the colour of our lives

poetry • celebration • faith • nature • humanity • imperfections • glory

resonator

jerked from sleep by a loud name – his – urgent
stumble down the hall, into her room.
– Dad, I had a nightmare, and he lifts the weight
of her growing body into a hug.
– Want me to sleep next to you, in the spare
bed? – Yeah. – Let’s go to the toilet first. – OK.
Carry her down the hall, and back, still sleepy,
clinging.
– Want to tell me what the dream was? – Yes.
And there are good and bad lands; white-striped,
face-painted warriors milling on the far shore.
Mum is there too, defending. The narrow water
between good and evil is leapt, breached, and
none of it makes sense in a narrative way…
– Thanks for telling me … we’re going to go to
sleep now. Love you. –  Mmm.
A single rustling turn; breathing, regular, quiet.
Nothing, then a bronze-shelled insect, closer,
along a vertical wall, closer in the pale tungsten
light, and he is awake again, facing his own
demons.

postscript

years or only
minutes into a
future-spiked present
an older version of
someone with no
tears on his face
rides Neverman’s exact bicycle
angling across his
darkstep path and, in a
moment, gone

above the dark house, God
laughs. a star falls.

only

when the blue bicycle gets
lost
as
it does sometimes, Neverman walks
loosely of limb, tight
of mind. earworms:
existential, the same fat tired old
questions hacking up,
phlegmatic clichés, clouded
dullness of a demon’s
eye.

there are no con
versations only acolytes
thin, dutiful smiles on
shiny sleeves but
never hearts. fury is
in his house tonight and
god he
needs to sleep,
please, explaining
the missing bicycle. maybe
explaining
everything.

soft lonely
shoes pad, pad, head
up, stand
tall, just
in case, and never the
same path
twice, or someone may
notice, under a
perplexing sky where,
still, the meteors do
not come.

gaps

blue_bikethey all have
smart
phones and intense

powers of
deep
concentration;

worlds in their
palms,
friends on their mind

he rides a
plain
blue bicycle

picks up good
lengths
of string and wire

in case they
may
become useful


Image from seeker-of-revelation at deviantart

a slight chance of shadows

weather like bent trees
atmosphere is more than air
even the very leaves
rattle, crisply, its quiet name
in sunlight, dull, metallic
.


This post first appeared at a slight chance of shadows on Cinquain Fevah!

excuses

part of any science
is to sell ideas, schedules;ideas
to obtain knowledge,
to plan assaults on frontiers.
For this, poetry must wait

.

the driver

The driver hated
us this morning; standing
hard on the brakes, bus
lurching around each corner.
Getting off, we roll our eyes.

The bus, proxy for
argument lost with his wife,
a bullying boss?
In fuming economy
of words, he masters his day

while we, the passive,
are content, simply, to arrive
intact. We accept
out of respect, selfishness,
perhaps self-recognition.

.

fretted

open strings growl, hiss, buzz with
bad-tempered, minor key blues;
the hammers are nearly drawing blood
and fat bruised thumb, booming out
metronomic, hypnotic and low

bend and slide, whack that half-
dozen and make then sing in pain,
metal on metal, knock of sprucewood
and mahogany warmth, cradled, head
bowed, jaw grinding like fretful dreams

whole, restless, body pulsates in turn,
in time, breathing like stolen cocaine
but music is the only drug. heaviness
purged; singing, with eyelids squeezed,
voice filling the empty room, and

frettedsurprised by the new sweetness,
fingers chancing major riffs, rhythms
slow, soothe, clear notes smiling
to the sun and heaven. indigo notes return
and resolve, shining, melodic.

please stop arguing

The cosmic constants align, just so,
and by mere existence generate
infinitesimal probabilities, lunged
towards by God’s self-appointed
collectors of irrefutables. Shrill
Dawkins countered that argument,
although it cost him the multiverse.
He carries now a debt of chance;
thoughtful credibility teeters once
more toward the theophiles, but their
arguments remain luke-warm
renditions of the full banquet. Even
amongst the faithful, the genealogies
of creation are endless; certainty may
not be deferred, and wilful ignorance
is an impermissible position. Logic
and higher reason, faith and dogma
tumble over one another, shaken like
dice in the cup Einstein rejected. The
proof we seek may never be found.

~


DanSomething appropriate for the exact first anniversary of this blog. Thanks to everyone who has read and commented, especially the regulars. Keep the faith!

birthday suit

A new theme to mark the first birthday of the colour of our lives.

As WordPress puts it…

Bold Life lends itself well to blogs and journals … [and it has a] … custom background feature, a custom header image, and a custom menu.

…and I liked the look of it. Plus it puts the categories and tags after the post – they were at the top in the last theme, and I never really liked that. And, to make the change really substantial, the old theme is no longer available…

mandorla header

touch stones

.

an instalment of proverbs, psalms and curses

marricrowdDo not ask a tree
how old it is. It
will never tell you,
and you will have
to cut it to the
ground to find out.
It may fall on you.

Do not cover the
soil with anything
that has not grown
in soil first. One day,
when you are no
longer alive, soil will
cover you.

You must never
taint or hoard
water. The risks are
too great; wars have
been waged over
less. While much is
still free, save and
purify all you can.

Be kind to all
things living; this
is your dominion,
the first gifts spoken. We
will know, like Job,
that these are
our teachers.

stonesDo not tear the
stones from their
resting places in the
Earth. At the very end,
as time and space
collapse, they will
shame you with
their singing.

.

o0OOOo

.

under cypress leaves

under cypress leaves
soft breeze pushes riverward
– dancing points of light

.

beyond the river
city stains scarp-horizon-sky
– yellow fades to blue

.

wind-stuccoed water
under incandescent sun
– golden radiance

.

over golden sand
clear water rippling shoreward
bands of pollen grains

.

lone resting human
bicycle leans on park bench
tired eyes squint east

.

Matilda Bay sunrise

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