Spirit of Khan, RIP

The wind mourns your loss
as do I. I hear the wolves
call your passing, a shaman
given to caring, to cleansing
and healing broken spirits.
Your loving thoughts
passed beyond all walls
broke your own barriers,
belittled your own needs.
I am glad you found peace,
quiet and peace,
that you reaffirmed
your beliefs and left
in comfort. Rest
now friend, know
your legacy of caring
will continue.

For the child born an angel

Maybe once in a while
an angel is born, a child
who will turn the disheartened,
who will rearrange the thoughts
of a non-believer,
who will bend their little piece
of the world
to rights again.

I walk my garden
and see your hopeful eyes
staring back through raindops
on petals. You are beautiful,
unforgettable and graceful
and though things seem topsy turvy
there is one who has a greater need
for you. He will take you
under his wing,
nurture your kindness
and love, and teach you
more of your gifts. Go

to him with opened arms
and show us that in following
there is no fear,
no frightening moments,
take my strength if you have need
lead the way, and I
will follow.

Let's walk together

I hear you
in the spring wind
whipping through branches
of the olive trees,
hear your voice
and feel your hand
on my shoulder
as if you were here
waking me at dawn
messing with my dreams
nudging me to walk
with the wind, to walk
one last time with you.

Digital Camera

The history-cracks in my palm
cradle you as my eyes
peer into your square screen,
stare the length of my arm out
to a created earth. I see
blossoms and beatles,
bruised bodies and bent buildings
and sometimes there is more
colour in the tagging
than in the rainbow
in my garden.

A piece of Spring

I see his work
through the lens -
the pink in blossoms,
dangling with the weight
of raindrops,
moss crawling along the garden
seat turning brown green
and the street beyond
becoming a black snake,
slithering in silence
past my garden.

A piece of Spring

I see his work
through the lens -
the pink in blossoms,
dangling with the weight
of raindrops,
moss crawling along the garden
seat turning brown green
and the street beyond
becomes a black snake,
slithering in silence
past my garden.

Foretelling the future

I can see the sin
sitting on the shoulders
of the old, creating the cracks
in their faces. I compare
them to the young you steal,
those you take so early
in the season,
their perfection a fair glow,
an aura that crackles
its wrapping around their soul,
tell me you choose them
for another reason. I dare you
to lie, to take someone bad
and change their blackness
into white, or into the crystal
clear raindrops of the innocent
young you steal from under
my heart. I know
I shouldn't dare you, I know
that you take what you need
but still, I don't have to like it.
Call it my ignorance
and take them all.

Winter is inevitable

Tree limbs are caught
in cloud webs, pulling
the sky down to mud-
streaked earth. Winter
leaves the ground brown
and swollen like the dead
floating in murky streams
passing me by as I wait,
breath stretched
towards Spring, soles
stuck in a land
cursed and dying.

Freedom

There is dust
settling on the tv set,
I know as I've just dragged
my finger through and left
a little of my soul behind,
the part that thinks of you
and wishes the dust fairies
were dancing in sunrays
so you could watch
and while away the time
with a fantasy in a place
where dust doesn't matter
where there are no clocks
or changing seasons
where it is just
you, fairies
and freedom.

There is iron in red

I swallow iron
when I drink red.
Feel its dry blade
slip down my throat
like dandelion tea,
feel its strength
invade my body,
steal my resolve
until all I want
is you.

Pandora's Box

There are papers in this box,
a cardboard coffin
that cradles history
from days when the sun rose
and lit their lives with love,

papers that whisper the secrets
that tell the tales of deceipt,
the lies that were hidden
and only now flare into view
with clarity the stars

magnify. I bring the paper
out at night, in the hopes a misty
evening will mask the mess,
the remnants of a twisted love
that should have been muffled
at birth.

Reflect the blue

Cars travel up the road,
rain-splashed waves bow
from their tyres, clay
from the removal home
washed away into the drain.
Drains carry dirt, and slime
and history, and they take it
from the streets drag it to the sea
where it becomes but one drop
in the oceans and I wonder if the oceans
are filled with history, with lives
and death, with the dregs
of removed houses, the blood
of wounded souls. And if this is so,
why are the oceans green
and not red. At least now I know
why they reflect the blue.

One of those days

If it were true,
I'd say it was the time of the month
but I'm beyond those seasonal shifts
so now I just say it's a Limbo Day
the kind where I can't settle,
can't sit doing one job
until it's completed, can't draw
or paint or clean or dance, can't
even write with a steady hand.
Maybe it's my sugar levels
or maybe, just maybe
it's one of those days.

Bumpy roads

They look outside
and see nothing but stars
guiding their eyes
down a path
strewn with little rocks,
the kind that stick
in your bare foot
and make you limp
for a week. They'll walk
it anyway, they have to -
it's in their destiny like
birth and love and death
and this winter
when snow covers everything
with that white layer of paste,
masks the sharp edges,
softens the blow, they'll walk
watching the stars
and wishing on make-believe dreams
that all stones
are smooth, and all bumpy roads
have been cleared, just
for them.

Sometimes moths are blue

On the edge of my garden
hovers a moth, a blue
winged moth that almost
blends with the lavender. Now
and again it lifts
to fly a little and settle
on another blossom spike.
I wonder if there are blue
moths elsewhere, if anyone
has the time to notice
how their wings gently clap
together, if they can see
the beauty that's outside, waiting.

Some photos have soul

Sometimes a photo will do it,
center my thoughts
like an arrow pierced
by another arrow
on route to the bullseye,
a photo that turns a moment
into a three dimension gift,
unwrapped and there
just for me to witness.
You know they say
a picture is worth a thousand words
but really sometimes we can write
when the photo speaks to our soul
and we can write in words
carried from the creator
and it matters not
that they contain abstract notions
without concrete form for our focus,
it only matters that we can write
what our soul craves to sing.

Sometimes its unpleasant

The room takes on a different hue
where edges blur
not from tears
waiting to pour, but pain
that grips the belly with claws

extended, inserted, ready
to rip the empty stomach
from its life source. Blood

pound heard in the mind
hurtles through veins
until walls turn black
and the mirror
reflects nothing

except the bitter bile
swallowed.

Watch out for bumble bees

When I was little
I ignored bumble bees.
I watched daisies
and dandelions
and avoided wasps
as they waited on yellow,
poised to puncture
the foot of a supposed
predator. Now
it's the mumbling,
bumbling of fat bees
that I survey hovering
around the lavender,
hung drunkenly in mid-air
looking as if at any moment
their girth will thicken
and send them hurtling
to the ground
at my feet.

Good Morning

There was a moment today
when I saw you in the light
creeping through the cottage.
I opened the curtain

and realised you were cloud
embracing morning. Cloud
settling on snow. High
country farming hidden

in the dawn heralded
by bellbirds, broken
only by the blue day
and beeches below.

just one more before i go on holiday, hope you like it.


The joy of a child

Not only am I sun-kissed
but I carry stars in my palm,
blue stars that I might have caught -
though it is known a star may fall
it cannot be caught,
held tight,
carried about like a dream.
My blue stars fell
from the round eyes of children
and I carry them,
feather-weight gifts
with palm pressed to heart
so I will never forget
the pleasures of learning
next to them.