She died I think

She died I think, not on the trolley
in the corridor –it was later,
perhaps in a cubicle, or a bed,
I can’t remember –I can’t remember
anything before or after the trolley
except for a Christmas Cat
who had appeared
to die, with me, in spasms
on one of the few nights of the year
when there was no Vet working,
no shops, no people in the building,
no numbers to call, except yours;
just a cardboard box I made soft as possible
and this Christmas Cat, in spasms,
it must have gone on for ages,
nobody to help me, or her. I tried
to find a way to get her some water,
I can’t remember –I can’t remember
anything more, except phoning you
saying ‘I think she’s dieing...come quick’
and you were so disgraceful as usual, it felt cruel,
even though that’s just how some are
when they are ugly and hurting inside,
when they can’t easily see another exists,
so all I could do was rest my hand on her body,
listening to the throws of different languages,
pretending I could understand, Cat,
right there in the corridor, while she flailed
gracefully through darkness, light, and left.

Runner 93

This is the time when she looked up to say
“This is the time when most people do a runner...”
like she is not most people,
and is not going to do a runner,
except all she's ever wanted to be is
most people, to stop running from whatever it is,
just be most people enough to begin, like most people do,
to fall for the very next kindness she meets
because this one is a good person, and she
just wants to be intimate like most people,
to stop running from falling, and whatever it is,
except falling like most people do
into the arms of someone
who for some reason wants her too,
is also doing a runner, like most people do,
away from being alone.

haiku, satin shell

pearl satin shell curled
a nestling swan's drumming wings
opens fossil dreams

haiku kisses

the sweetest kisses
foreheads rest/lean together
hands in hands warm breath

Meditation

Rushing from one to the other
he was always far away from it
looking in the mirror of the other
understanding only this way
the blinding light of reflection
has something to do with the self,
searching in introspection
still comparing one with the other
he thought he was lost

Later the light
that doesn’t know itself
is where he is.
Still.
The mind
breathing without interpretation
until he thought he was found


06?

The Pale Horse

1

The Pale Horse,
Hooves of hard edges
Suppressed, muzzled
And expressionless,
Is dancing unseen
In the backwater,
Pounding her gavel
On other dreaming pavements,
Dampening down dark
Muffled announcements.

2

I heard it and did not,
Cantered on split decisions,
My three-beat gait too slow
For wisdom, fast enough
To take me far from you;
A carousel waltz,
A question of timing.

3

Today the mallet struck,
Gavel-to-gavel, dust to dust.
I wipe my hands of it.
And in an instant hammered home,
It is the end of us.


http://www.abctales.com/story/littleditty/the-pale-horse
June 2006, Athens

haiku, winter

Sky lanterns and stars
Church window stories ablaze
Passion plays the square

Honey,

You came on reflections of light,
honeycomb angles, an inch of curve
to hint of the forever flavour
of your taste...how longing exceeds itself,
leaping time, what is seen, what will be;
desire glides miles ahead magnifying, and chased,
a coquettish glance says, follow me -
will you ever capture the crescendo of wild honey
in the mouth of your last gasp? Again,
tease your hand across my skin,
feel a disappearing corner bend
into a sweeter sigh of longing.
Gone! So long...your perfume lingers in absence.

dama de noche

Lite night no moon
An arresting reverie
White flowers blooming



08
ed06/20