Rain falls.
No poet blames tears
For aquaplaning quills
Making pirouettes
Over checkered pages.
Rain falls. The dance continues.
No poet ever blames the poem
For their failure,
Their stumbling steps
Over checkered pages.
Rain falls. A poet weeps. A poem drowns
– in shallow waters.
The fruit of one’s labour cannot be measured by buckets picked, nor by uniquely labelled jars stored on shelves in dark cold cellars. Fruit, like life is a dance from dawn to dusk, between birth and death becoming attractive wearing a colourful plumage while still raw and bitter at the core. The full colour only vivid at the end when the sweet scent attracts new pursuers while the rot grows inside. As dusk turn to nightmare our cycle completes, we roam the cold dark cellars in search for uniquely labelled jars yet closed. The fruit of one’s labour cannot be measured in a single lifetime — nor in the coins left behind.
I’m tired of observing
My arms flailing like windmills
By a drying desert
Keeping wolves at bay
While tethered truths roam free
I’m tired of observing
People pulling my last leg
By a drying desert
Tapping pockets of gold
While bleeding knees greet*
I’m tired of observing
The distant hollow
By a drying desert
Life drizzling by
With echoes of time fading
*Scots.
Fate lingered. Socks pulled high.
Circumstance sat in silence.
“Are you well, Dear Sister?”
“…”
“Would you like to —“
“No.”
“Would —“
“No.”
“Why —“
“Because apparently Jaysome IS the context. I don’t know how we fit in there, or anywhere anymore.”
“What? Who told you this?”
”The Context Critters. They came back early. Warned by some sort of Magician…”
“Doesn’t bode well…”
“No.”
A very long time ago
Everything was clear
The meaning of life scribbled on a whiteboard
— then the cleaning lady came
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Misery danced alone that night.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Naked feet and a made-up face.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Two steps by four and without blemishes.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Misery danced alone that night.
Or so they said — proof-less
like an uneaten pudding; their words
not seeing Memories twirl.
Blah.
Blah.
Blah.
Misery danced with Memories
of naked feet and made-up faces,
dreaming of a silent world
— without Blah and blemish.
Dust gradually germinating
Grasping the concrete clay asleep,
A posh and pensive patchwork
Rooted in ash and dreams,
Nature’s need for care and compassion
Sloping shoulders and heaving chest,
Love my only mistress
As I care — and protect.
“Uhm, did you know your avatar has suffered an oops, Slouch,” the boy of infinite adventures informs me as he bounces through the cottage door. “I could fixify that with hugs you know!”
“Not sure hugs will help this time, no matter how many hugs you have in store.” I am washing up my only plate. Dinner a single parsnip but I’ll survive. “Tumblr has decided my blog is either mature or explicit or both. Explicitly mature makes no sense, cuz I’m neither.” I see the boy of eleven ponder my statement as if there were millions of solutions to consider.
“Huh, Charlie could … or Honcho would … but I will investigatify! Cuz Tumblr have done too many oopses and have lots of not Jaysome bugs in their settings.”
Before I can give a word of caution, Jay vanishes through the cottage door. I doubt he will find a solution.
Uprooting —
Moving from A to B
Like a puzzle with too many pieces
I cannot C it
Completed
No box with a pretty picture
To point my guiding arrow
At a target imaginable
Afar
Uprooting —
Finding a way
Through the haze and daze
Of idle passing days
In contemplation
Thoughtless waves pounds the shore
Gnawing at the last realm of time
And the soft sand
Disappearing.
