Utterance

You came

with ravens chattering

the streak of wisdom

for all to see.

Streams of women

flow from your lips

river cries

carried upon black wing

to crease the sky

so that man

with his many oiled fingers

cannot smooth it down again.

Beautifulterrible

uttering charms

of change

in silverstone purity

beneath mouthed obligations.

Carve your visage to

my skin

so I may speak

with ravens

We flutter fly in sunset song

The rustle wing hum

comforting suffocation

Dip
twist turn
milling mindless
within wide
crushing closeness

One moment

of dazzling individuality

breaking boundaries

the
solid snap of conformities restraints
ripple and retract

A leap of faith
the spark

the arc
of incandescent brilliance

flare

in brittle death

Title: Watching moths fly into a bug zapper

As a child
I died
and was raised up
once again.

On the gasp of northerlies
pressing air into lungs
too shocked to inhale.

I lay amongst the tussock
and dreamt the sky
would stop flashing past
the clouds scudding
into the dip of the ocean swell

only to sink
regardless
of my hands beseeching.

I tried to catch the sky
and wrap it in the warmth
of a wind cheaters clutch.

So many things
my fingers could not grip

the day

the
layers
of time
I was supposed to care for
and nurture
into the proper contours

Each thing
will follow its course
but I stood outside the flow
and built sand dams
to hold the future.

There was a cypress pine
I called sanctuary

Beneath a canopy of dry sweet
cakes
and golden dark tea stains
that spoke of goblins
and capricious spirits

I was hewn
from the open wound
of cut wood

The chips flying
ripping awareness into eyes
lowered and averted

The bark stripped away
to expose pulped
belief

We knew wrong
all of us
who resided within
the gnarled branches

We saw it
clearly in the bleeding sap and
the brittle leaves turned
brown with death

Always the wind.

The lines on my fathers face
were a relief map of the sun
and the wind

He caught the roaring forties
with his skin
so that his face was often
a tumult of arctic cold and
threatening gales.

Mother makes scones
hard as tack
but when we spread the butter
over the heated dough
and dolloped raspberry jam
my mouth would salivate
and I would clap small hands with glee

Standing against
the hem
of a flour smeared
apron
the same one she had had
for twenty years
the smells of our kitchen
permeated into the weave
of green leaves and
fading red rose pattern


I would clutch her leg
as she moved across the lino floor
laughing
pretending to shake me loose

Brushing hair out of her eyes
leaving white flour prints
in the black

My father yells
and the rafters shake
with the promised storms
brooding black cloud and driving rain
coming in sideways through the open window

His voice
a constant thrum of relentless howling
pushing us back
mother out of the kitchen
and into a frowning tight lipped
silence

and I
into the cupboard of my bedroom
where the blankets were stored
and I could curl up on the floor beneath
the heavy flannel
hands clamped to ears
to block out the storm

Sometimes
he passed in the night
and the morning was broken by sunshine
on wet grass
the cold clouds scudding away over the straight
to leave a blue
that hurt to see

Sometimes
he stayed for days
bringing dark early each afternoon
leaving the ground a muddy smear
which would gather on your gum boots
and weigh you down till you could barely walk.

And always
the wind was
in him
around us.

Repost

And what if you had actually gotten

what you wished for?

Then the Heavens

then the swelter of summer after all

the oiled insinuations

of skin

in bronze and amber

Wishes are horses

stamping impatient

in the morning air

snorting steamed mist

into your face

They move as one

perfectly accentuated

brush strokes

across the eye of God

You will harangue me

for my lack of initiative

for my disposal of possession

But I cannot come to ride beside you

the reins have slipped

the saddle

tilts

I am stuck in the earth

as silt gathers between my toes

in eons

I have no time love

time is rewinding

redefining itself

around the narrow

bones of your fingers.

And the horses

shiver in anticipation

for they have caught the scent

of prophecy

moving westwards

away towards them