Pages

Monday, 23 April 2012

Wayland Seed-jars


sproutings
hearing bird song
proposal connections
anchoring the green woodpecker
index

anyway the day is grey the forecast is april-like
the signs are cool, clear, calm, dry, overcast
tiny-peeking-brightstar.

Position again unsettled
landscape barren yet fertile
well rotted compost
crumbly friable soil awaits
rain and seed
seeking new growth,
new species,
awaiting glimmer of explorer
collector
sunlight between finger-shadows
across the keyboard.

Standing on the high place witnessing
vast expanse,
inviting.
Hitching a ride on a cloudy idea
woven from a thousand dreamless nights
sleepily descending to earth with an unapologetic plop.
Wondering where for a second
unfolding memory
noting that the key seems to have slipped over the page.
Somehow it feels unnecessary to turn the page as the strangeness now has become familiar and an at-home-ness smiles unexpectedly from ear to ear. This newly unfolded life lays before me with ridges and furrows of expectation. Excitedly I scan the
land markers
waylanders
way-markers
slippage and sliding in meaning
vitrines of experience. 

Marked catalogued stored in some warehouse of indeterminate size and connection with the earth
the land
the dirt
the shiny glass lifts me up to the mummified remains of childhood
walking home across the brook in shoes
squelching home across fields
and fields
and fields
of the new-town
of awakening adolescence.
greened with the grass of journey,
warmed by the sun of the outdoor baths
hopening to the the love of otherness
falling in love with life and the joy of being in the world…
still connected by the musty odour of snuggling
closeness to the source
unknown at the time
but carried within the brain.

Sunday, 8 April 2012

plotland


a series of dialogues at the edges of the real world
discourse at the edge of reality
stories about journeys

re-enact-ment?

Calabrese 'Ramona'


as if to say
job done again
smiles and stories
children happy
flagging up against the void
torrid exchanges
amid winners and losers
all in the game an almost severed head
broken oar
carry stories across the seven waves
escaping into an uncertain future
from a flimsy past
come again
return to the garden
sit with the gardener
catch sight of the muse
ask the question for us Mary
which soever Mary you be...
hear the ringing bells
of future certainties
unfolding
awkwardly amid the
shrovetide ashen
hot cross buned
crucified
resurrected
one-who-could-not-be-held-by-Death
laughing in the breeze
dancing with the poor
rolling the stone
away from hardened hearts
opening the arteries
pointing at us
pointing at me
pointing at ME!
me up the tree
me on his knee...
what a performance.

Freedom of Information ACT

Calabrese 'Ramosa'
Record keeping is interesting isn't it?
I have just discovered that I should be more worried about "other crime" than robbery, burglary, violent crime, or vehicle crime, it came second only to Anti-Social Behaviour in my area.
This little reverie started when wondering about the number of cherry blossoms that fall each year and why no one keeps a check
or raindrops
teardrops
but cough drops
now there's a thing...
commodity
when cherry blossom becomes
worth something
and children are employed to
run around and pick them up
in paper sacks
and exchange them for pennies
then we'll know
then it will all be over
when tears are measured
in drops
or trickle length
then we'll be sorry
and pine for the days
when
we half noticed
the real world
touching our imagination
architecting soul
landscaping hope...
the devil is probably in the process
of keeping records
including
excluding
defining;
you know the way...
'correlation does not imply causation'
cum hoc ergo propter hoc...
ad infinitum.