In The Tilt Of An Afternoon

Restlessness

Best Of All

NATURE

We have neither Summer nor Winter

Neither Autumn nor Spring.

We have instead the days

When the gold sun shines on the lush green canefields-

Magnificently.

The days when the rain beats like bullet on the roofs

And there is no sound but thee swish of water in the gullies

And trees struggling in the high Jamaica winds.

Also there are the days when leaves fade from off guango trees’

And the reaped canefields lie bare and fallow to the sun.

But best of all there are the days when the mango and the logwood blossom

When bushes are full of the sound of bees and the scent of honey,

When the tall grass sways and shivers to the slightest breath of air,

When the buttercups have paved the earth with yellow stars

And beauty comes suddenly and the rains have gone.

~ H.D Carberry

The Writer

Being

who I want

to be,

devoting my days

to you.

. . . . .

You,

standing there

like that,

lost

to such darkness –

locked in

to allegorical thought.

So beautifully

detached.

You and I.

Here Is What Is

Echoes

Self-Conscious

Possibilities

At the very least, I suspect

there are great possibilities at play

in remembering your soul’s

wordless agelessness.

Honour its fired centre,

whose influence works well

to at least establish

your genuine reputation.

Familiarize yourself

with its endless potentiality,

taking pause to reconnect

and reflect on its richness, its glory.

It is your legacy –

that dramatic self,

distinguishable from

a community of influence.

Timeless And Unique

Be Assured

Wait For The Bird

  To Paint The Portrait of a Bird

First paint a cage

with an open door

then paint

something pretty

something simple

something beautiful

something useful

for the bird

then place the canvas against a tree

in a garden

in a wood

or in a forest

hide behind the tree

without speaking

without moving...

Sometimes the bird comes quickly

but he can just as well spend long years

before deciding

Don't get discouraged

wait

wait years if necessary

the swiftness or slowness of the coming

of the bird having no rapport

with the success of the picture

When the bird comes

if he comes

observe the most profound silence

wait till the bird enters the cage

and when he has entered

gently close the door with a brush

then

paint out all the bars one by one

taking care not to touch any of the feathers of the bird

Then paint the portrait of the tree

choosing the most beautiful of its branches

for the bird

paint also the green foliage and the wind's freshness

the dust of the sun

and the noise of insects in the summer heat

and then wait for the bird to decide to sing

If the bird doesn't sing

it's a bad sign

a sign that the painting is bad

but if he sings it's a good sign

a sign that you can sign

so then so gently you pull out

one of the feathers of the bird

and you write yours name in a corner of the picture

~ Jacques Prevert

  (translated by Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

All You See

Entrance

 (After Rilke)

Whoever you are: step out of doors tonight,
Out of the room that lets you feel secure.
Infinity is open to your sight.
Whoever you are.
With eyes that have forgotten how to see
From viewing things already too well-known,
Lift up into the dark a huge, black tree
And put it in the heavens: tall, alone.
And you have made the world and all you see.
It ripens like the words still in your mouth.
And when at last you comprehend its truth,
Then close your eyes and gently set it free.

 

 ~ Dana Gioia

After The Sermon

Time wants to show you a different country.  It's the one

that your life conceals, the one waiting outside

when curtains are drawn, the one Grandmother hinted at

in her crochet design, the one almost found

over at the edge of the music, after the sermon.

It's the way life is, and you have it, a few years given.

You get killed now and then, violated

in various ways.  (And sometimes it's turn about.)

You get tired of that.  Long-suffering, you wait

and pray, and maybe good things come - maybe

the hurt slackens and you hardly feel it any more.

You have a breath without pain.  It is called happiness.

It's a balance, the taking and passing along,

the composting of where you've been and how people

and weather treated you.  It's a country where

you already are, bringing where you have been.

Time offers this gift in its millions of ways,

turning the world, moving the air, calling,

every morning, "Here, take it, it's yours."

~ William Stafford

But Wait

At this time

your silence

is inconvenient,

filling the air,

all disorder like.

Unusual for us,

this sort of game,

without restorative affect,

its cheerless demeanor.

Occasionally capricious,

our learned ways –

queued with a thousand

different perspectives.

But wait… 

The moment
insists on clarity – 

a plausible starting point
where, at the heart
of its centre,

words can interlock
without ever having to

physically touch –

necessary, their language.

Transitory Moments

Unsupervised, 

this outsider opens

and all becomes lost

within its awakening.

Its breadth,

light and agreeable

as it rises upward –

its magnetism, far-reaching.

Exuberant, its laugh,

playfully existing

somewhere between

blades of grass unfurled. 

Flirtatious, its song

as it genially sings

of change and

new beginnings.

A life of thought

inscribed within the circle

of its own turning –

  however transitory.

That A Voice Be True

Hymn Of Hope

In the amputation of each minute,

TIME – 

the carrier of everything,

gently releases its holy hush,

a hymn of hope to some

who listen over and over

to the sweet outrage

of its passing that is

abjectly rendered within

its philosophical mood.

As it shapes our world

it offers each of us

an inspiriting invitation

to openly engage ourselves
amidst its vivid colours
and amongst the pulse
of its perpetual movement.

The fire of its measure

is planted within –

consistent its flow

as it circles in simple

incremental rhythms.

Voluble Atmospheres

I Never Knew

I let it fall, 

my heart

And as it fell, 

you rose to claim it

~ Adele

Beyond Framed Enclosures

Before the swell 

of its generosity

inundated the white

of the canvas,

I felt the fluidity

of the imagination.

. . . . .

A surge of

distinguishable outlines

composed themselves

across the canvas –

the landscape essential,

enabling a space

so as to to reach

a clarity of vision,

allowing imagination

to stray beyond

framed enclosures,

because nothing exists

for its own sake –

it breathes as a melody

or a movement

far greater than it,

emerging way beyond

the typical limits

of what is expected –

its pulse a necessity.

. . . . .

As its pitch is articulated,

the heart sings – its impulse exposed

from behind the eyes,

offering alternative interpretations.

Spiced With Timelessness

An old woman

recalling joy –

she and I, 

arbitrarily paired.

Sipping tea,

endowing our minds

towards each other

and our stories –

giving shape

to their inquiry.

The moment

simple –

all else in the world,

less sure.

Her voice,

a prayer –

spiced with

timelessness.

I surrender

wholeheartedly

to its genuine

connotations.

. . . . .

An old woman

recalling joy –

she and I,

making connections.

Change Everlasting

Time And Time Again

Adjusting The Angle

A Reminder

A woman leaning

into an open window

sighs…

By-and-by she smiles.

…..

What is it that endures, 

having witnessed,

a long time ago,

her soul wholly enveloped

in psychedelic thought

that promises nothing

of what it is she hopes to redeem,

tunneling through mute reflections

that talk and talk – constant

their unhurried measure.

Glancing at her again now,

I sense a real sweetness to her smile –

leaning in closer,

her eyes seem to posess

an intense dialogic allocution –

involved with everything

conferred deep inside

by her own sanctioning.

Yet there she rests –

a simple handbreadth away.

Blessed by the silent touch

of her adept grace,

I traipse briefly amongst

fond remembrances that elicit, 

first a mood, but then a need

to voice her name,

 early one Sunday morning.

 My mother’s image –

a work of art to some, 

and I, but a simple derivative

of its creation –

our common bond

that was gifted

down through generations,

acting as a reminder

that we are never alone.

Que Sera, Sera

A Graceful Clearing

The Country Of Marriage
 (verse 1)

I.

I dream of you walking at night along the streams

of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs

of birds opening around you as you walk.

You are holding in your body the dark seed of my sleep.

~ Wendell Berry

Always

Our Perception Of Things

Soldered Together

At The Last Plausible Moment

Tulipa

Fill the loneliness

of the clock’s unforgiving minutes

with mounting truths,

vehemently proclaiming

the dead calm static of this hour.

Omniscient, time's narration

as it aches to concede,

always another beginning,

addressing the soul’s equilibrium,

with tremendous cadence,

so that it may undergo, once again,

what it is born to bare.

Beating it down

to established dimensions.

 Telling it, it is needed.

. . . . .

Redemption given,

in this strange late hour.

Taste it.

Taste it again –

your name.

An enduring gift

to the soul

of who you are.

Engaged On Every Level

Look Behind

The Window

Why do you stand by the window

Abandoned to beauty and pride

The thorn of the night in your bosom

The spear of the age in your side

Lost in the rages of fragrance

Lost in the rags of remorse

Lost in the waves of a sickness

That loosens the high silver nerves

Oh chosen love, Oh frozen love 


Oh tangle of matter and ghost 


Oh darling of angels, demons and saints 


And the whole broken-hearted host 


Gentle this soul

And come forth from the cloud of unknowing 


And kiss the cheek of the moon 


The New Jerusalem glowing 


Why tarry all night in the ruin 


And leave no word of discomfort 


And leave no observer to mourn 


But climb on your tears and be silent 


Like a rose on its ladder of thorns

Oh chosen love, Oh frozen love...

Then lay your rose on the fire 


The fire give up to the sun 


The sun give over to splendour 


In the arms of the high holy one 


For the holy one dreams of a letter 


Dreams of a letter's death 


Oh bless thee continuous stutter 


Of the word being made into flesh

Oh chosen love, Oh frozen love...

Gentle this soul

~ Leonard Cohen