Thinking in Print

I am working on a puzzle
People do not seem to like.
It is old, yet unknown,
Hammered and sewn.
I am working on the screws
That bore deep into teak-wood
Deep into tradition and the
Layman’s intuition.
I am working on the stitches
That staple fast the scraps
The silken to the leather,
And mountains on the map
Are shifting from their designated places.
I work on making unfamiliar faces.

Mental Images

I
Waking blooms from trees
on the fringe of a blue sea
which slumbers in foam.

II
Snowy mountain caps
Stand among white fluffy clouds
Blotting out sunlight.

III
Stars flit in and out
of the wide night sky view, while
fireflies rise up.

I Have a History of Things that Cling

I have a history of things that cling.
The staccato song of my first scolding,
The brown whip-lash of a cane;
The sticky dew-eyes of girls with wings,
Somebody’s plum of a dress fluttering;
Sometimes the steamy fumes of old rage.
The sorrel-shaded mud of my first flood,
The peeling grainy green paint of a wall,
The sick smell of sugar water and ants.
Dead leaves whirling through the past and present,
Many sheaves of underused notebook paper;
High tides steadily pounding the shore,
Wind that whispers of echoes and lore.
No one else in the classroom —
No one else on the field —
Ice-cold blue made electric by staring,
Made bruising purple by the red of its bearing.
I have a history of things that cling.
I have a history I may not sing.

Consumption

She keeps cutting the crusts off of bread:
those a different colour, those slightly harder
to chew.
She imposes her will on mortal lumps of flesh
through a breakfast routine, through mundanity
trimmed.
She collects the crusts in a jar with the sort of label
she can print at low cost, she can deride for free,
hollow.
She imposes her history on new flesh,
dragging out past detritus, dragging dead dust
for seasoning.
The white tear drops of her teeth are melting
the pantry from the bread bin outwards.

Earth and Sky

I wanted to grasp
hints of the sunshine
behind blue-stained glass;
my fingers closed on dead clouds
which lingered, though the sun died.

You stood on the bridge,
my love, hands spread to the sky
so needlessly.
My hands kissed the earthen cliff;
my fingers rooted in soil.

The Clouds

Clouds – cupping the landscape from above
like gentle hands,
soft spreads of cottony light
and dollops of complementary shades
lavender on purple, rose on red:
dappled droplets of colour drop.
Artful, in a way human hands are not.
They curl in wisps over us now –
the Clouds.

Human Beings are Born from the Trees Upstream

Human beings are born from the trees upstream;
Blue skies bleed into just as blue a stream —
O still, there are things cutting off the stream.

I still long for the humming bees upstream,
Silver-veined wings, dipped in light, a stream.
Human beings are born from the trees upstream.

Drifting down the soft meandering stream,
River reeds weave together, earthen stream;
Blue skies bleed into just as blue a stream.

From the craggy cheeks of sameness – tears stream,
But more so in difference: striped-tapes stream,
O still, there are things cutting off the stream.

Anointed Lady

The golden scales of justice balance high,
Anoint the princess with her chosen end;
She gets the things she wants—and these, they lend
A shimmer to her tower, a crystal-crusted dye
A jewel-green and apple-blooming eye.
Who dares to question how these fortunes pend?
They tear with rays of light, as scriptures rend
The arms that would point out a single lie.
Then come! my wanderer, out on the rolling path
Too long for scales; you use your hands to weigh
Right and wrong together crumble when are sought,
Crumble in the world’s unbending winds of wrath.
You forgo the heights; for tower they may,
The princess can fall – the princess is naught.