Fruit

The plum, the fig, the peach
        infusedin the grapes of my
                        heartblood,

rounding an arc of content
        dis integrating particles of
        dis integrated earth
                        and sweetsun's dew.

The sweetsweatfarmer's        kindness
                        dissolving into
                        soft jams of shit in my
                        guttunnel.

Thanksto     the orchardists.
Thanksto     the buzzbees.
Thanksto     the claygranite.
Thanksto     the starfire.
Thanksto     the liquid.
Thanksto     the leatherhands.
Thanksto     the exhaustion.
Thanksto     the stockingwell.
Thanksto     the pickingpack stowestack.
Thanksto     the tall Latino.
Thanksto     the un numbered more,

        my bonebag thrives another day.

                    Shanti!

                    Santé!

Ravens

And I find myself crouching at noon beneath one fir towering up past the bright green bigleaf maple. While from the canopy a raucous rasp of teen ravenous ravens demand notice. The rain clatters all about, tapping bigleafs, smacking fallen arbutus husks, blotched with yellow. And Raven, the grown, annoints the forest with his unexpected clever clucks and sonorous thralls.

smart out

The paranoia outsmarting all

outsmarting self

outsmarting smartness

protecting from an

ill dream a fantasy doom

and producing lockdown

metalbrain

locked up

locked down

box of 

blank

.

Ig

It's oily down
     the  overing sludge,
     the heave of dull,
     thick dark clouds



                               sinking.

Sea Centre

Within a sphere — sphere of light
Upon an open blossom
       a carriage of filaments
       network of vessels
              chalice of ribs:

That's where to rest, and spread my eyes
       across the green-white surge
       of wind-whipped waves
              climbing over and through one another
              and past the farthest
                     lips of sea.

Tessa's Dharamsala Journey

ONE shadow scattered through soft layers of grey,
     spilling through clear sky
     racing past tree land
     hurtling east.

TWO breathing the thin sun, marking the flow in un
     certain heartbeats, un
     settled tugging at lost
     threads, questions left
     hanging.

THREE journeys unfolding:
     Sweet home departed. Old home, a touchstone.
     And India, gleaming in her millions,
     a swirling mirage
     on mind's horizon.

FOUR faces will sail the sky, one of this world,
     one of the other, two held betwixt,
     bound to both by long threads of heritage:
     the white cloth of Saxony,
     the white scarves of Snow Mountain.

FIVE weeks across the broad Earth: a time to
     grow, to learn, to dance, to cry, to sing, to try.
     To touch the mud and dust of
     one thousand million dreams.

May your path be smooth! May your steps be sure!
May your hearts be bright! May your days be full!
May your songs be sweet! May your stomachs be unemptied!
May your eyes be clear! May your spirits be lifted!
May your cups of promise be filled and overflowing!

DIA

Grinding throb as heart cycles,
               pulling  ,   pushing  ,    dropping    ,    returning
               and, as it weaves liquid rhythm:
                                chest rise  ,   catches sinew   ,   recedes.


These two, heart and breath,  idle at the stoplight.
Green light lingers on the mind.   And the host of stimuli
           beckon:      find,        remember,        chew,        doze,
                               hold,       release,             follow,      forget.