so strange this feeling of separation
locked in a bottle gazing out
floating on a shelf where you placed me
fixed in time, preserved perfection
can’t grow, explore or breath
uncork me, pour me out
a river will flow around you
an ocean of endless love
where the surf rises high
on the evening tide
swim with me
home at last
there they go
in the street,
walking shoulder to shoulder,
this man thinking
it will soon be over,
this man killing his friend
You, foot soldiers,
who yell from your solid ranks
and dig moral trenches
embedding yourselves
in self-defined virtues
patting yourselves on the back,
won’t survive when the chariots come
with their innovations and rapid manoeuvres
and the flash of their wheels in the sun
if you don’t learn to adjust
and be flexible, knowing your failings,
your flailing, a horror to watch
you won’t survive this defeat
your offers of gifts won’t work
this is not a puritan country
rigidity of thought is never a blessing
if you don’t regroup or retreat
you will lose every battle
you must learn all these lesson
if you ever hope to return
Contemplative, appreciative, grateful,
my cat Rumi, the best of our tribe,
knew how to thrive and survive.
I am quite sure of that.
As at home in a crowd
or in seclusion
nothing could phase this cat.
From the moment I saw him,
contentedly caged at the refuge, I knew
that this was a very calm chap.
When I took him with me
to my whimsical house,
where a hidden mirror
out in the garden
reflected a profusion of flowers,
Rumi gazed, with no consternation,
curled his generous tail softly about himself
and fell asleep there for hours,
but wow, and meow, he knew how to play
when the kids were around and ran wild.
Affectionate yes, never pushy,
he was the one who followed his duty
in sustaining the peace of our house.
I found my own centre
in watching him watching a trickle of water
run from drainpipe to gutter
with close attention
and the eye of a silent saint.
He showed me the importance of flow.
He had no need to know where it came from
and didn’t much care where it went.
Ah the purring of Rumi, a mantra.
Rumi was heaven sent.
Imagine you are lost somewhere and write a postcard from that place
i am here alone my darling,
here without you,
right on the side of a cliff
very high up on a ledge
watching a sunset
with no one to hold my hand
lost in my head
losing my rhythm and reason
not breathing as i should
in two senses
i am very close to the edge
my favourite colours now
are powder blue with white
and my father has painted my room
and my trike
happy to give what I like
I love the smell of fresh new paint
and windows flung open wide
it’s cosy in here but full of air
i watch the stars from my bed
the curtains never drawn at night
the summer skies are azure blue
filled with fluffy white clouds
sheep out to pastures high above
in gentle flocks they flow
wandering out of sight
in the distance beyond the trees
and the haze of several miles
is a blue and white water tower
striped, it stands, a lighthouse
far away from the sea
they are going to demolish it soon they say
I protest, I pray, I cry
surely someone will listen to me
but very soon it is gone
first lessons learned in sorrow
beauty can be destroyed
I don’t rule the world
here today, gone tomorrow
He’s a trickster and a liar.
We must accept that fact.
He does look like he’s crazy,
Just as he intends.
Loki spends his time alone
Pondering that master plan
With everything in place.
Until the time is right.
He knows and can foretell
How events will go.
He sits back and watches
As his cunning plans unfold.
Slighted by his family
He manipulates their weaknesses
Which keeps him well amused
Until the time is right.
He’ll embarrass all the gods
And make them look like fools
With his flouting of their rules,
Battling his boredom,
To keep himself amused.
The gods are often cruel
And far too serious.
As they indulge their pleasures,
Loki lolls about and laughs.
Loki played his game,
Until the time was right.
But look what they did to him.
They dragged him to a cave
They bound him to the rocks
With a serpent spilling poison,
Trickling past his thirst,
Until the end of days.
He can’t have been so bad.
His wife, dearly loved him.
In vain she sought to help,
Before despairing of the task.
He must have earned her love,
on those precious dark lit nights,
when the time was right.
One day the time will come
When Asgard falls at last.
Loki won’t defend them then.
He will take revenge.
I have a sense of humour too,
And I have read the runes.
The places we have been
are pictures to us now,
postcards I imagine
posting to myself,
written with the details
of scents and sounds and words.
We climbed that ancient tower
to see across the miles.
Miracle of miracles,
we leaned against each other
walking hand in hand.
The scenes we saw before
are now as rare as unicorns.
Now
Now,
Now!
Now and then a silence.
Take this breath and hold it there, fill your lungs with scented air
Watch the sky, let all fears out in one sweet living sigh
Bala-laaaaa-lala-labaa-lalah-lala-la-la-lah she says softly, I shake my head but like this lack of words.
I like the lack of sense. I like the present tense of soothing sounds around me.
The ant that scurries by is red of hue. He drinks the morning dew and lifts the seeds upon his back.
He is my guide and fellow.
Sunset pink and purple merging into yellow.
So above, so below. So my heart seeks out the gold.
I have been told to follow.
I like my feet firm on the ground connecting me to earth,
To birth and signs, seasons of renewal repeating over aeons.
Samsara, samsara, singing through the meadow flowers and grasses.
Samsara.
The Dreaming Path 