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The Spectrum Quilt
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The world begins new everyday,
though some charm old guide books
like things not done -
in boxes

but

we'd split light with laughter,
instead make rainbows for a bed spread.

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Significance

The poetry there invested beneath,
Every careful surface revealed amongst weeds;
The animism of concrete.

Winged Voices

Towering old,
Wild and unforgiving circles,
Pronouncements of the insane,
confounded, shrinking.

"I could have run around and around and around..."
Said the old man, panting,
Dizzy, swaying, deranged.

"Time to get off, time to get off!"
The birds mantra, shaking the bushes
And entering as warning
Along his body hair and through his pores.

What now? Was there some other chapter to life
So very different to all that had come before?
Another language, a different vision,
Behaviours and customs?

His hands lingered uncertain and without sign.
Being was all and enough to be silent
And then enough to see,
The struggling voice from every body,
Every creature, mountain and garden.

That moment, this peace, our heart.

Star

The Sun shines,
Carrying with it all
That photonic information,
Fragments, that together
Paint us gloriously
Its eight minutes past impression,
Bright and burning soul,
Of us each and every one.

La Mar

The little boat becomes as the waves,
The further and the further away.
It's not like a road, this sea;
Guided with a Tarmacadam barricade,
Routed in a certainty.
This is an embrace
As knees grasping a Colt,
But then, nothing like that at all;
Entirely at its mercy riding over...
The cold, magma birthplace of us all.