A Complex Creature

Photo on 2018-05-10 at 7.23 AM #2

I wake and for some moments
possibilities of the day
speed through my mind
unravelling my body from pillows and duvet
proves to be more than an easy task
how did everything get so twisted about
I can see impressions embedded in the pillows

If we could only scan each impression
retrieving thoughts or dreams left behind
would that be good or not

With some bits of fancy legwork
I managed to free my body from the octopus bed
a small jump and I raise my arms
as if I had just completed a gymnastic routine
I can hear the crowds cheering me on
for a quick moment, I bask in my achievement and victory

Spinning back into reality
I follow the path of most mornings
I unscrew the espresso pot
pour water in one part
two scoops of coffee with a dash of freshly ground pepper
into part two
tighten part three
then turn the burner on

I walk back towards the bed
hand picks up the iPhone
I raise the phone and take a picture of the bed
same angle every morning
a project in process

The artist is a complex creature
eyes are like a camera
framing  and taking stills of nearly everything I see
being so aware can be exhausting

what if the artist is just a complex fleshy computer
our eyes connected to the clouds
allowing others to access everything we see and feel
being directed by more than one
could this be why?
when I look at my door
I see it in three  black and white stills
then I can visualize them framed and on a wall

skipping over to a short poem

then again a short film with feet walking
on a wooden floor towards that same door
watching it open
a shadow walks through it
The End  

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Is it just me
or, are there others
punching keys
giving me directions

Am I an artist
or just a
complex fleshy computer

Sitting here looking out the window and open door
hearing the birds trying to speak
above the sounds of commuter cars
my left ear has caught the sound of the refrigerator
it seems to sing like a voice in a tunnel
than abruptly is stops

The light in the room changes
as the clouds cover the morning sun
I take a breath of relief
for it’s the grey clouds that I seek
they calm my soul
like a memory embedded in my DNA
travelling clouds and crashing waves soothes me
listening to the rain
feels like home

🙂

All of this with only one cup of coffee and only 9am.

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Curveball

Photo on 2018-05-02 at 10.49 AM

When life throws you a curveball

you can tilt our head

be aware of how time slows down

watch and observe

the wind

notice the colours 

………..take your time

breath………… watch it come

don’t panic

stand your ground

spread your feet

balance

slightly bend the knees

line the shoulders

look at it

show no fear

when life throws you a curveball

you must stand your ground

or you will shatter

like a glass on tiles

or a windshield upon impact

you must focus and plan your move

reacting will only deflect 

you must now 

anticipate

when life throws you

a curveball

may 2 2018

MAY 2 :18 copy

 

 

 

 

 

 

WORDS

Words

words can open your heart
words, expose darkness within
words, blanket us with comfort
words, of commitment
words, of separation
words, of frozen fear

a single word
can encompass an entire decade
a single word
can change a person’s life
one word can give you reason to live
or permission to die
words are the greatest gift we have been given
words are worth more than gold
words can describe how gold looks and feels
how it can captivate your soul
how it represents eternal love
how it has the power to destroy
some words should come with a warning label
other words should never be spoken

imagine buying your food with a poem
going to the theatre to read words on the big screen
we could give words as birthday gifts
baptisms or weddings or funerals

take any word
now add some before and after
you now have a collection
with the right words
we might be able to stop fighting
with words of understanding and openness
we might enjoy each other a bit more

open yourself
expose your feelings
then let the words flow out of you
with song or rhyme
or just on the rocks
or a twist of lemon
or an olive
words are a beautiful thing
to be enjoyed
my word today is share
what is yours?

december 6 2017

 

 

 

Trapped In The Hole Of A Doughnut

 

chair higher than it ought be
long, sand coloured counter pressed against the wall of glass
exposed bites, on the half, eaten old fashion doughnut
sitting next to the ceramic coffee cup

why am I here?
at this crowded doughnut shop in the city
cars zipping past on drive-thru exits
summers furniture sits on the outside patio
bolted to the pavers
snow caused by the cold
words of love once written
on wet snow
now frozen for who knows how long
christmas music calling angels
plays on the speaker
it’s not even december

how many are here
either before or after
visiting a loved one
in that home
yes that home
across the parking lot
across the double lane road
that three story red brick complex
called a ‘home’
funny and odd name for something its not
It would make more sense
to house our loved ones
next to the airports or train stations
giving them the illusion of travel
airports for the old and used
long halls lined with beds with curtains of privacy
side table with lamp and toiletries
once chair placed at an angle
marker boards with names scribbled
days attendants, nurse and doctor on call

when the bell rings all are woken
and one by one they walk or are pushed in wheelchairs
then lined up once more
with a great view of the wall of glass
here they can see hope and dream
watching the planes take off and the workers buzzing about like ants

or they could also be at a train station
listening to the whistle blow and the tracks vibrating the floors
they could imagine themselves sitting in one of those seats
let’s not forget the harbours and cruise ships
with the seagulls flying past the windows
and the smell of sea salt in the air
fish and chips would be on the menu there

why am I sitting here
looking across the way
at the three-story building
that was in part my home for three years
there are days when I miss the smiles
the conversations that inspired me to dream up a life
when speaking to a dementia resident
I became part of their lives and their past
why would I not
the days of walking through the doors of key codes
of seeing his face light up and hearing him call
I would give my life to have that back if only for one day
to be in his arms and feel him patting my head
she is so sad, is what he wrote when he still could
line drawing of my face on a canvas of golden sun

I am sitting here because I miss him

Strange Faces
Painting by Sculptor Bruce Garner 2009

The place took hold of me and I felt compelled to write.
No editing, or thought just pure stream of consciousness.

Cup of Coffee?

A cup of coffee?

 

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before my world wakes
I stand watching the espresso pot
waiting for that sound
compressed steam escaping
dark, magical aroma
to fill the room and waken my mind
the mornings’ first pot of coffee

‘Mama used to say that if you stand over a pot of water it will never come to boil. As a child, this intrigued me, and caused me to develop methods of watching a pot without really watching it.’

camouflaged with the doorway
only her eyes could be seen
eyes directly aimed at a pot
a pot of water on the stove
she waited for the sound
of bubbles rumbling and dancing

Doorways are not for standing in. It will never boil if you continue to stare at it. My mama was right, she knew what she was talking. Feeling exasperated I would slide down the wall and sit with my knees up to my chin.’

her young mind began to wander
watching an ant walk across the floor
following the fly as it swooped past her nose
curious eyes of a child are never bored
she begins to imagine a parade
ants marching one by one
ladybugs flying overhead
dragonflies with the banner up front
frogs hopping along with decorated hats
inch worms slowly tagging along side by side
tree frogs hitching a ride
on the backs of turtles
as they played the drums
diddy ummm drum-mm-rum

I told you, mama would say. The moment you take your eyes off the pot it begins to boil. No one likes to be stared at, even a pot of water. She was right, at this time. This memory has remained with me my entire life. Often it sits in the back of my mind till I put a pot of water on the stove or the espresso pot. Then I stand there with one hand on my hip and my shoulder leaning against the doorway. For those moments I am again that child waiting to catch that first bubble and always hearing my mother say, ‘It will never boil if you watch it’.

what would WE be
without our collections of memories
how would we experience the world
if we lost our inner child

as my body widens
as my hair greys
as my life continues to be written on my face
I see that child following me
reminding me of small miracles
like watching water boil
Coffee is ready!

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Sitting
elbows weighing heavily on the wooden table
chin
bearing down in the palms of my hands
breathing
irregular
chest
held captive by
words, thoughts, images, sounds

Where
are the waves crashing against the ancient rock
the ocean, filled with memories of time
where
is the cello that moans with the wind
quenching my parched heart

I fill my ears with notes of Glass
the tapping of ivory keys
vibrate through my skin

my skin
my skin
that has been holding a million tears
holding, like some golden treasure
an illusion that I have created
a place that I run to when the world feels foreign

Glass fingers keep tapping
causing my heart to swell, expand, expose itself
music eclipses sorrow
holding and slowing time
I pause 
allowing my breath to penetrate
my heart to go quiet
allowing myself to feel the rhythm

One note
a continuance of notes
all are the blood that nourishes
my mind and heart
it can be heard everywhere
it can also be seen
as it touches  a leaf on a tree
or skips along the water’s surface
music
the motivation of life

september 12 2017

 

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Saffron On The Line

Photo on 2017-08-01 at 8.01 AM #2

saffron hangs with folds of gold
the morning sun draws white lines on each fold
I fear my sunflowers will show their faces while I am gone
droplets of moister hangs onto the tip of the heavy leaves
transparent and delicate yet I can sense its weight

for a moment the air that surrounds me 
fills with a fragrance 
of a flower bidding good morning to the sun
my eyes, drawn to only one
amongst a wave of deep purple
only one looks back at me
fluttering in the still air

then it comes
sensing the opportunity
that moment when the world knows you are distracted
when it knows you feel at ease and secure
then it comes
like a hawk flying over his terrain
waiting for that moment
the moment when it is least suspected
when you have mindlessly left the door to your heart open
when you have let your guard down
it walks in and fucks with you
smiles, camouflage the dagger
I repeat myself
I repeat my self
I repeat myself
out of disappointment in myself
anger points only to me, 
for only I am to blame
weeks have passed where I have felt secure
feeling that I may be able to live
some kind of life
the universe knows when there is a soft spot
evil and good fly side by side
there is no real dissimilarity

what road must I walk next
must my entire life be the endless turning of pages
from a large book of lessons
perhaps, my moments of feeling secure
my naked feet on the warm earth
is the wrong path
perhaps I am not to get comfortable
I am not to be here
could that be the next lesson

I am so conditioned to please
so conditioned it that I feel I need to throw up
why is an open, extended hand perceived as weakness
perhaps it’s the old saying
survival of the fittest
there are no solutions
no crystal ball
just grin and bear it till the end

my saffron hangs on the line
all tangled unable to move back or forth
the symbolism is uncanny