the colour of our lives

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

Archive for the tag “longing”

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.

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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

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

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.

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

where i live

a gargantuan step in the crust of Earth
where archaean granites fell, infinitesimally,
for miles; water and wind, grinding, wearing
a hinterland westward fill the giant breach,
layers stacked, mud upon sand, over, again
a thousand times and a million millennia of
the debris of ocean and land. We walk, live, love
and die on the latest of these; droughty bushland
is rampant on this skin of dune and swale, while
the tired river dreams of a raging, humid past.

WAin the summer, an east wind
the temperature of human blood
pushes the gasping air of the desert
across suburbia, fading as it smooths
weary Indian Ocean swells rearing
glassy over ancient coralline reefs.
As the land cools towards sultry nights,
cool humid sea air rushes in as respite to
baking dunes and sweating humans, before the
warm stillness, full of night-creature sounds,
blankets the humming city before dawn’s
desert breeze returns.

atmosphere inverts, and it is winter; thunder
roars with the start of it, rain-soaked west winds
having howled unhindered from the Cape of Good
Hope to punish and soothe the brittle land. The
weakness of trees is culled; waiting seeds,
crouched in humic sand, sacrifice isolation
and autonomy to erupt into air and sunlight,
littering the gritty soil with green.

I love this place with a longing, never
belonging passion, as far from patriotism as
soil and litter from the headlong surges of
human power and commerce. But, land I love,
still you leave me homeless, tease with sparkling
rock, with wild marsupial eyes, with the
strangeness of it all. There are no nests, no
foxholes; you have taught me well that
my rest is of another space and time,
another beauty more other-worldly
than imagination or hope.

senryū sighs

the orchids are back
– yellow Caladenia
piercing spring-warm soil

.

an ocean away
long white clouds beckoning me
from a red desert

.

lasting brief moments
half seen faces of lovers
disturbing your dreams

.

another coffee
fragrant steam rising upwards
procrastination

.

nervous, I enter
the doctor prods and listens
recommends blood tests

.

lines traverse paper
a pattern of dark and light
from sunlight through blinds

.

a heart in silence
lonelier than the new moon
flickering through cloud

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