Monday, 31 December 2012

A different countdown

One, two, three lights out on the ocean; one red, one orange, one blue.

Between the shore and the horizon, the water shimmers, magical. Its very bright on the water, reflecting a nearly full moon.

The moon doesn't know its New Year. Nor does the ocean.

In ten minutes, (five now), in living rooms and bars, in squares and gardens, people will shout out the countdown. Ten, nine, eight (and the moon still shines), seven, six, five (the sea still ripples and shines), four, three, two (red, orange, blue), one!

Happy New Year! (happy moon, happy ocean).

Towards a new year

Grey morning, late December
Maybe, after all, this is the human struggle, one we always come to slowly, imperfectly, stumbling on the steps.

And hope and despair can live side by side, hand in hand, as we stumble our way towards something approximating truth.

Sunday, 30 December 2012

Laxton (1)

All day, we climbed the tree.
There was a ditch,
a metal fence, a stile.
There was a dirt track,
and on the other side,
an old army barrack.

I was six, or maybe seven.
The sun shone all day,
and in the middle of the day,
we sat in the shade of the tree,
ate salmon paste sandwiches,
drank tea and orange squash.

They worked with scarves
tied around their heads.
Every now and then
I'd climb the stile,
cross the track,
wanting to know more.

At one end of the hut,
steep wooden steps.
Inside, lines of metal beds
(striped mattresses folded to air,)
narrow wardrobes,
(one between each bed.)

The women chased me out,
back across the ditch,
away from the dust,
back to the tree.
"Stay on the grass,
by the tree!"

Over and over,
I pulled myself up
into the branches,
then climbed down again.
Over and over, polka dots
spinning as I twisted down.

And the women's voices
floating from the windows,
across the sunlit grass,
rising up to me in the tree,
as they cleaned and swept and
set the place straight.

At the end of the day,
as shadows lengthened,
they folded us tiredly into cars,
spread us across the
bench seats, to sleep the
long drive home.

Saturday, 29 December 2012

When I was seventeen

Buddha on my bedside table
When I was seventeen or so, I felt despair most of the time. I didn't have a name for it. I didn't know it's cause. I had no context to enclose it. It just lived with me.

I sought out writers and poets, artists and music that reflected my inner world. And so, I found beauty and truths that are with me still.

I discovered, almost by chance, that doing things was better than not doing things, even though despair came along too, and did the things with me.

I discovered that sometimes, despair could be a catalyst to make me act, and that despair and activity, despair and the doing of things in this world, could co-exist quite happily.

And now, all these years later, I wonder if there's also space for an un -doing. A time to face that old despair straight in the face. To sit and look at it head on. To find out what it asks of me. To find out what else it might offer.

Stillness and menace

Still clear pool
By the side of the road, there's a small pool. The water is clear, and bright green fronds hang above it. The water must gather here often, running off the fields. It's a miniature oasis of peace on a storm tossed morning.

Walking on, past a lone tree, and the wind suddenly picks up and hums, violently, through it's bare branches, shaking the trunk. It seems to be shouting "beware!" or maybe "be careful". There's a momentary menace in the world, almost as if something evil were lurking behind the hedge, ready to pounce.

Stillness and clear, cool water.

Unkown dangers ready to pounce.

Held together, held by one step after the other, held by this world.

Friday, 28 December 2012

Letting go of 2012

I've made an inventory of all I need to let go of as the year draws to a close. There's quite a lot in my circle of letting go. I even need to let go of the list of things that I need to let go.

And when you let go of it all, what's left?

Empty space.

And finally, I realise, the empty space is the point. Not a rush to fill the space that's left by the letting go.

Letting go. Empty space. Preparing as the year draws to a close.

Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Fierce winds

Black mountain in the distance, stark against a full moon sky. Close by, timber posts rising out of the dark of the hedge, and thin strands of barbed wire pulled loosely between them. Fierce winds blow tonight, and I walk thinking "My father is dying, my father is dying". Every day, he eats less, and the weight falls away, effortlessly, silently. As if all the bulk I have ever known was only a disguise, hiding the skinny bones of a bewildered boy, sitting in a cattle truck, heading East.

The wind blows, it blows, and brief clouds pass translucent across the face of the man in the moon. And my father grows lighter by the hour, lighter and more insubstantial. As if the man never existed, and instead, only a boy, with too little flesh on his bones.

Christmas is over, but still the house heaves with food. And my father sits, in a clean tidy room, with kind people watching, sits wasting, sits failing to thrive, refusing all but the meanest mouthfuls of food.

Fierce winds blow. The veil grows thin. It feels as if he's passed the point of no return. Hunger has ceased to exist. Hunger, which so defined his early days. Hunger has ceased to exist. And as we pour cream onto pudding, gravy onto plates full of food, he grows less substantial by the hour.

And so a life turns full circle. And the man that he was disappears. And I try to hold him, but I can't.

Spinning a life - words for 2013

Moving towards 2013
Turning and spinning,
Spinning and turning,
Spinning these words,
Spinning a life.

The words circling around

Hope. Open. Joy.

Circling and turning

Travel. Different. Enjoy.

Turning again, circling around

Connect. Authentic. Still.

And again spinning round and around

Create. Teach. Satisfied.

All this turning and spinning,
Spinning and turning,
Spinning these words,
Spinning a life.

Monday, 24 December 2012

Being enough

Everything you have done is enough.

Eveything that is bought is enough.

Everything that is made is enough.

It's easy to spoil the day, fretting over what's not been achieved.

Stand back, and tell yourself, slowly and clearly,

"I am enough"

And then start to enjoy the gift of mid winter celebration, the turning of the year, and the bringing of light into the darkness.

Sunday, 23 December 2012

Connection and armour

Lost people everywhere. As you start to get to know someone, and they loosen their protective armour even just a little, you see the loss and hurt they carry with them.

It's not possible to be human in this world and not accumulate your share of woes. It IS possible to keep the armour tight, and function and go about your everyday life, and never show the bewildered child to anyone else.

And yet the true connection arises when we lift the armour, trusting that the other person WON'T deliver a fatal blow.

No cure, but a salve in the connection. Here is another person, just like me, coping as best they can, just like me, carrying their hurts and working to rise above them, just like me.

And connection feels something like prayer, something like thankfulness.

Saturday, 22 December 2012

the veil is thin

In this life, there are places where the veil is thin between this world and ..... somewhere else.

I don't know the name or place that is the "somewhere else", but I recognise the times and places where the veil is thin.

You see it in newborns, just arrived, not fully here, still partly in that other place.

You see it in old men, sitting head tipped forward in their chair, not asleep, but not fully in this world. Waiting. Dipping their toes into the other place.

A fiery angel guards the borderline, policing it; deciding who is to be on this side, who on that side.

When we sleep, the veil is thin.

When we dream, the veil is thin.

Giving birth, the veil is thin.

And perhaps, if we sit still and quiet for long enough, the veil becomes thinner, and we get a glimpse of eternity.

Tuesday, 18 December 2012

Twists and Turns

This world, with it's twists and turns, is
too fickle, somehow ( ... you twist and
turn, like a twisty turny thing....)

This is where I stand ( this place here).

This (this place) is where I stand.

And like a twisty, turny thing, this place

(here) moves. Here moves to there.

(Twisty. Turny. )

And the world is too fickle.

And my nights are filled with flying and falling.

And the ancients look on, sternly, keeping their counsel.

And still, I leap in the air, magic lifting me, until I've climbed too high, and know I must crash.

Twisty turny world.

Thursday, 13 December 2012

Mid December

Mid December Morning
Morning arrives.

The days are short, and there's a shortage of days. Not enough days or hours to do all the things we need to do to satisfy our self imposed standards.

December 13th. Twelve days to Christmas, eleven to Christmas Eve. Where will I find the time, as I rush through my days, to do all that has to be done? Buy the presents. Buy the tree. Put the tree up. Buy the food. Cook the food. Finish the work for the clients who need it all done and dusted before 21 December, when the industry shuts down till the New Year. I feel the panic rise and with it the helpless feeling of not knowing what to do first.

Then I pause. All to meet an arbitrary date. A man made date. All to meet these self imposed standards, so carefully policed. Policed not just by myself but by all those around me. "Have you got everything? Have you done your shopping? Is your tree up yet? When will you put it up?".

Meanwhile, the sun continues to rise every morning, oblivious to the scurry, and worry, and urgency. Oblivious to our self important ways.

The days are short. That is the way of days in mid December. These short days are the perfection of the season. Listen to what they tell you.

There is no shortage of days, just days that are perfectly short. 

All you do is enough. 

There's nothing more required.

And as Christmas arrives, let it be perfect, with all that is done, and all that is undone. 

Wednesday, 12 December 2012

Crib scene on rock

Painted onto a rock collected on the beach in Kilcoole, Co Wicklow

Tuesday, 11 December 2012

Something like acceptance

I grow back into myself;
and what you do, or don't do,
slowly cease to matter.
I grow back, slowly,
into my self.

This self that is less than perfect;
sometimes slothful,
sometimes petty,
almost by chance,

This self that is
multi layered,
multi textured.

This self that feels
like a neglected home
needing a good spring clean
to clear all the cobwebs away.

This unfamiliar,
most familiar

And in the early hours,
all those things that mattered
cease to matter,
and there is only this.

Soft breathing.
The quilt round my shoulders
keeping me warm.
The weight of the cat at my feet.
And something like acceptance.

Sunday, 9 December 2012

On a grey sunday

Milky Way

On Friday night, we got home late. Getting in, lighting the fire, putting away the shopping, all made it later still. The dogs still needed to be walked, so reluctantly pulling my coat around me, I headed out by myself into the wind and cold and dark. Half way down the road, I lifted my head, in spite of the wind and my resentment at having to be out in the cold - and there above me, the glory of the milky way.

When I got home, I wrapped up a tired and grumpy little boy, and walked him down the drive and away from the lights of the house. For ten minutes, we looked at the night sky. And the milky way twinkling with ancient light.

Thursday, 6 December 2012

Standing at a bus stop on Sunday morning

I'm seventeen. I'm standing at a bus stop, in the city centre. It's Sunday morning, and I'm in my Saturday night clothes.

It's still early, not many people around, and those that are, are dressed in their sunday best, and mainly on their way to church, some holding well dressed children by the hand. It's early in the day, and early summer too, the day bright and brisk, the sun lighting up the dour Victorian square with its new steps and pedestrianised plaza. The progress of the 70's.

My dress looks too short and too shiny. I've just said goodbye at another bus stop, and I'm wondering if he'll remember my number. He asked for it just as the bus arrived, and had nothing to write it on. (he will). (he'll even walk across the city, six miles, to come and see me, but I don't know this yet).

I'm heading home for sunday dinner. I'm heading home to a good dose of scorn, and best attempts to shame and humiliate. (but I don't know this yet).

I stand at the bus stop, alone, and wear the transitory connection like a shield, a talisman, a thing of meaning in a world where I scrabble about, looking for meaning.

The sun's shining, and there's a light wind blowing. I hold my head high, and turn my face to the sun, as I wait for the bus to arrive.

Monday, 3 December 2012

Simple prayer

Yesterday, my mother's best friend died. They came together through Siberia, through Persia, the orphanage in Africa and to England in 1947, young women, stateless, family-less.

I remember Ciocia Zosia's voice in our dining room, on summer mornings when I had no school and slept late; I remember her voice rising and falling and laughing a lot.

She was widowed in the 70's, an early death by cancer. Her children were still young. For many years, she and my mother worked together in the scoold meals service, serving up dinners to the mainly Sikh and Bangladeshi children at the Sparkhill Institute, and then at the Nelson Mandela Primary School.

She was a good woman, a good friend. This is a simple prayer to wish her soul safe passage.

A Good Day

The sun's not yet risen, over the top of Carrig; the week's not yet started.

It's going to be a good day, in spite of it all. It's going to be a good day

Saturday, 1 December 2012

Wisdom Within

(sunrise 30 Nov 2012)

There is a wisdom within that can be difficult to admit. All that responsibility for yourself!

Easier to read another book. Easier to go to another workshop. Easier to silence your own voice, and listen to the answers offered by others.

Easier to write and write, or talk and talk, and not REALLY listen to a word we say! Easier to race through the world, and not listen to a word it says.

I'm trying to slow down and listen.

Friday, 30 November 2012

The Thin Line

There's a thin line between night and day, between sleep and awake. Between the two, find the blessing.

Wednesday, 28 November 2012

Slow Down

Cold Sunset 

On one side of the road, to the West, the sun setting.

On the other, a full moon rises over the ridge to the East.

A cold sunset in a clear sky. Black ice on the road.

The car slides suddenly on a bend, juddering as the ABS kicks in, and we narrowly miss the ditch.

All these things, the world shouting at me "Slow down! Slow down."

Black ice

Full moon

Cold sunset

Sunday, 25 November 2012

Peter Pan in heels

....and Neverland is far away,
too far to fly to without wings,
and outside, rain falls everwhere,
and inside the heaviness of Here.

Friday, 23 November 2012

Cold Night

The air outside so cold it hurts my face. A three quarter moon in a clear sky. The road bright, lit as if by lamplight, and my shadow black against its surface. Stars in their hundreds above, and the dogs sniff the hedgerows catching traces of fox, of pheasant. My breath mists before me, as wrapping my coat tighter, I turn back for home.

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

I don't really want to write a story.

Although I sense the boy's fear, as he watches his father walk away from him, and move towards the unknown.

But there's no story. Only the wind whispering it's tales. All the stories have already been told, and in this moment, there is only the fact of it. He's leaving. He's leaving. And the story becomes a song, and the song travels down the valley on the wind. And nobody can follow the wind.

Tuesday, 20 November 2012

Hospital visit

A hand with long,
thin fingers,
nails unclipped,
takes rasberries,
one by one,
lifting them to tired lips,
as the eyes stare
into middle distance,
straight ahead. 

Saturday, 17 November 2012

"The tragedy of life is not that people die, but that they die to you".

Fyodor Dostoevsky

.....and then one day ten years have passed.....

......and then twenty....

.......thirty, forty, fifty....

And then one day your whole life passes in front of you in seconds; and you know there is no yesterday, no tommorow, that everything happens in the same instant. That we just see it as linear, as going from then to now, to give it some kind of order. To let us make up the stories we need to believe about our lives.

Friday, 16 November 2012

Destination Unknown

There is solid ground under my feet. I don't know where my steps may lead me, but I'll take them one by one. Not knowing the destination.

I might fall into quicksands again. That's ok. I might reach marshy ground, feet heavy in the mud. That's ok. Then one day, I'll reach a big body of water. Maybe an ocean. And I'll have to decide whether I have the courage to leave solid ground behind. But not yet.

For now, gentle steps on solid ground, destination unknown.

~(acrylic on paper - Destination Unknown) ~

Tuesday, 13 November 2012

What Matters

Slow breathing in the early morning.
The wind, raging wild outside the window.
An untroubled mind.

Shelter. Food. Warmth.
A heart resting quiet.
An untroubled mind.

Focus only on this.
A peaceful house.
A gentle cupping.

Feel your mind un-troubling.
Feel your heart nesting, and
Slowly learning a new, steady beat.

As the wind rages outside the house.
As the wolves howl their threats.
As all the threads of the familiar unravel.

Nest in the remnants of the un-troubling, as solid crutches melt away. Four walls keeping out wind and wolves. No need for falling off cliffs. One. Two. One. Two. Steady.

Focus only on this.
Sacred space.
What matters.

Monday, 12 November 2012

Rainbow morning

Fatigue, anger, frustration, impediments, rush, tension, pressure.

Yet as I step outside, there's a rainbow.

Saturday, 10 November 2012

Thursday, 8 November 2012

Fallow time

In winter
no shoots, no leaves,
no green. Bare branches
shaking in the wind. Thin fingers,
pointing to the sky, resting in this
fallow time, resting in this wintertime
of the soul. Not waiting for spring.
Not waiting for anything. Just
lying gently in brown earth, gently
resting in the dark. Silently
being the seed. Not waiting
for a shoot. Not waiting for
something to germinate.
Resting inside the hard shell,
letting it shelter, letting the
hard frost of winter
do it's work. It's work of
breaking the shell -
But not yet. But not yet.
For now, a time of resting,
in a dark place,
in silence, nurturing
the seed that has fallen.

Monday, 5 November 2012

My grandmother

I'm walking around the rooms in my grandmother's flat. She lived on the first floor of a three storey house, on the corner of Woodland's Road and Showell Green Lane in Moseley, Birmingham. She is competent, capable, caring, SAFE. She's a teacher, a baker, a bird spotter, a story teller, a piano, accordian and harmonica player. She's a survivor.

She died when I was eight or nine. I can see her face clearly in front of me. As if she's waiting. I walk through each room in her flat. The huge square table in the dining room. The silver box we saved money in for trips, on the tiled mantlepiece. The yellow formica fronted cabinet in the kitchen. The paraffin lamp in the bathroom. The living room, hung with Kilim, woven tapestries, the piano in the corner, the big bay window overlooking the road.

Over forty years, and I can still walk through each room, and see her standing there. Still see her face. Strong. Proud. Kind.

Sunday, 4 November 2012

My cherry tree

The book lying open on my lap, I sit with my eyes closed, remembering. A dusty city, a small garden with an oak tree, an apple tree and a cherry tree. Planted as each of us were born, the oak for my eldest brother at the end of the house, the apple just behind the house for my middle brother, and the cherry blossom in the space between the dining room window and the wooden fence for me. I try to imagine the hope and anticipation that went into choosing and planting each tree.

My cherry blossom tree was cut down, quite casually, when I was in my late teens. It had grown too big, was troublesome, caused too much shadow. No one asked me about it, and in the overall picture of everything else that was happening, it seemed unimportant. But I remember it felt like something about my arrival was being erased.

The sound of an plane passing high overhead brings me back to now; soft breathing from the small person tucked in the bed beside me, and a teenager chatting on the phone in the room next door. I think I might plant a cherry blossom, here in my garden, high in the wicklow hills, when spring arrives. A symbol. The opposite of erased.

Moving Towards Redemption

Saturday, 3 November 2012

Empty Space

in empty space
full of salt
full of water
rising like waves
salty froth
then falling
back into
the depths

Thursday, 1 November 2012

Sunset in Winter

Sun setting on the road from Roundwood to Tomeriland

(Oil pastel sketch)

Oh what a beautiful morning

...and I find myself searching for a word that can describe the strong flood of emotion that sometimes arrives as we stand and look at the beauty of the world around us, or listen to an outstanding piece of music....

There doesn't seem to be such a word. There are words and phrases for surges of negative feeling ( like panic attack), but not for the positive surges.

If anyone knows one, please let me know. (In my dream last night, I knew the word, but in the way of dreams, as I woke, it disappeared...)

Wednesday, 31 October 2012

At Halloween

the layers between the worlds are thin.
And all those who are gone reach back with thin fingers, and whisper in our ears "feel me, feel me". And even children sense their presence, and grow afraid to enter rooms in the dark by themselves. Thin tendrils of past being touch us, and remind us both that we are mortal and life is short, and that nothing is completely lost.

Tuesday, 30 October 2012

Freedom to play

Memory of a dream

"Creativity ~ the freedom to play, with no end result in mind."

Pale Blue Egg

A large, pale blue egg, flecked with small pale brown specks, sits in the palm of one hand. Each night, this other world; arriving back each morning in this world. Sometimes arriving quickly, sometimes waking slowly, coming back gently.

There is beauty and truth in the other world.

There is beauty and truth in this world.

There is a sitting quietly on my own. The blue egg. The blue egg. The blue egg. The blue egg.

Monday, 29 October 2012

Tail end

Tail end of the day ~ and what a day,
midsummer in late October. As evening falls, the rescue helicopter hovers overhead. Tail ends all around. And meanwhile, the sun quietly says goodnight and disappears over the horizon. Tail end of the day.

Sunday, 28 October 2012

Letter from my 80 year old self

You'll be here in thirty years.

It will happen quicker than you think, quicker than a blink. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. Enjoy getting up and walking down the corridor to your own kitchen in the half dark, the dogs ready to greet you as you flick the kettle on and start on the lunches. Enjoy that little body tucked in next to yours at night, and telling you he loves you every hour.

Enjoy all these things you take for granted now. Enjoy the food, enjoy the work, enjoy all you are capable of. The day will come when you can't have a bath. The day will come when you can't drive a car. The day will come when instead of everyone wanting a piece of you, your days will be your own, and maybe far too long.

Enjoy. Be in your days, and find joy in your days, as step by step by step, you move towards the gradual disintegration of form.

Enjoy the world



Wednesday, 24 October 2012

Flibberty jib

Cat in the clouds
Cloudy cloudy cloudy.
Let go.
Flip flip flip
Flibberty jib

Curly curly goes the path,
Curly curly curly.
Take it slowly
Stay as long as,
As long as you need.
Flibberty jib

Take it.
Till the mists clear
Till the mists clear

Sunday, 21 October 2012

Half moon, Sunday Night

Night fall in the mountains
Half moon. Sky fades to pale orange and grey. Small bubbles of mist appear with my breath and a low mist hangs over the field above the crossroads. A distant rumble of occasional cars carrying people home to Sunday night. And as I arrive home, a scatter of pale stars hang in the blue black sky. The fading of another day.

Largely untouched by death

I who have been largely untouched by death, carrying these deaths with me through my life; the abruptness of death; and grief grows expotentially.

Listing the losses, the dates and places unknown, Mama's Tata, her Mama, the twins, Heniek, Tata's Tata, all lost and circling me, reaching out their arms, and grief grows exponentially, as Heniek lies in his newly found grave in Pahlevi waiting for me to come and claim him, as Babunia dreams of her handsome officer husband, waiting for her in the cafe in the park, and she's carrying a bunch of lilacs through the ancient city, smiling to herself in her happiness. She lies now in the grave with Oled, tiny baby, less than twelve hours old with his mis-shapen head, the baby Mama never saw, the baby Tata carried alone to the grave, placing him to rest in the grave where fifteen years later he'd place his mother.

All these dead people, here with me still, Mama's Mama standing at the end of the long hospital corridor, shawl wrapped around her thin face, waving her goodbye to the children she'd never see again, she stands endlessly inside me, waving and waving with one hand as she clutches the shawl tightly.

And the twins, somewhere in Kazakhstan, lying in their lonely separate graves, calling "find us, find us".

Saturday, 20 October 2012

The pause to draw breath

Late afternoon grey;

Dogs bounding through shallow water,
the thin strip of sand littered with shells.

A young man on a bike stops and stares out to sea for a while.

It's another world, as behind us cars pass in a continuous stream, the Friday night city exodus.

Phone pressed to my ear, the news of hospitals and procedures feels far, far away, as I call the dogs back from the road.

Back at the car, as I towel the dogs dry, a small, strangely dressed woman with a foriegn accent asks if she can give them a treat. They sit and Maisie sits on after munching the biscuit, hoping for more, as the pup leaps and races around.

These minutes are my treat; the pause to draw breath.

Monday, 15 October 2012


by ghosts of

lost decades

sitting at my


walking hospital


lying in woodsheds


looking for


Saturday, 13 October 2012

small white box

In the photo, my father's standing tall and handsome, young still, dark haired, clean shaven. He's wearing a suit. He looks down towards the ground. One arm holds a tiny white coffin on his shoulder. The other lifts to steady it. He's walking, one foot is in front of the other.

I know the place - Oscott Cemetery. I know the walk from the car park, under the trees, along the gravel path, then between the rows of graves.

I imagine his lonely walk to the open grave - the new grave, bought for this day - lonely steps. Shouldering his grief.

The year, I think, is 1957, maybe '58. My father would have been in his twenties - maybe 27. My mother was still in hospital, unconscious for days after the birth. My oldest brother just two years old.

It's years since I last saw the old black and white photo, but it came to me in a rush tonight. Feeling his steps. All that is lost carried in a small white box.

Thursday, 11 October 2012

Wild with stars

The sky is wild with stars tonight, and the wind gusts and heaves, leaving a lone crab apple tree to throw its black silhouhette this way and that against the distant orange glow of city lights. As my face grows chill in the darkness of the lane, I dream that we're home and settling in for the night, a fire lit, tea and toast, and the push and pull of the day fading away. As I drag the bins down to the gate for the binmen tommorow, and open the door to the next ten tasks, the wild starry sky looks on.

Wednesday, 10 October 2012

Nature's bounty in the rain

A walk in the rain is as good for the dogs as a walk in the sunshine. Maybe better even - fresh scents, and puddles to splash through. And among the wet leaves, what looks like flowers blossoming. But is in fact, seeds, frits, fallen from the tree and opening in the rain. Nature's bounty.

Tuesday, 9 October 2012

As morning arrives

Another morning arrives. As I
lie in my bed, listening to the
first bird calling, aware of the
first light making an opaque
rectangle at the window, I feel
the steady beating of my heart,
and am thankful for it.

Sunday, 7 October 2012

nothing much makes sense

There are days
that are just like other days
except that on these days
nothing much makes sense.

And there are nights
that are just like other nights
except that on these nights
nothing much makes sense.

Saturday, 6 October 2012

these edges

These edges where we live; blindly believing the edge is TO something.
Thinking that some day soon, the pieces will slip into place and we'll experience "aha!"? (aha!)

Edge as existence. Stand firm. Know the edge, and balance (balance) as you always have. Tommorow is another day, (another) and living at (not on) the edge is not the worst place to be.

Living (aha!) at the edge (balance)....