Come Join Me
Going to hell in a handcart seems infinitely better than joining with the elite ignorance of those who presume they're on for a visit to the angel bar in the ether. How can it be that we tolerate the essence of ego over integrity, where is the authentic one, where the grounded reality? How is it that we have put a gun to the head of community, in pursuit of self-indulgence?
Of course, it is infinitely more valid if we charge a small fortune for courses that enable wrong choices to look like someone else, someone who knows the mantra. Surely it is time to self-prune, to take stock and account for the present moment? Whatever your disposition, my handcart has plenty of room, so come join me on the road to the hell that is not really hell, it is not what you'd imagine, but then, the path to a constructed heaven is just an irony of marketing, so what have you got to lose?
“There will never be complete satisfaction in this life, satisfaction is an illusion …” Amit Kalantri
It Dies Before it is born
What might we agree that is truly satisfying?
this definition of perpetual waiting
for the next moment or event in time,
what is satisfying is only in the moment
here now, gone tomorrow,
and, when the moment comes,
it dies before it is born,
and yet we go on seeking,
sometimes missing life
in hot pursuit of this
“Leaves are verbs that conjugate the seasons.” Gretel Erlich
The Herald Of Summer
There’s a corner of the garden,
a remnant of native bush
that I love to wander,
especially now, as the air is warmer,
but before I even feel that
I know it by the crunch and crackle
of those hardy leaves,
the daily autumnal, the
herald of summer,
and the smell,
yes the smell of eucalypts
in this dry avenue
is to be inhaled as fine whiskey,
and, in the stillness
the quiet is a rarefied sharpness
that carries its own energy
pierced only by cicadas and magpies,
and I float in my senses
past bees and dragonflies
Video taken July 2018 at Redgate Beach, Western Australia. It was so windy I was having trouble balancing as testified by the camera wobble. As I pan to the left, what should be open sandy beach is awash with waves and sand loss. It has been stormy here again this week as autumn gives way to winter once again.
The old engine is thrumming again,
nature’s pistons pounding the beach,
sand ever giving way,
what other choice could there be
in the face of such force?
and be one with all,
either way is death,
but only one is enlightening.
Notably, April is autumn in Australia and is less visually distinct, except for the introduction of deciduous plants which change colour and shed their leaves. In contrast most eucalypts shed all year round, and the only noticeable colouring of autumn is the green grass. But in the northern hemisphere it is spring. April means, following the Latin aperire, to open. I’m going with spring for this poem.
She was more than a little shy,
slow to blossom and
reluctant to show,
she clung to the covers of winter
fearing she’d catch cold,
but one warm day she unfurled
her buds so beautiful
limbs slender yet full
her nakedness was
but only for a moment,
what really captivated
was the way she opened
inwardly for everyone
and touched the eyes
of their hearts.