Was has been or might have been.

Ancient Indian Aircraft Technology

Source: The Anti-Gravity Handbook (Lost Science)
by D. Hatcher Childress

Many researchers into the UFO enigma tend to overlook a very important fact. While it assumed that most flying saucers are of alien, or perhaps Governmental Military origin, another possible origin of UFOs is ancient India and Atlantis.

What we know about ancient Indian flying vehicles comes from ancient Indian sources; written texts that have come down to us through the centuries. There is no doubt that most of these texts are authentic; many are the well known ancient Indian Epics themselves, and there are literally hundreds of them. Most of them have not even been translated into English yet from the old Sanskrit.

The Indian Emperor Ashoka started a "Secret Society of the Nine Unknown Men": great Indian scientists who were supposed to catalogue the many sciences. Ashoka kept their work secret because he was afraid that the advanced science catalogued by these men, culled from ancient Indian sources, would be used for the evil purpose of war, which Ashoka was strongly against, having been converted to Buddhism after defeating a rival army in a bloody battle.

The "Nine Unknown Men" wrote a total of nine books, presumably one each. Book number was "The Secrets of Gravitation!" This book, known to historians, but not actually seen by them dealt chiefly with "gravity control." It is presumably still around somewhere, kept in a secret library in India, Tibet or elsewhere (perhaps even in North America somewhere). One can certainly understand Ashoka's reasoning for wanting to keep such knowledge a secret, assuming it exists. if the Nazis had such weapons at their disposal during World War Ii. Ashoka was also aware devastating wars using such advanced vehicles and other "futuristic weapons" that had destroyed the ancient Indian "Rama Empire" several thousand years before.

Only a few years ago, the Chinese discovered some Sanskrit documents in Lhasa, Tibet and sent them to the University of Chandrigarh to be translated. Dr. Ruth Reyna of the University said recently that the documents contain directions for building interstellar spaceships!

Their method of propulsion, she said, was "anti-gravitational" and was based upon a system analogous to that of "laghima," the unknown power of the ego existing in man's physiological makeup, "a centrifugal force strong enough to counteract all gravitational pull." According to Hindu Yogis, it is this "laghima" which enables a person to levitate.

Dr. Reyna said that on board these machines, which were called "Astras" by the text, the ancient Indians could have sent a detachment of men onto any planet, according to the document, which is thought to be thousands of years old. The manuscripts were also said to reveal the secret of "antima"; "the cap of invisibility" and "garima"; "how to become as heavy as a mountain of lead."

Naturally, Indian scientists did not take the texts very seriously, but then became more positive about the value of them when the Chinese announced that they were including certain parts of the data for study in their space program! This was one of the first instances of a government admitting to be researching anti-gravity.

The manuscripts did not say definitely that interplanetary travel was ever made but did mention, of all things, a planned trip to the Moon, though it is not clear whether this trip was actually carried out. However, one of the great Indian epics, the Ramayana, does have a highly detailed story in it of a trip to the moon in a Vimana (or "Astra"), and in fact details a battle on the moon with an "Asvin" (or Atlantean" airship.

This is but a small bit of recent evidence of anti-gravity and aerospace technology used by Indians. To really understand the technology, we must go much further back in time.

The so-called "Rama Empire" of Northern India and Pakistan developed at least fifteen thousand years ago on the Indian sub-continent and was a nation of many large, sophisticated cities, many of which are still to be found in the deserts of Pakistan, northern, and western India. Rama existed, apparently, parallel to the Atlantean civilization in the mid-Atlantic Ocean, and was ruled by "enlightened Priest-Kings" who governed the cities, The seven greatest capital cities of Rama were known in classical Hindu texts as "The Seven Rishi Cities."

According to ancient Indian texts, the people had flying machines which were called "Vimanas." The ancient Indian epic describes a Vimana as a double-deck, circular aircraft with portholes and a dome, much as we would imagine a flying saucer.

It flew with the "speed of the wind" and gave forth a "melodious sound." There were at least four different types of Vimanas; some saucer shaped, others like long cylinders ("cigar shaped airships"). The ancient Indian texts on Vimanas are so numerous, it would take volumes to relate what they had to say. The ancient Indians, who manufactured these ships themselves, wrote entire flight manuals on the control of the various types of Vimanas, many of which are still in existence, and some have even been translated into English.

The Samara Sutradhara is a scientific treatise dealing with every possible angle of air travel in a Vimana. There are 230 stanzas dealing with the construction, take-off, cruising for thousand of miles, normal and forced landings, and even possible collisions with birds. In 1875, the Vaimanika Sastra, a fourth century B.C. text written by Bharadvajy the Wise, using even older texts as his source, was rediscovered in a temple in India. It dealt with the operation of Vimanas and included information on the steering, precautions for long flights, protection of the airships from storms and lightening and how to switch the drive to "solar energy" from a free energy source which sounds like "anti-gravity."

The Vaimanika Sastra (or Vymaanika-Shaastra) has eight chapters with diagrams, describing three types of aircraft, including apparatuses that could neither catch on fire nor break. It also mentions 31 essential parts of these vehicles and 16 materials from which they are constructed, which absorb light and heat; for which reason they were considered suitable for the construction of Vimanas. This document has been translated into English and is available by writing the publisher: VYMAANIDASHAASTRA AERONAUTICS by Maharishi Bharadwaaja, translated into English and edited, printed and published by Mr. G. R. Josyer, Mysore, India, 1979 (sorry, no street address). Mr. Josyer is the director of the International Academy of Sanskrit Investigation located in Mysore.

Click on the picture to visit A Tribute to Hinduism - Vimanas

There seems to be no doubt that Vimanas were powered by some sort of "anti-gravity." Vimanas took off vertically, and were capable of hovering in the sky, like a modern helicopter or dirigible. Bharadvajy the Wise refers to no less than 70 authorities and 10 experts of air travel in antiquity. These sources are now lost.

Vimanas were kept in a Vimana Griha, a kind of hanger, and were sometimes said to be propelled by a yellowish-white liquid, and sometimes by some sort of mercury compound, though writers seem confused in this matter. It is most likely that the later writers on Vimanas, wrote as observers and from earlier texts, and were understandably confused on the principle of their propulsion. The "yellowish-white liquid" sounds suspiciously like gasoline, and perhaps Vimanas had a number of different propulsion sources, including combustion engines and even "pulse-jet" engines. It is interesting to note, that the Nazis developed the first practical pulse-jet engines for their V-8 rocket "buzz bombs." Hitler and the Nazi staff were exceptionally interested in ancient India and Tibet and sent expeditions to both these places yearly, starting in the 30's, in order to gather esoteric evidence that they did so, and perhaps it was from these people that the Nazis gained some of their scientific information!

According to the Dronaparva, part of the Mahabarata, and the Ramayana, one Vimana described was shaped like a sphere and born along at great speed on a mighty wind generated by mercury. It moved like a UFO, going up, down, backwards and forewards as the pilot desired. In another Indian source, the Samar, Vimanas were "iron machines, well-knit and smooth, with a charge of mercury that shot out of the back in the form of a roaring flame." Another work called the Samaranganasutradhara describes how the vehicles were constructed. It is possible that mercury did have something to do with the propulsion, or more possibly, with the guidance system. Curiously, Soviet scientists have discovered what they call "age-old instruments used in navigating cosmic vehicles" in caves in Turkestan and the Gobi Desert. The "devices" are hemispherical objects of glass or porcelain, ending in a cone with a drop of mercury inside.

It is evident that ancient Indians flew around in these vehicles, all over Asia, to Atlantis presumably; and even, apparently, to South America. Writing found at Mohenjodaro in Pakistan (presumed to be one of the "Seven Rishi Cities of the Rama Empire") and still undeciphered, has also been found in one other place in the world: Easter Island! Writing on Easter Island, called Rongo-Rongo writing, is also undeciphered, and is uncannily similar to the Mohenjodaro script. Was Easter Island an air base for the Rama Empire's Vimana route? (At the Mohenjo-Daro Vimana-drome, as the passenger walks down the concourse, he hears the sweet, melodic sound of the announcer over the loudspeaker,

"Rama Airways flight number seven for Bali, Easter Island, Nazca, and Atlantis is now ready for boarding. Passengers please proceed to gate number..") in Tibet, no small distance, and speaks of the "fiery chariot" thusly: "Bhima flew along in his car, resplendent as the sun and loud as thunder... The flying chariot shone like a flame in the night sky of summer ... it swept by like a comet... It was as if two suns were shining. Then the chariot rose up and all the heaven brightened."

In the Mahavira of Bhavabhuti, a Jain text of the eighth century culled from older texts and traditions, we read:

"An aerial chariot, the Pushpaka, conveys many people to the capital of Ayodhya. The sky is full of stupendous flying-machines, dark as night, but picked out by lights with a yellowish glare"

The Vedas, ancient Hindu poems, thought to be the oldest of all the Indian texts, describe Vimanas of various shapes and sizes: the "ahnihotra-vimana" with two engines, the "elephant-vimana" with more engines, and other types named after the kingfisher, ibis and other animals.

Unfortunately, Vimanas, like most scientific discoveries, were ultimately used for war. Atlanteans used their flying machines, "Vailixi," a similar type of aircraft, to literally try and subjugate the world, it would seem, if Indian texts are to be believed. The Atlanteans, known as "Asvins" in the Indian writings, were apparently even more advanced technologically than the Indians, and certainly of a more war-like temperment. Although no ancient texts on Atlantean Vailixi are known to exist, some information has come down through esoteric, "occult" sources which describe their flying machines. Similar, if not identical to Vimanas, Vailixi were generally "cigar shaped" and had the capability of maneuvering underwater as well as in the atmosphere or even outer space. Other vehicles, like Vimanas, were saucer shaped, and could apparently also be submerged.

According to Eklal Kueshana, author of "The Ultimate Frontier," in an article he wrote in 1966, Vailixi were first developed in Atlantis 20,000 years ago, and the most common ones are "saucer-shaped of generally trapezoidal cross-section with three hemispherical engine pods on the underside." "They use a mechanical antigravity device driven by engines developing approximately 80,000 horse power."

The Ramayana, Mahabarata and other texts speak of the hideous war that took place, some ten or twelve thousand years ago between Atlantis and Rama using weapons of destruction that could not be imagined by readers until the second half of this century.

The ancient Mahabharata, one of the sources on Vimanas, goes on to tell the awesome destructiveness of the war:

"...(the weapon was) a single projectile
charged with all the power of the Universe.
An incandescent column of smoke and flame
As bright as the thousand suns rose in all its splendor...

An iron thunderbolt,
A gigantic messenger of death,
Which reduced to ashes
The entire race of the Vrishnis
And the Andhakas.

... the corpses were so burned
As to be unrecognizable.
The hair and nails fell out;
Pottery broke without apparent cause,
And the birds turned white.

... After a few hours
All foodstuffs were infected...
... to escape from this fire
The soldiers threw themselves in streams
To wash themselves and their equipment..."

It would seem that the Mahabharata is describing an atomic war! References like this one are not isolated; but battles, using a fantastic array of weapons and aerial vehicles are common in all the epic Indian books. One even describes a Vimana-Vailix battle on the Moon! The above section very accurately describes what an atomic explosion would look like and the effects of the radioactivity on the population. Jumping into water is the only respite.

When the Rishi City of Mohenjodaro was excavated by archeologists in the last century, they found skeletons just lying in the streets, some of them holding hands, as if some great doom had suddenly overtaken them. These skeletons are among the most radioactive ever found, on a par with those found at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Ancient cities whose brick and stone walls have literally been vitrified, that is-fused together, can be found in India, Ireland, Scotland, France, Turkey and other places. There is no logical explanation for the vitrification of stone forts and cities, except from an atomic blast. Furthermore, at Mohenjo-Daro, a well planned city laid on a grid, with a plumbing system superior to those used in Pakistan and India today, the streets were littered with "black lumps of glass." These globs of glass were discovered to be clay pots that had melted under intense heat!

With the cataclysmic sinking of Atlantis and the wiping out of Rama with atomic weapons, the world collapsed into a "stone age" of sorts, and modern history picks up a few thousand years later. Yet, it would seem that not all the Vimanas and Vailixi of Rama and Atlantis were gone. Built to last for thousands of of years, many of them would still be in use, as evidenced by Ashoka's "Nine Unknown Men" and the Lhasa manuscript.

That secret societies or "Brotherhoods" of exceptional, "enlightened" human beings would have preserved these inventions and the knowledge of science, history, etc., does not seem surprising. Many well known historical personages including Jesus, Buddha, Lao Tzu, Confucius, Krishna, Zoroaster, Mahavira, Quetzalcoatl, Akhenaton, Moses, and more recent inventors and of course many other people who will probably remain anonymous, were probably members of such a secret organization.

It is interesting to note that when Alexander the Great invaded India more than two thousand years ago, his historians chronicled that at one point they were attacked by "flying, fiery shields" that dove at his army and frightened the cavalry. These "flying saucers" did not use any atomic bombs or beam weapons on Alexander's army however, perhaps out of benevolence, and Alexander went on to conquer India.

It has been suggested by many writers that these "Brotherhoods" keep some of their Vimanas and Vailixi in secret caverns in Tibet or some other place is Central Asia, and the Lop Nor Desert in western China is known to be the center of a great UFO mystery. Perhaps it is here that many of the airships are still kept, in underground bases much as the Americans, British and Soviets have built around the world in the past few decades.

Still, not all UFO activity can be accounted for by old Vimanas making trips to the Moon for some reason. Undoubtedly, some are from the Military Governments of the world, and possibly even from other planets. Of course, many UFO sightings are "swamp, gas, clouds, hoaxes, and hallucinations, while there is considerable evidence that many UFO sightings, especially "kidnappings" and the like, are the result of what is generally called "telepathic hypnosis." One common thread that often runs between "Alien kidnappings," "sex with aliens," and other "close encounters of a third kind" is a buzzing in the ears just before the encounter. According to many well informed people, this is a sure sign of telepathic hypnosis."

Untitled

On this day

Give me a sea
emeralds and agates
glimmer skim
as we skip shining semi precious moments
across the surface of the sky.

For the sake of it.

Rain
smears the day into
water-color Monet shades.

The blur of a hyacinth kiss
how your lips
leave pastel impressions
to decorate and enhance.

Hand me a wine
to fill my boisterous ravings
with a mulled sensibility

the underlying
rising to spill over

Untitled

On those bone chilling afternoons

where cloud heads nodded
in unison to the sound
of wave walls collapsing
on dark wet rock isthmuses

she would bring a steaming cup
to her lips
and sip soft silent prayers

A cat
curled in a sailors knot on her lap
the throbbing purr
sending signals to the sky
of contentment and a sense of right
in world where right and wrong
are blurred waterlogged pages
in a diary dropped accidentally
into a puddle.

The cold is a reminder
of days alone
of nights naked with herself
where the touch of death
was a lovers caress

She can see the horizon
from where she sits
the colonial window bars
breaking the edges of sky
and sea
into four corners
of separation.

And if she looks closely
the silhouette of herself
stepping into the breakers

Your eyes are a fucking hologram


I look straight in
through glass
the ice
the curve of sol
as she rises upon a stilled sea

And you are a billion miles hence

not even seeing me.

Explorations of self.

Drab
seeps into bones
a grey blood infusion
giving the street scape the illusion
of grainy black on white depth

Life becomes
a dog-eared photograph
pinched smile
and rumpled disposition
faces blurring
slurred days.

Every direction
stretches away into mumbled contrition's
a complex series of retreats
littering pathways with
slow burning wreckage of
smoldering oily black disappointment

Our mantra of self empowerment

Take hold
a grip of steely resolve
clenching tight around refusal

Submission
is staring at the roof at 3.00am
the sound of sleep
washing over you
but leaving you
cold wet and drowning.

We writhe
to the pulse of us
a spastic dance
to the strains of a single
rhythmic beat
articulating improbabilities
in teeth clenched terrors

Curl fetal
around the nut hardened kernel
of self

A stripped bare sun
cinders and ashen faced

Yin and Yang
the unity of opposites
rests uneasy within
the warmth of seeking flesh

An orb of understanding
pressed close
beyond reach

We have seen
the truth
how it hooks into flesh
and tears apart carefully
layered opalescent nacre

A shell of self
wrapped around wounds
we tried to hide.

Together

we watch the threads unravel


Long streamers of dreams
undulating in the shadow days

And when the speed of dark
is fast enough

We blur
and dissolve

a thought almost competed
then released
as too hard to find.

Thought for the Day

What is the speed of dark?

Song

You were the burgeoning song
of a sea dream
barely seen
a silk screen
firing mystery and insistence
like a laser beam

I was chance
a romance
dancing just out of reach
lost in the blurred recollection
of a backward glance


Too bad
we were undone
a matter unresolved
a story finished
before it begun
a song
clearly heard
but
not yet sung

No rain
but the fog clings like
uncomfortable memories


Vague
the shape of my life
looming from threaded white on white


You cannot see me,
I know,
disengaged
as I am
a figurine
left unattended in a wild
garden
lichen and creeper
slick upon my marbled skin


Tread lightly
when you come to plant and
weed
lest I am forgotton
beneath
renewal.

Anchored

The barbed ends
embedded into the soft
surface of your mind.


The great links
of chain
feed out beneath me
in a silent clatter

as I swim away.

A moment of perceived connection

We are all careless Maestro's

Weaving word baton's
an enchanters wand
leaving sparkle trails
in semi circle swirls
on the air.

United in deed and intent
we bend the vagaries of human endeavor
into manageable bites

small morsels of frailty

swallowed carefully
by a tentative throats contraction

We watch
as the earth is flayed
her raw wounds
seeping and exposed

and write of her demise

followed inevitably
by our own


We watch
as the city
eats another child
the crunch of bone
shudders through streets
across the paint peeling fences
deep into boxy lounge rooms
where plasma tv's
rage upon the wall
the blare
unable to drown out the sound

You have shown me the clouds
the poverty of isolation
through the clarity of resolve
and what it is to be free.


I have shown you failings and fantasy

glorious and tawdry

and how beneath the missteps

there is the light tread of song still

tapping out its untarnished shine.


And together

we watch.

Isolation

Liquid glitters
and winks
with diamond light
jock-o-lanterns
waving and urging
us on.

Black water call

deep in bones
where marrow
sucks and flows
the ache
beyond inadequate descriptives
of cold and frozen

Shed outer garments crisp
with frost
self conscious murmurs
echo from the too sharp
colour of a grassy bank.

Skin dimples
and retracts
stretching tight
on bone framed
shock

We dive
the disruption
a perfect symmetry

stroking together
alone.

Un

Reed thin the Asian chick behind the counter always offers a smile.
Not required for the price of a coffee, she gives it guilelessly
an accented "Have a nice day" flutes through my bleary eyes,
maybe bringing a hint of humanity, or maybe its the coffee.

But my blood thrums finally instead of oozing like a syrup and I
can lift my head high enough to take in surroundings.

Never look closely at the foot path, it does not fair well beneath
the constant repression of feet, blood and semen has seeped into
the cracks between pavers, mingling with discarded paper and plastic
wrappings, till my feet glide over pulped disappointments.

Its early, obviously, and the traffic is belching a miasma of mixed
petrol and gas emissions, a grey cloud unlike the fogs I once feared,
how they would not part no matter how hard I begged.

Fog is Gods assassin, all creatures within its depths have many teeth
and they always sought my flesh. The taste is metallic, alien entities
striding just out of vision, probing cattle and thousands of humans for
endless years, although what did the Simpsons episode say?, you can only learn so much
from anal probing.

Horns blare, first one , then several as merry travelers join in the song, the subtle
refrain just beneath the surface " i hate you, your making me late" echoed with
"No, I hate you more, you are blaming me for not moving quickly enough but I found out
this morning Helen miscarried again, thats three in a row, and she is weeping while she sleeps,
the bank will not give me more time to catch up on the mortgage, and fuck knows when or
if Helen will be able to work again soon, Ricky needs braces and thats five grand I don't have,
to be honest, I have never had, and it all seems to crush the sides of my skull, just that constant push against the bone"

They move along finally, horns becoming more strident, car horns bleat violence in sound.

My face is a raft, adrift on my head, becalmed by time, it does not billow or fill with wind for now,
how is it between 35 and 55 we do not change? Our bodies, our faces, our skin, all enters a time warp, fixed in one design, we can walk 20 years with no improvement, or disintegration, just stasis.

If you asked, do I like the city? I would have to say no, I was always one for trees and dreams and river and rock, but truthfully, the city wants and needs the likes of me, to track its path, to note its history, to see the beauty in all its horror, to see evil and how it balances a smile with your coffee


Morning walks slower than the rest, its feet are heavier, leaden, trying to shrug away the pall of grey light and allow brighter things to come. Morning tastes different, it is toast and juice and muesli flakes, it is wet air and freshly washed hair, it is hurried conversations, sorting details in moments, planning days in seconds.

Morning offers another chance, sometimes.

Untitled

Rich slurps as he
extols the virtues of
Neruda around
a sharp Merlot tang
breathing pavlova
and too many reds
down the plunge
of your gown


I make watching
a virtue

replacing
apparent indifference

small smile
vague nod
along a wire thin
throb of conversation

Catching your eye
placing it
on the table before me

trying to stare you down

We dance in and out
amongst
the dirty plates
and smeared glasses
a chicken bone
of contention
lies greasy
on the pristine table cloth

The music
too loud's
across us

an up swell of sound
drawing you
a charcoal impression
onto my napkin

Later
I will bring you
crinkled
out of my pocket
to
kiss your black lips

your smudged eyes.

Tears for Rain

I remember when Rain came

Imbued with clarity
Rain fell
a spatter of unexpected

to widen eyes
and
blink away yesterday.

Rain has

diluted me

leaving
a hint of color
in an otherwise
pristine pool

Rain has forsaken
me

a profusion of days
washing away
exposing obscurity
forcing me
to look hard
at who and what
I have become.

Rain offers no respite
no light at the end of the tunnel
no warmth to wrap around

Only the sound
of small feet
dancing across the roof tiles

the dripping
resonance
as a leaf is struck

the driving impetus
of sheeting water
pounding the earth
feeding the soil.

Rain caressed
the upturned faces
each in turn
and left her mark
upon us all

Within the flux
without the flow
I found her
lost her
let her go.



She brought
the shadow storms

or mornings soft refrain

and here
beneath the weeping elm

I waste no
tears for Rain.

No Title

Her hands

weighted steal
hanging
limp and pendulous.

She would swing them at
ghosts
watching the wraiths dissipate
in the passage of her arms.

Oft times
in bed
she could lay them on her breast
allowing the weight
to push her down
through the weave
of mothers
hand woven coverlet
into the cool sheets
and through to the sprung matress
beneath

The coils biting skin
hooking and holding
as she passed

Upon the worn floor boards
the ridged timber surface
scarred and creased
she would come to rest
under the bed
where ghosts
did not wander
or watch her

their pale accusations
their spectral fingers pointed
their screams of soundless blame

Her hands

butterflies
winging above her eyes
the soft rustle
a comfort
a calling


a sense of falling away

The floor boards
refused to support
any longer
and she hoped

the butterflies
could hold her.

No,

not sleeping,

dying.

A shade of blue

deeper than violent.

I don't do gasping

pallid beached fish

flopping on the carpet.

The biggest loser flickers

wobbling bulging

wanna be’s

sweating across

the big screen

above me.

My stretched O mouth

mistaken for an extended yawn

post orgasmic languid

or post porn.

My hands

splayed just so

going for a

righteous Christ

TV hand control

a rusting nail

driven through my palm.

I’ve fallen on the abcrunch

enhance-your-sex

abdominal-crushing

you know your girl

will be blushing

stomach tightening

$21.95 a month

plus postage

slick chrome and black

mechanical torture device

has pierced my side

nicely

neatly

bleeding sweetly

staining the worn weave

of our history.

And when you arise

in a russet morning

stab of light

bring

resurrection

stained into your

seamless skin

a tattooed oath

of timeless gospel

raving

salvation

while you lullaby

my sex

with deft fingers

stroking

mouth evoking life

from flesh gone cold.

No

not sleeping

dying…

Question

If I am going nowhere

why is it taking so long

to get there?

Fuck a world that continues to take a tax of humanity

Even though

or perhaps

because

all the pieces were falling into place

I still jigsawed across the table top
a scattering

of disjoint

Grey smoke vines
coil from nostrils flared
as the bite of cold coming air
takes hold
and curls the thin threads
around my skull in an aura

a miasma

a warning


Jen is dying

I
found out yesterday
somehow
the way you say it
makes it matter of fact

Like the tap is leaking

Jen is dying
kinda rolls off the tongue
and drools across the floor
to plop against my bare toes

If I step forward
her demise will be a warm wet
feeling beneath me
and I know

my feet will never dry


Fuck a world that continues to take a tax of humanity
from me
its not as if
I have hoards of people
secreted in banks
internet or otherwise
I pay and pay
and still
there is a bill there at the end of each quarter.




Jen wasn't

goddamn past tense

isn't
my favorite person
hardly the point

She is/was
however
a point of reference

if you read the road map of me
you will clearly see her
marked in red on the way
a place of interest
a rest stop
a motel with three star meals

She will pass within a limited time now
like a cream container
clearly marked with use-by indifference
and if you sniff too closely
the cloying scent of
too late
fills you

fills your eyes
tears you up
takes your breath so you hitch a little
seeking air clear
of deaths otherness


Jen was
something concrete
I stood upon
till now

without getting my feet wet.

Untitled.

Memories

Come sliding through the glass doors
at midnight

a mist of complexities
weaving wraiths and ghosts

Pale against heavy drapes
a lightless parade
figures haloed with scent
and sound.

I rise to greet an unborn child
his wild unformed fingers
reaching for an embrace
left behind on a wet August night
twelve years ago.

I hug air
whisper kiss his never brow
and tell him how I loved him

love him still

Fierce and strong my hold
on his imagined weight
the new born smell
I know so well
fills senses

He is real

as real as his sister

that never was

She waits her turn
large eyes
bright pin points of promise
blending into the glow of standby lights
on computer towers.

Together they question time
why it never allowed them to join the flow

why they are caught as a moment
come and gone

I try to explain
loss
and how it wakes their mother
brings tears
a silver glisten
in the moons pale revelations

They are mine tonight
to seek

to speak to

Their mother
rests peaceful
on the bed where they were made
her rise fall released breath
enveloping them

They leave me

as they left me so long ago

go to her

seep into her

to become tears
a silver glisten
in the moons pale revelations.

Untitled.

The piano will play us

one key at a time


Black white contrasting notes
of impossibility
drifting out across open
second story
untold stories.

I have given
very little
so many times

The distant winter song
of snow deep isolations
and how your foot prints
are erased each night beneath
the numbing blanket of tomorrow’s
fresh fall.

I'm checking the bathroom mirror
for signs of your breath

I'm checking my skin
for signs of your caress

how you mark me

indelible

but ultimately
invisible


The piano plays you

a concerto rising on the escaping
heat of today
bleeding into the welcoming embrace
of another crisp empty

Hearing you
is not the same as contact
but I will reach beyond
the length of my bare arms
past the stretch of fingertips

seeking without sight
touch without skin

Till
we become
a remembered chord
of a forgotten strain
running together
to hum and harmonise.

Untitled

There is

nowhere to run

Each direction seeks blood sacrifice
dipped in
atonement for sins
real and imagined


My sec tells me
she has never seen me staring at nothing
before
but she has just never noticed
how unfocused I have become
my eyes roam from the white painted blocks
to the grey of everything else.

The paperwork
gathers
a neatly typed storm
shot through with gloom
and rain laden portents
the pages heavy with distinct requirements

I'm writing poetry
to stave off the ghosts and ghouls
for here
within the bright womb of words
the clammering is made still
and I can just barely
hear me in the distance
calling like Heathcliffe
a voice
lost on the moors

You cannot reach me
my Catherine
frock billowing in
the buffeting wind
which swirls around us

I know you try
but the patterns are already
at a stage where
to change design
would destroy the whole
and it just cannot be undone
as we might wish

I do see you
but as an inanimate object
another beautiful item
to grace this tired world

As your imploring
sails past my becalmed
impassive resignation
I wave
because we were so glorious
carving the ocean
a blade of perfect narrow
perception
honed to gleam beneath the sun

I took heart from this

Peter Pan syndrome" is not listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, and is not recognized by the American Psychiatric Association as a mental disorder.


Alas, it then went on to say this

The Peter-Pan psychological type is one characterized by immaturity or certain sorts of psychological, social, and sexual problems. The type of personality in question, usually male, is immature and narcissistic. More completely, according to Kiley, the characteristics of a "Peter-Pan" include such attributes as irresponsibility, rebelliousness, pottering about, anger, narcissism, dependency, manipulativeness, and the belief that he is beyond society's laws and norms.

*sighs*


lol

Untitled

You burnish under a distant sun
coppering till the gleam of your skin
blazes beyond the reckoning of men.


I am lost in the sheen of
your flesh
as it creates
cool overhangs of smooth stone
to hide beneath

The way your heat emanates
pushing against denial
suffocating carefully controlled
distance till there is only
you

and waves
of us

And I quote

All matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration,

we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively,

there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are

the imagination of ourselves.

Bill Hicks circa 1993

Well, there was this one?

A series of connected moments

The hand on cheek

speaking volumes

with no sound.

A flash of recognition

my eyes

bright

against your cry.

The weave of your kiss

caught on the edge of my jacket

a thread

to follow.

Awareness only

found in continuance

if you are naked

so am I.

A Wisteria in my mouth

you

magenta

ripening

shedding seeds

on fertile ground.

Time winding down

in the curl of our spines.

Turn to sepia

Parchment skin

hides the beat within.

Your precious gifts are dying.

Remember?

If you are naked

so am I......

Holding back death

decay

with interlocked memories

winding through gnarled fingers.

A series of connected moments

breaking.

For we were naked once.

untitled

There is fuck all that makes me cry
these days

I have hardened
like earth beneath a relentless summer
baked
and cracked
and dry

But today
the silence of the singing sands
is a report
shattering ear drums
and stopping traffic

It has made the war mongers pause
guns cocked but not firing

It has made the music fade away
into a drone of static

The children have jumped off
the swings
and gathered up their
mothers hands
standing beside them without a word

The mobile phones have stopped ringing
cars rolling to rest in empty streets

The sound of broken glass
is quiet


The lapping of waves
gone

For the singing sands are silent

and I cannot

cannot

recall their song.

Where we will be.

We are going beyond the boundaries
of the flat plains

into the heat haze
shimmering
beckoning wave

there will be empty pump bottles
and lolly wrappers stuffed into
arm rests on car doors.

There will be music
and faces seeking answers
in blurred bitumen.

We are going where the sun lies
still
red
ageless
in a poker face sky

It will linger
long beyond the cautious
probing fingers of nights
tentative first caress

laying rouge tiger strips
across my arm
the one dotted with too many freckles
resting out the car window

You and I
will ride in silence
words not required
as we move towards the same place
occasional half smiles offered and accepted.

Techno will leak
in tinny tones
from the backseat
almost contained by ipod
nano
shuffle
etc etc

Sometimes
a complaint about
my cd mix
will come sliding over the headrest
to slip around my throat
and tug gently
only to retreat
with resigned sighs

We move
beyond the boundaries
of the flat plain
and into
a waiting suns
patient eye.

Faith *Scecond Draft*

In unity

we strove.

Banners
raised above
the howling throng.

Our voices
took hold.

Hooked through flesh and bone
sinew for chains
we hung ourselves out upon
the dead oak branches.

Weeping
steeped in lore
ancient tears
trembled
and spilled upon
us.

Faces upraised
to receive sorrows

We took our faith
and broke it upon the surface of
La Tene
a thousand years past.

The offerings have changed
with the advent of isolation.

We have
only moments to give.

Where blood was once
the chant of hymn

Sacrifice
the succour of bountiful
pulsing life.


Beholden to none
we share stone and shield.

Frail ceramics
to remember us.

Pewter vessels
moulded in the softening fires
of the slain

Cooled in the raging mill pond
of time.

Mica shall be the colour of renewal
chipped and polished to gleam.

Embraced
I am Christ and Allah
Buddha and Vishnu.

Empowered
I am the earth mother
sleeping as my breast
feeds the multitude.

In unity
we return

*Note* I have trimmed out some of the early modifiers, thoughts?

Untitled

Blink neonic dreams
the blue
reflects off tears

I see you in desperation
the adrenalin kiss thrust
where eyes tick left right
in rapid successions

Pulsing with guitar echo's
a low scream building
beneath the flesh
enticing vanilla ice cream smiles

We trade in-a-whiles
our carefully nurtured nonchalance
a plastic cling wrap mirror
of deeper seasons
and all the reasons
we do not say anything

The humming of stand by
rising
to
fever pitch

till your skin itches
hair erects
and time collects
in the calluses on our palms.

I see you
in inclinations

the way you recline naked
steeped in a chardonnay smiles
languid layers of complexities
curling wild vines across your flesh.

And we

will never be

or be enough.

Untitled

We wrote ourselves into a corner

Where our convolutions
were mistaken
for revolution.


The circle diminishes
a shrinking diameter
where theories abound
and ultimately
we will run out of room to manoeuvre.

Corners
curving around us
in no particular formation
and all directions.

Your pen
is a feathered quill
still dripping from
the ink I provided.

Mine
a raw bone
not quite picked clean
the flesh
still clinging tenaciously
to give a hint of colour
in an otherwise
white expanse.

You ask me to write tomorrows mood
the rise and fall of weeping
as it catches our defeat
as
it
draws down on unpaid debts
as it
slides beneath thin skin to
stripped tendons of emotion
naked to the stinging air.

Breathe in
and feel the ache.

Remebering.

I am writing this to me as reminder.

I have lost track of how many times I have attempted to step beyond the narrow edges of my skill and become/evolve/grow into something/someone/somehow better.

It is a gift to think you are brilliant, the total refusal to accept reality, to accept limitation, gives this moron his head to run free with wild horses leaping over rough ground towards the mountain top where it all awaits.

"What was I thinking" has become my catch cry, the horror movie child’s voice chant background song to my days.

And that is just it, I wasn’t thinking, I am never really thinking, just allowing my mind to dance along to its own beat, travelling roads I have no experience of, and therefore, no right to write.

I am ashamed of my lack of self, how I cannot really accept that deep inside, I have a story to tell, in its misshapen evolution of blood, water, lust and hate, and somewhere, an abiding passion that swallows all before it, a great consuming beast of need that shambles through my dreams and devours days and nights with equal disregard. My denial of myself is my greatest achievement of all.

I have heaved the spade, thrown the sod, patted down the clay, buried me far deeper than the sun can penetrate, and it is so cool here, beneath.

Sometimes, I got it right, and said something just the way it needed to be spoken, elicited the words to tell a worthwhile tale.

But mostly, I am full of shit, and sick to death of it.

And this is to remind me, so that each time I allow my fucking puffed up sugar daddy of an ego to take over and spit out , regugitate, vomit up , shiney slick and self serving dollops of bullshit, I will remember

This is not who I am
or how it is
or what should be said.

My penance

will be remembering.

Untiitled

Someone is asking me about beautiful

On the paving stones I lay
so many years ago

a butterfly
dies silent.


Someone
is asking me
about pain

Rain
driving in
through
the holes
in us.

A filling
brimming
drowning.

Somone is asking me

but I have stopped

listening.

On being Super

Hero's are a dime a dozen

you can find them
glowing on any street corner

Tucking capes into jeans
smoothing down super stencilled names
on lean muscled chests


They chat and tap out tunes
with super feet
awaiting damsels
or dangers
or complete strangers
to call
or email
or yell from a tiny window far above

They smoke thin cigarettes
and show each other tattoo's
of serpents
of suns and stars
of hotted up cars
and holocausts.

And when the call comes
they strut and thrust out chests
in super duper
poses

And when the call comes
those that aren’t too drunk
or stoned beyond construction
or too caught up in metaphysical dissertations
and complex explanations

leap from super feet to the sky
cept those who cannot actually fly
they just flop onto the pavement
and bleed profusely
while the drunk stoned ones
laugh and point.

And those that can fly
assault the sky
with a myriad of colours and super powers
showering down on a helpless world
awaiting salvation

They seek and save
send those who are evil
to a waiting grave
all the while
offering mouthfuls
of white white teeth
and homilies
hewn from their mothers womb

In the after glow of redemption
the whole world spins in fawning gratitude
graciously forgetting to allude
to the damage caused
the broken cities
and shattered states
the flatten forests
and boiling seas

Super means collateral damage
is muttered by the grateful throng


Someone suggests
inventing a super song
to raise the praises to super hero's everywhere

But then

someone else suggests

that would be too much


Meanwhile
back on the street corner
the supers nudge each other and laugh
in loud reverberations
proudly show the new additions
to collections of scars
and indentations

<>No one questions
intent or direction
meaningless repetition
a growing infection
never mentioned
out loud.

Note: Absurd and utterly without meaning, this poem none the less,
wished to be written, to those of you who expect exemplary poetry
layered with brilliance at every turn, I apologise :)

<>

Untitled

There are walls within walls

The stud frame supports
secrets
beneath plaster cracks

a pencil of light
exposing truth

Sun Boy

He was

born on the lick of a solar flare

spat across the reaches

to reach us.

Thudding into the inertia of our lives

a searing streak of change.

He pulsed

an ember glowing

rose petal opening

unfolding naked and awakened.

We gathered

the multitudes of disavowed and

disaffected

collected by the after image of his journey

seared into our retinas.

When he spoke at last

it was a song of luminosity

tinder words brittle and flaring.

His invective devoured

those of us who stood too close

and would be consumed.

We became

the song of the flames need

a congregation of conflagration.

He told us

of incandescence

and how it was

to be the son

of the sun.

And we burned for him.

Today

It's 8.00am

and I am

Lands End


An isthumus
jutting into the spray of
the pacific

edged with kelp

plunging away sharply

scarred dark wet rock

wearing down

one billion years at a time

Untitled

Together
we could
cut haze out of our eyes
and dance the shadows
of suburban rage

Aching for pain
the cleft palette
of subtle nuance.

Winding awkward tongues
around
words tilting
sideways

Covet sane
the referred
restraint
of disparity
and the way it sits
still and green
as stagnant conversations.

Break
and apart
a hollow sound

Suck it in

There is space
between clamour
and the walls


Just enough room

to glow

Untitled

I am threadbare

light filters through

the worn weave.


Frayed

strands hang exposed

parting.

No patch
seamless
the way mum would sew

shut

the holes.

Untitled.

I was never ready

for the planing of edges

Ruffs of thin timber
slice and curl
caught in the nicked blade

Beneath
only pulp
and white ants reside

Bodies writhe
surge away from light
seething secrets
under good wood

And still
the whine
of the plane
coming closer.

On this day

I place an internet flower
in the endless cybernight

for Pumpkin

Lost in Oz
without red shoes to guide her home.



Born of the Long White Cloud


Left behind
by a man with empty eyes


my she find life and love
with those who would care for her.

Reason to breathe.

There is no separating
contention
the ache of color
and how it hurts
to exhale.


Divesting
ourselves of days
past and present
fall away in shimmering silver
reflections.

We gather agonies
something surreal to wail about
while the tear
caught upon your eyelashes
trembles patiently.

There is never ready
only the right moment
upended upon the table to scatter
in unruly disruptions.

Diving heedless into your weeping

I swim the teardrop
and hope you give me
a reason to breathe.

Untitled

She wept days

to be taken

gathered up and returned to her

bereft of anguish


Gratefully

she would accept them

bow in response

and gently put them on the tip

of her tongue


Tomorrow

she will weep days

and wait for the gatherers

to return

Beach wet sand in grey drifts.

I am waiting,

was always waiting,

when the wind howled in.

Tussock and saw grass,

buffeted,

a shack,

weathered boards in disarray.

We had lain in there,

naked,

oil lamp burning,

exchanging sadness and salt crusted kisses.

The weather could not get us,

save tiny gusts past rusted nails.

Rain drives in on the shoreline,

a single gull,

hovering,

fighting the wind.

I strike a match,

cup my hand,

burn down our memory.

I am waiting,

was always waiting,

for you.

Shelleyisms

Cynacism a draft best taken alone

Don't ask me
where does she get this shit?



I am ducking under the cut and thrust
a question poised on tip of tongue
falls unspoken into a surprised lap of the gods

And Shelley has the where with all
to label me hypocrite

She lashes left and right
striking unprotected flesh

I cannot protect myself from a reflection
the way she mirrors my disaffections

What a retarded conversation

she hammers home her point
a six inch nail straight through
the curve of my skull
and its not the content of her arguement
but more the way
it loops around itself
a serpent consuming its own tail
leaving no room for dissent

I don't buy it

No, and neither do I

Where Shelly Lives

<>
Where Shelly lives
I cannot go

If I enter her abode
I am caught

Underpants drape portable phone

Fluoro pink lip-gloss
pressed deep into carpet weave

Tattered posters of slim male dream boys
hang askew
bluetac smears peeping beneath gloss paper wrinkles

A power board sits beneath a dripping tipped glass
the water striking plastic
and flowing off the side
missing the tine holes by nanomillimeters

The ipod sits on a pile of mags
the wire poking rude from stripped plastic sheath

A graveyard to consumerism
a testament to the accumulation

of stuff

I close the door
for if I enter
her abode
I am caught

The Shelly Diaries Continued

There are moments


in between storm fronts sweeping through
before the shit hits
and all pretence is lost

when she smiles and says something
succinctly insightful

Or when she reads my mind
and articulates exactly my thought

We ride the same fucking pony
clopping along cobblestone roads
where the whole world bows down
and offers required obeisance

at times

I’ve nailed shut all the windows
and double locked the doors

and yet she can still seep in

The Shelly Diaries

Shelly waves us away like gnats


"you have no concept
or if you do
its tainted"
she expresses airily
flying around the TV cabinet
a moth without flame to seek


We assemble
or reassemble from total rout
and suggest parley

Shelly explodes without preamble
large chunks of derision
spattering the new couch
dripping from the cat
smeared on the newly polished floorboards

We wipe it away as best we can
with hands tied behind backs
with mouths of grim determination

We assemble
or reassemble
and seek terms

Shelley leaves us in her wake

a foaming trail
swirling down the hallway
to places we never wanted to go.

Its morning right?

The frost in snapping
the crunch
echoes like a bite of peanut brittle
shattering in teeth


I like the inhale
the sting of cold in the back of my throat
sharp and jolting
a frozen air shot of awake

My hands quickly pink
the tips of fingers
sunsetting shades
and throbbing

The backward arse country fuckers next door
have fired up the four wheel drive
the wash of deisel
surging over the fence
to drown me in fumes and grey

The door handle on the car
is iced and slick

Starting this day
as every other one begins
a ritual of repeated motions
requiring movement without thought.

Input advantageous but not essential

And thats the kicker isnt it?

These things
this myriad of small activities
we ply through
each one essential
to the sequencial construction
of a day
each one
a tread on the stairs
a rung in the
well....
you get the idea

We play out the part
walk the distances
open and close the obvious

meet and greet
breathe
move feet

and it can all happen
with mind in absentia
sifting through
yesterdays conversation
reassembling the lines spoken
to bring about a different outcome

Just an example
we are free
of the constraints of thought in daily
discourse
a little spark of us
offered here and there of course
but overall

free

I'm thinking of the way
we might reflect in the eyes of strangers
as we pass

I'm dreaming jasmine scented waters
steaming around my nakedness

I'm driving into tomorrow
renewed from today

and

its morning right?

because
truth to tell

I lost track....

Revisited.

Long Days.

On long days

she felt the presence of ghosts

in every room.

She would recite poems

the lilt of her litany

pushing back shadows.

Hands

on automatic

completing chores

without her mind engaged.

Self esteem

carefully wrapped

in rose scented paper

tied with dried stems.

The sun would glide

to its zenith

to the sound of poems

and the tingle

of hovering ghosts

waiting patiently for her.

Sometimes

she stole time

sat with knees

cat curled beneath her

in the garden

sipping tea.

There,

the spectres could not find her

her face would turn

open flower to the sun

letting the light suffuse her.

Later

she would go inside

and try to unwrap

rose scented paper

held with dried stems.

There are secret rivers flowing through my house

There are secret rivers flowing through my house

The sound of the rushing
comes to me
padding
footsteps in the hall
late at night

Whispers
mist around us
coil and writhe
to rise
against the cornice
to swirl down
obscuring naked bulbs
in hush

The flotsam
of wild tides
pinking tampons
floating
on the still waters
of the toilet bowl

And later
when it is not relevant

weeks past the flood tides crisis


I am told
in bed
late at night
as
the whispers
coil and writhe
around us

how my child
has joined the ebb and flow

Given to Artemis
and the wild hunt

Reflection

I have divested myself

of self


Allowed the weight of expectation
to fall


Pooling the moon around my feet

to stand within

a puddle of ambient light.

I’m waiting for us

patient impatience

finger tapping

white caps breaking

upon wet sand days.

The walking agitations

of disturbed air

puffing moon dust

around us.

Grey ash stirred

offers no reflections

as it

deadens the sound

of dislocation.

Between us
the lore is strong

tales of Cuchulainn
and Boadicea
fuse to skin
igniting word-song chants
to dance upon the endless dark.

With sonorous voices
we draw the threads of gilt
to slide through finger
worn and glittering.

Casting gold
to a midnight sky
we
embroider the sun.

Every word I ever wrote
ony burns for an instant

In the curl-blue of flame
each letter is redirected to the heavens


Rising higher and higher on the vageries of thermals
the ash dreams leap and swirl into the clouds

There to become
my poetry

written to an uncaring sky

I do not.

Tearing strips off the day

We peel away layers of light
to
expose it for the veneer it is

I do not have the answers

Together we watch separation
how it divides
and multiplies dissatisfaction

Your fear
an undercurrent
drawing me down
into you

I am not helpless
I could swim
if I thought staying above
the waterline would help

I do not have the questions

We bite down into the soft pulp of night

Succulent
the taste of blind belief

We eat our way through
midnights sweet nectars
sated on the juice of
no face
nor sound
nor name

I do not have....

Untitled

I
naked in the heat of your breath
born to accept
times
bending framework beneath us


Muscles taut
beyond thought
or rational construction

I have raised my eyes to see

but you blind me

with the sun

of singularity

Adrift
we move
beyond the curve of Andromeda

The prison of Universe
will not hold us

I press my cheek to this
cage of stars
and cry

release

Come Lover

Come lover,

there is no shame in death.

Dance us to sleep.

An orgasm of possibilities

sigh from your lips

sprout wings

screeching to be heard

I want answers

but your truth is Dante's vision

pain and torment

without surcease

deliciously gift-wrapped

in satin silken sensation

I dance for you

a brazen statuette

carved marble

pale shadow glows

deep resonance of

unbridled masculinity

And you,

keeping time with fingers drumming

with thighs alight in sultry flame

turn your face away

to taste the harm

Come lover

there is such shame in death

Dance for us

On Salisbury

On Salisbury

the curve of the earth

arcs away from you

toward the coming day.

You have become

the joining

Sun and sensuality

light emanating

from within

and without

And I

a menhir

raised in adulation

leaning towards you

ancient

runic inclinations

rope across

the time-smoothed surface of

my skin

Come

to me

Through the Sarsen circle

you wend in

a naked sacrifice

A garland in your hair

a sceptre

to grace thy fine bone fingers

a copper ring

for anticipation

a golden torc

to catch my tongue

You did not speak

yet I was told

to keep myself

to myself

And I did

I hid deep beneath

creeping roses

pressed into the rich earthen loam

Wrap me in word flowers

fragile colored syllables

to lie amongst

Slumber,

no

But death

yes,

a lover’s embrace.

I could lie quietly

inhale your fragrance

to exhale eternity

Held in thrall

a poem for a winding sheet

Self Indulgence

I was going to write something all deep and self important sounding

But it isn’t there today

hasn’t been there for many days in truth

I am not as important as I had once believed

The world spins wildly
and I am holding on with the tips of fingers
numbed and straining
teeth gritted

I have tried to track
when the changes occurred
from the days when I knew without a shadow of a doubt I
was the centre of my universe
and you all revolved around me
satellites giving light and colour to a sky only I could fly

nice rhyme Chris, slipped it in without a ripple of unruly

I don't mind that I am becoming background noise

I despise it

There is a place called Oblivion
and I am driving there now
music running down the leather seats of my car
threatening to drown me

and yes
I would drown in song
as I sail into my sky
a moments clarity
is worth a thousand days of just being

You think its all up for grabs
and then your fingers finally succumb to the ache
and you slip off the side of the world

No one even hears you falling

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