth

His monk’s hood in his hand

Unfolding it he prayed for the strength

To save his fellow man

With a sweep of his hand

He wrapped the cloth

‘Round the werewolf’s open mouth

And he stood behind and held it tight

With the werewolf lashing out

By some miracle of fate

The brave monk did prevail

But for the innkeep it was too late

He was too old and frail

When morning came he buried them both

in a field he found nearby

And the monk left his hood as a warning

to all creatures of the night

As the years went by strange flowers grew

from the ground around that spot

And the story spread and monkshood was

the name the flowers got

This is the tale that was told in times of old

in the lands where monkshood grows

This is the tale that was told in times of old

where the monkshood grows

it is day 11955

of being alive

and i am writing

i am alive and i am writing

earlier i noted the paths

                                             of the birds

their lines

                      crisscrossing in the sky

in the palm of heaven’s open hand

if i could tell the future

would i spoil the surprise?

                                            don’t worry

                                                     i won’t

“Stay in the land of the living;

Leave the dead to their own”

But the night goes on

And the call grows strong

To stray farther from home

He walks outside the cemetery

On the safe side of the fence

But he can’t escape his thoughts

Or shake the uneasy sense

That something’s wrong, and

By the by he believes it must be so

Though quite what it might be

He doesn’t really know

“On these roads you’ll meet your fate

While walking out alone,”

He thinks as he passes a shadow

And hears a ghostly groan

“Stay in the land of the living;

Leave the dead to their own”

But the night goes on

And the call grows strong

To stray farther from home

What drives him to wander?

Perhaps something lost

He knows not what it is

Or its seeking’s cost

But he knows that no one waits

At home for his return

So he passes the time until the time

He passes away in turn

At the end of the road he stops

At a house he’s seen before

He casts not a backward glance

He knows what’s behind this door

“Enter not uninvited here”

But still the traveller tarries

Hoping he might be relieved

Of the burden that he carries

“Stay in the land of the living;

Leave the dead to their own”

But the night goes on

And the call grows strong

He is going and then he is gone

I walk in the woods

Through shady groves

Nature's refuge

For the aching soul

I seek her balm

Where the mass treads not

Where light lingers in leaves

And wing-beats stop

On winding paths

I stray from the known

Away from the warmth

Of hearth and home

Into a clearing

Where trees pause, as if to meet

And the sky sprinkles blessings

At my feet

And at last all dissolves

Into shape edge blade keen

Crisp snap sharp fresh

Green upon green

and suddenly

in that moment

the air breathes

the silence speaks

you are the centre

and you are nothing

and the sky is a painting

and everything is a poem

What would the ancients have thought

of we who now walk on their land,

who stand in the places where they once dwelt

and knelt and made offerings and prayed?

(though we bury the dead,

still they live among us

in the shape of songs

that swim in silent spaces

melody’s sweet echo recalling

the eternal transit of time)

I wished to know the answer

So I crept thro’ that narrow crack

between sleep and wake

And I saw and I wept and I was

the night the skybird came

and swept by swift-winged

in coloured flame,

we wandered the streets

and gazed skywards

as dreamers do

until the strange light faded,

leaving only the familiar taste

of cold night air on our faces

for a time afterwards,

wonder fresh on our lips,

we scoured the heavens

for one more fleeting glimpse

until the last traces of magic wore off

and life went back to normal

but miracles like these

are not as rare as they might seem;

still more abide in the hearts

of those who dream

and in the beauty of the everyday,

everywhere hiding in plain sight

Have you ever noticed someone screaming from the other side of a glass wall? One of those where the glass is so thick that it’s wavy and not too clear.

You wouldn’t hear anything, of course, but if you were looking carefully you might just be able to tell that something was wrong. Otherwise all you would see is a normal person with their mouth open.

But why would someone choose to be on the other side of the wall? That’s what you’re thinking. Well, it’s probably quiet there, for a start. And there’s more space outside, since all the people live on the inside.

Doesn’t it get lonely being outside, away from everyone? I asked once, but I couldn’t hear the answer. They tried many times, and then they gave up and walked away.

I guess it can’t be too bad over there, or they would have found a way to come over here already. At the very least, they must be used to it by now.

Clearly some powerful energy

summoned you into being

or you wouldn’t be here

You were sent with a purpose

An important mission to complete

Something for you to bring to this world

Now you’re here, but you can’t for the life of you

remember what it was you came here to do

What was it for, the life of you?

Can't remember? Me neither

How long has it been since we first arrived

on the doorstep of this crowded house?

Millions of lost souls milling about, stranded

Stuck going back and forth across the threshold

Prisoners in a perpetual postal purgatory

Praying for deliverance

No one seems to know who actually lives here

and no one knows what they’ve brought along

or what to do with it

or what they’re doing here

and what to do with this giant mess

The endless confused babbling

in a thousand different tongues

as we all talk past each other,

perfectly incomprehensible

It sounds like a cosmic joke

that got old a long time ago

but continues to make the rounds

because it still gets a laugh every now and then

A voice pipes up

Someone has a bright idea

"If we all work together,

we can make the world a better place"

God help us all

I learned from the earth

how to bury the past

and from the stones

how to hold heaviness

I learned from seeds

to grow in the dark

and from trees

to breathe and be still

I learned from the wind to sigh

I learned from the sky to be grey

I learned from the clouds to hide

And I learned from the rain to cry

I have learned many things in my time

But one day when the weather is good

I'd like to learn from the sun

How to shine, how to smile,

and to love for a while

I'd like to learn from the sun

I could not grow

in a plastic pot

I tried my best

but I could not

I cannot breathe

in a paper mask

I cannot do

the things you ask

I shall not live

in a doll’s house

I am not a toy

nor am I a mouse

I will not play by your rules

I will not consort with fools

Sever the chains of fate

Let my voice resound

Consecrate this my choice

Nevermore to be bound

they asked you to open your mouth

but made you hold your tongue

so you could not speak

and in that awkwardness you froze

taken aback in the interrogation chair

as they professionally pried-poked-

probed for the tiniest imperfections

until finally

they claimed to have enough evidence

to take action against you

declaring you sick

they decided to cure you

of disease you did not know you had

in parts of you you could not see

and you said nothing

as they attacked everything about you

that they did not like

drilling into your head

all the faults that needed to be fixed

as they replaced you bit by bit

until they were satisfied

and you said nothing

when i am gone

let my words fade

into silence

i shall not disturb

the stillness

while i am here

let me live gently

a quiet life

that i may go

unnoticed

How much sorrow can one take?

How many morrows before one breaks

into a million pieces of music and art?

Into song, dance, outpourings of heart

Unstoring blood, sweat, and tears

The bitter labour of the years

For there is too much to hold

against the relentless beatings of life

And now it unspools,

all the things you believed

should never be revealed

hanging out like entrails

in a tangled mess of colour

Glorious gut-spiller

Your courage is its own reward

Relieve yourself, weary one

Release the burden that cannot be borne

In this dark theatre of the absurd

This seemingly interminable existence

This may be the closest you ever get to tasting freedom

So speak now, or forever hold your peace

in the riddle of your tight-lipped shell

Within you are all the answers

to the question of your life

To cheat a bird of its birthright

defeat it before its maiden flight

To rob a creature of its wings

stop it when it sings

Mock it every chance you get

until the change of mind is set

Lock it in with stress and pain

Cage the body, shrink the brain

Deflate its chest, break its heart

Let the flying never start

This is how to raise a child

who'll earn praise for manners mild

and better yet won't fly the nest

for a child who stays and serves is best

What else were children born to do?

What use are they, if they are no use to you?

on this the darkest day

the turning of the wheel

slows to a stop

and the shadow dance of time

suspends

worlds hang in the balance

at a moment like this

all it takes is

a light touch

a faint glimmer

shining through the spokes

sing out in the silence

break the spell

ring in the blessings

of brighter days

This is the food of the blessed

Manna from heaven, as it were

None go hungry who partake of it

None die in vain who have given of it

There is room for many at the table

As many as can stomach it and

wish to attend the court of those

who drink lustily from the depths

On this earth where man eats man

and each becomes part of the next

To be born is to be forged of flesh

until the fires consume all again

Know you this, sorrier fates await

in dark realms beyond hell’s gate

Only the living get to mourn the dead

and complain about the price of bread

This was a gift your father refused

that was his mother’s before him

and seldom used

Here it lies, now yours to keep

though its light is dim

from years of sleep

Make of it what you will

There is time to try it still

The flame flickers, but it has not died

This could yet be your family’s pride

I am not a shrub to be pruned

or a bird to be caged

I was not born to be kept

like a household pet

I am not a beast to be tamed

or a child to be named

I am a law unto myself,

a seed of a song that

spirals out to infinity

Who can say

what I am and

what I may yet be?

Listen

slowly

Wait! Watch what

flows, flowers, flickers, fades

Undulating, unfolding in time

And suddenly witness

in sparks streaming

lightning breaking

across the sky

A comet passing by

A light singing loud

A sound shining bright

Awake

I have come to end this night

We are the artists

Born to be seen and heard

To raise eyebrows, turn heads

Open eyes, start conversations

To be known and yet misunderstood

Love us or hate us, still

you watch and learn as you

cheer, cry, criticise, censor

Forced to feel the heaviness

of what is hollow in your lives

We are neon graffiti on concrete walls

Splashes of colour too bright to bear

Naked spotlights burning a bare stage

We claim the space that you dare not

We are the architects of a new world

Eventually it got so cluttered I could hardly breathe.

I picked up the nearest thing within reach. It was the fear to speak. I screamed and threw it out the window.

Someone walking by heard the noise and stopped to look at what I was doing. I unrolled my fear of being seen and hung it out to air as casually as I could.

Turning back, I noticed the corner of something peeking out from the little patch of floor that was starting to reappear. It was a forgotten dream.

I started finding old gifts too, ones I’d longed to open but never felt I had the space to. Now I finally would.

I cleaned and I cleared. The pile of junk blocking my front door. All the stuff I didn’t want or need anymore.

At last, I was left with just the few dreams I held closest to my heart and a selection of my favourite gifts arranged neatly before me.

As I sat at the table admiring my handiwork, I caught a glimpse of the mirror and gasped. In the reflection was a picture of the life I was meant to live.

Posters litter the ground

The fence plucked bare

Near where the library stands

As I make my way home

To empty house half-dark

Under full-cloud sky

Up the steps to the door

Whose key turns in lock

With the sound of mind churning

Awash with thoughts yet unborn

Through countless cycles

Awaiting my return

From the trail of distractions

Riddled with fallen ideas

Back to that blessed quiet

Where all real work is done

May we have the courage

To do what we are here to do

That which we sense we must

To keep the faith and still stay true

When there’s nothing we can trust

To walk the path that is our own

Though we may feel alone

To be ourselves and stand our ground

To sing our song and know our sound

To find the work that is our task

And fulfil our destiny

To shine our light without a mask

Without fear of who might see

To grow the seeds we have to grow

For our lot in life is so

Until it is our time to go

We reap as we shall sow

If I could grow into a tree

What sort of tree would I be?

How tall would I grow?

How far would I see?

What breadth would I know?

What depth and degree?

Would I rather be grand

Or would I rather be free?

Take an unbending stand

Or sway in the breeze?

In what soil would I thrive?

What water would I drink?

When do I feel alive?

Whence flows my ink?

From what roots would I draw

And what fruits would I bear?

If I were to have more

How much would I share?

With each ring I add

As the seasons go round

What would make me glad

In the final account?

If I could leave something behind

What would I leave for you to find?

at this very moment

someone

somewhere

is writing a poem

perhaps

the idea has not yet been born

but it is taking shape

perhaps

the artist has not yet been born

or even conceived

of themselves as an artist

of life as expression

of being as art

still

they breathe

and live in all the ways they live

immersed

brushes dipped

in the palette of experience

relax

rest assured

a poem is on its way

it is here now

one day the rain will stop

the last drop fall

and no more

the waters recede

the rivers reappear

resume their course

the winds sigh

the waves soften

ripple away gently

the lakes smile

smooth the tension

on their weathered faces

rest

far in the distance

surrounded by calm 

take your first breath

I'm not going to put on my thinking cap

just because it was thought reasonable

by someone who lived literally ages ago

Plus today’s are so stiff and tight

I get a headache trying to fit in

I don’t feel like myself

To be fashionably thinking-capped

is to wear them low, covering the eyes

Safe in the thought-traps of one’s time

Add eye-holes if a little light is tolerable

and celebrate thinking out of the box

But what if thinking is the box?

Are thinking caps caps on our thinking?

In thinking that “I think, therefore I am”,

do we limit what we do; who we can be?

Surely it’s time to take them off?

If only for a little while

to let our heads breathe, expand

Open the stuffy echo chambers to air

Feel the foreign trickle of new sounds

Pool fresh rain in clean singing bowls

Expectantly, patiently, tenderly

Allowing to flower

what waits to burst forth from within

Riotously, in a cacophony of colour

or wafting out mellow and understated

Regardless, unmistakably ourselves

Then try a more flexible thinking cap

if you wish — why not a flying carpet?

I’d like to graduate from mortarboards

To all who keep the flame of knowledge burning

The ones who teach

The ones who learn

The ones who do not learn

that others someday may

The ones who wait at the gate

The ones who wrought it with their hands

The ones who built the foundations

on which its house stands

The ones who dust the shelves

and sweep the corridors

through which it moves

and sometimes dwells

The ones who bottle it

Distill it carefully

Preserve it

for those to come

The ones who spark it into being

The ones who burn an imprint on the world

The ones stamped out, ground down

The ones who disappeared without a trace

The ones who strain to glimpse

the faintest flicker in their eye

The ones who perceive the glow

in all things as if ablaze

The ones who dream

of what has never been

and yet may be

The ones who weave tales

of lands in times we cannot know

Yet as they are told

so they are known

To all who have lived

for to live is to experience

and to experience is to know

No one has lived who has not been known

Though what is left is not carved in stone

Nothing is forgot

The light dies not

I am all things

All things are one

Hear me

This is my song

I am all beings

All beings are one

Hear me

I am my song

I am the dance

I am the dancer

I play in life

I play in death

To know myself

and to be known

To hold myself

and to be held

I am the wind

that shapes the dust

I am the dust

that makes the forms

I am all forms

yet I am formless

I am many

yet I am one

One last look

down the hospital corridor

to distant beginnings

Years of education

Hands-on experience

Exams and clinical practice

Academic rigor mortis

Proper bedside manner

Starched stiff and all

White coat

Stethoscope

Name badge

Worn with pride

Earned through toil

Now love’s labor lost

Letting go of the patients

you’ll never get to save

The last gasps of a dying dream

As you wake up safe at home

Away from the relentless beeping

of a war that none survive

Still, in the uneasy peace

A nagging feeling

Something important forgotten

You scribble it down

One final prescription

This time for yourself

Something you don’t remember

Learning

How to treat yourself right

This space holds a deep cleaning
that feels like being boiled alive...
then tossed about,
turned inside out,
and finally hung out to dry.

Trust that you'll emerge intact
(though crumpled here and there)
and by some grace,
in many a place
still none the worse for wear.

Loosen and shake off the dirt;
from your fibres release all stains!
You'll be lighter and lovelier
once those layered-on patterns
start to get washed away.

As the old outer layers dissolve,
what's within will begin to shine:
your true self,
rediscovered --
your original design.

with water but no food
for my soul
i learned to turn sunward

i grew
i became leaf-green
to catch the light
to live

now this energy I send
through my roots
to the earth from which I came

and in every waking moment
i cleanse the air around me
changing the world
one breath at a time

Sometimes they burned red-hot with rage, sometimes cold and steely with rejection. But the flames raged on, day and night, for as long as I can remember. Choking on the thick smoke we learned to live, our eyes stinging, our throats parched, our skin charred.

I grew up in a house on fire.

---

In the midst of it all flew the magnificent dragon that ruled the burning kingdom. "Behold the vast riches we have here," it crowed. And indeed, there were piles of gold and the people did not go hungry, but they lived in fear as the dragon was a cruel tyrant.

Merrymaking was forbidden, for the sound of laughter displeased their mighty ruler greatly. Neither could they speak freely for fear of inciting its wrath. A terrible fate awaited any who dared challenge it or defy its orders. Swift and merciless was the fiery retribution that met anyone or anything that offended it. People and property set ablaze without a second thought.

Seeing their unhappiness, the dragon taunted the people, cackling: "Leave, all ye who will not obey my laws or accept my rule!" But they could not escape.

As the years passed the dragon grew old and its powers waned. Free at last, the people left to establish new settlements in faraway lands. Now alone and enfeebled, the dragon cried out to its former subjects, "Do you not remember me, I who fed and clothed you for so many years?" ... There was only silence.

But the dragon was not forgotten. The people remembered. The memories haunted them, a swirling cloud of black smoke in their minds. And the smell of smoke would follow them wherever they went.

---

As the people of the burning kingdom spread far and wide across new lands they met others most unlike themselves. There were those who sang, those who danced, and those who painted. Children laughed and played, and the elders sat peacefully in quiet contemplation.

From time to time, the villagers would gather around the warmth of small fires to eat and drink and talk and smile. But the visitors shuddered at the sight, for they knew all too well how the smallest misstep or careless action could provoke the destructive wrath of fire. They had no desire to be burned again, even if it meant standing a safe distance away, out in the cold.

While the newcomers observed uneasily the madness of these people who played with fire, their hosts watched them with great curiosity. Who were these strange visitors who seemed so sullen and distant? Little by little, their stories emerged.

Curiosity soon turned to envy as the villagers learned of the wealth in the kingdom and the sturdy walls that kept intruders out, for they had only a few crops and animals, and they suffered raids by thieves in the night. Compared to the hunger and uncertainty they faced in their lives, the villagers couldn't understand why anyone would leave a life of luxury and safety in the kingdom. But although the villagers had little, they were free to be happy.

They had not lived under billowing clouds of smoke that covered the sky and blotted out the sun, subject to the whims of a terrible creature that bellowed and screeched and decreed and destroyed. They did not see that the kingdom took away far more than it gave, sapping the joy out of life and leaving only hollow shells of people.

The people of the burning kingdom did not grasp this either, for the memories of smoke clouded their minds and made it difficult to think clearly about their past. They left confused, with a growing feeling of emptiness in the pits of their stomachs, and were silent once more.

time passes                                            i notice a gap

where something was yet i no longer recall what

it seems we left                  behind in days gone by

past selves                               markers of a life lived

and now faded                    with the years we turn

back to pick up these old pieces that once were

parts of us                         hoping to find ourselves