the colour of our lives

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

Archive for the tag “诗”

more of the kingdom

this Kingdom is
like prayers in
breaking voices,
rising from
the cracks of a poem

skyit is like
being surprised
by tears in the
retelling
of heroic deeds

like
a rush to the heart
in the fluid slide
of fingers
on silver strings

and a story
bursting like
an excited child
from life-
hardened lips

αΩ


Some of this was inspired by Marie Howe’s wonderful poem “Part of Eve’s Discussion“. Image © Dan Trewear.

but, the soul

There’s a situation;
Neverman always has
a situation, but he has
no time, no appetite
for Dr Freud
and his learned progeny.

The sages dig deep, no
doubt, but the eclectic
smorgasbord of Jung
does not satisfy, nor
the dry bread of cognition.

Adler’s insight rings true,
and we all fear to drink
the cup of death, but
these things make too
much sense to be of help.

speaker-for-the-deadBut, the soul. Gestalt,
impotent, slinks to the back,
with his weary brothers.
A Presence, huge, electric,
is Leviathan on the table,
carving Himself for the feast.

Still, Neverman aches for
the gifts of Love, while
hiding, vainly, from the Lover.
Heart, torn and planted; a
scion of the tree of Life
springs from the bloody ground.

αΩ


Image from comics.ign.com. Some of the last stanza inspired by “Speaker for the Dead” by Orson Scott Card.

prodigal

Almost Once by Brett WhiteleyWe sat, listening to the simple story gripping our hearts. Grown men swallowed, blinked back, with clenched jaws and shining eyes.

How could we not weep, or dance? not sit, still and struck? not give all in colour and song, wild emotion, the blood and mess of the humans we are and the bodies of light we shall become?

Because we are safe, back in the hard but hidden hollow of our imperatives and rituals. Holy fire wavered above fearful brows. Over a few, or all, potent embers still burn.

αΩ


Image is of the sculpture ‘Almost Once‘ by Brett Whiteley, installed near the Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney, Australia

extropy

the new earth will appear, not too far

beyond imagining, and the universe will

resume its holy point of origin. science will

discover, but not care, that its laws were

correct, mostly, for the older cosmos – but

here, matter and energy spring forth from

golden streets while disorder and

chemistry’s potential cascade lose their

entropic pull, yielding helpless to the push

of heaven. a new biology, a blazing life of

fantastic and unimagined subatomics,

draws on its prime and ancient source, free

at last from the old Laws.

hover

if I lose my form
to the void • will the Spirit
soar over my face?

then again the acid

CorrodedHandit will return, of course
wheel and all its
moving parts securely
attached to its blue frame.
then, again, the acid
in the air
pocks the chain with rust and
in a rush of bile
Neverman’s bicycle blows
mojo and lightness dragged
roughly
into viscous singularity


image from metaconscious.tumblr.com

in tune

being or
not
reverberates
to
achieve resonance;
touching the divine may prove fatal

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.

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.

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

early

“Sulphur isotope data from early Archaean rocks suggest that microbes with metabolisms based on sulphur existed almost 3.5 billion years ago, leading to suggestions that the earliest microbial ecosystems were sulphur-based.”

microfossilsBreathing sulfur, Lucifer’s contrail settles,
flaming, to Earth, tiny acrid engines
building his deep domain to fight a beauty
growing by the Day. Heaven splits from
Earth, and  falling becomes possible;
the Deep is molten, heaving; a
primordial evening and morning pass,
and again; the planet breathes, flourishes
before the Liar finds his reptilian disguise
and brings the brimstone upward. The
tiny traces of creation’s alien dawn
brim in stone, clues for the diligent.

.

Wacey, D., Kilburn, M.R., Saunders, M., Cliff, J. and Brasier, M.D. 2011. Microfossils of sulphur-metabolizing cells in 3.4-billion-year-old rocks of Western Australia. Nature Geoscience 4, 698-702. (http://dx.doi.org/10.1038/ngeo1238)

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