…when all becomes that linear-
life’s heart put in a box-
seek the sea air:
light showers dazzle, wind kisses ache,
sky offers stairways to Spirit…
salt breath of mercy, happiness retrieved
This is it, where it happens that
life turns, turns, vast kaleidoscope
all brilliance of human mosaics,
a quixotic time come true,
this gathering up of more
stardust into fine arrays,
rare skin of butterfly wings,
sea eyes fathoms of wonder,
twenty fingers of power,
twenty toes of shyness,
pulsing spirits of trust
offered to our daily welcome
of grace unto miracles: they
dismantle–such ease of it!–
every single doubt in life:
these our gifts earthly, holy.
(Readers, the twins arrived safely. Bliss…)
The morning does not break.
It rises, restless, a thing alive.
It swells, unsettles me with its
erasures of darkness.
Tendrils of light striate blackness,
precocious colors disrupting
But my eyes are not safe from day and
press silk mask and quilt to lashes and lips.
I toss and turn; pieces are misplaced
from endless puzzling dreams.
There is no defense on this earth
where a beam reveals rough edges,
chaos of truth, soured sweetness,
yet every shining thing throbs
in me like impending birth
and behold, the refrain of joy.
I am made for the prismatic
core that fuels life, yet it is
dazzling, strikes chords hard.
So within mysterious slippage
from midnight to dawn
I seek relief, glide and wait.
Before crescendos of light
the web of shadows is erected;
it plans for metamorphosis.
We all want completion, kind illumination,
faces pressed against the scrim,
lives spilling from our palms,
seeking a route for night’s
blending into morning but
without further disturbance,
not one more loss.
The dawn does not break, it escapes
from a well of quietude,
rolls on prodigious waves.
It offers its brilliance.
And then affixes me to this plane,
this spot so I can stand tall, place feet
on floor, walk into a sunlit, fretful world.
Morning is a messenger not refused
and again I must find my way.
Remember that from the start it was
one for all, all for one? An entire lifetime of this.
A sweep of arms that gather in all.
It may have been a fervent dream of hope,
an obstinate faith in unknowns, but still
our circle has looped and held even
when torn to nearly broken.
And repaired, each thread twined with
the next in tensile links of love,
defining a net that catches sustenance,
saves whatever falls and binds together our
disparate truths. And loosens to let you go your ways.
Will you remember when you are less sturdy?
When I am gone? Or if the ties unravel and
you wait at the window, hands reaching for more?
There will be rifts. Misplaced time. Miles flung far.
Yet it has been, remains and will be this:
all for one, one for all, heart overlaid with hearts.
Year after year I’ve walked by though failed
to find this hidden place in bushes gathered near
thatched grasses, my eye turned elsewhere,
away from this apparent desiccated stone.
As I draw close, body and mind pause– as
from spongy dirt springs mossy life, tiny blossoms,
chosen rocks settled in the bowl of an old bird bath.
It served its time or did not fulfill its duty, thus
given another chance so prevailed as another thing:
a place for anything to appear, even take hold.
The four rocks I think were picked and placed–
happy child’s play– or they were underfoot
of one who seeded the curbside garden–
but they appear to me as elegant and smoothly dense,
pleasing eggs offered by earth to rest in sun and shadow.
I imagine all were given important names:
Mina, Elwyn, Duke and Chloe–old friends now.
Or each was meant to hold a wish:
inclusion, healing; clear skies, butterscotch cake.
It all may have meant far less, but randomness
creates its own value and has its place.
I step back to see again. There comes revealing light;
soul and senses fill up with pleasure, peace.
For I have seen opulence that could not rival these:
plain offerings given over to dominion of elements,
sparking renewed gratitude in this passerby, and
a certainty of good secrets, treasures to be found
and lessons of usefulness as I continue on.
The sailing adventures of Jez and Susie from the UK to the Caribbean, Pacific and beyond..
Connecting with stories of women and girls....empowering lives
Celebrating hidden, unfamiliar, remote and disappearing sounds
The exploits of two old gits.
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Notes on Seeing, Reading & Writing, Living & Loving in The North
The sun is the great luminary of all life - Frank Lloyd Wright
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Is it destiny, happenstance or stratagem?
inspired by the colours of the land, sea and sky of Cornwall
intermingling reality and that imagined.
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Steve's body of work spans conflicts, vanishing cultures, ancient traditions and contemporary culture alike - yet always retains the human element.
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