It all went wrong when we started wearing shoes
to begin with there were a few who refused
but with time they became amused
by the idea of a STRoNG SOLE
to protect a sensitive soul
Monday 10 October 2016
Monday 22 August 2016
Peggy Freydberg 107 year old poet
CHORUS OF CELLS
Every morning,
even being very old,
(or perhaps because of it),
I like to make my bed.
In fact, the starting of each day
unhelplessly,
is the biggest thing I ever do.
I smooth away the dreams disclosed by tangled sheets,
I smack the dented pillow’s revelations to oblivion,
I finish with the pattern of the spread exactly centered.
The night is won.
And now the day can open.
even being very old,
(or perhaps because of it),
I like to make my bed.
In fact, the starting of each day
unhelplessly,
is the biggest thing I ever do.
I smooth away the dreams disclosed by tangled sheets,
I smack the dented pillow’s revelations to oblivion,
I finish with the pattern of the spread exactly centered.
The night is won.
And now the day can open.
All this I like to do,
mastering the making of my bed
with hands that trust beginnings.
All this I need to do,
directed by the silent message
of the luxury of my breathing.
mastering the making of my bed
with hands that trust beginnings.
All this I need to do,
directed by the silent message
of the luxury of my breathing.
And every night,
I like to fold the covers back,
and get in bed,
and live the dark, wise poetry of the night’s dreaming,
dreading the extent of its improbabilities,
but surrendering to the truth it knows and I do not;
even though its technicolor cruelties,
or the music of its myths,
feels like someone else’s experience,
not mine.
I like to fold the covers back,
and get in bed,
and live the dark, wise poetry of the night’s dreaming,
dreading the extent of its improbabilities,
but surrendering to the truth it knows and I do not;
even though its technicolor cruelties,
or the music of its myths,
feels like someone else’s experience,
not mine.
I know that I could no more cease
to want to make my bed each morning,
and fold the covers back at night,
than I could cease
to want to put one foot before the other.
to want to make my bed each morning,
and fold the covers back at night,
than I could cease
to want to put one foot before the other.
Being very old and so because of it,
all this I am compelled to do,
day after day,
night after night,
directed by the silent message
of the constancy of my breathing,
that bears the news I am alive.
all this I am compelled to do,
day after day,
night after night,
directed by the silent message
of the constancy of my breathing,
that bears the news I am alive.
Sunday 7 August 2016
high n low (captions at top from now on)
In the sky-tree house
Gundam gonna steal your Christmas
Floating on some black magic
drenched in the spectrum
who ever said clash?
seeing green n orange in the leftover wild west (nikko and some crumbling places)
green sunrise
imagining autumn in this place
my mate ali G
appearing in orange on a bench near you
howdy partner
no one liked the food
the proud owners of a house whose back garden is a fake mt. rushmore. pickett fence under construction, hide your wives and husbands
what's up doc.
cleaners busy playing pokemon go
yard art
P L A Y
put em up
lock em up
don't show up
your driver awaits
nature taking back the throne
quick trip to ladyville
FREE SHOTS
not those kinda shots
these shots too
I thought mother told you to tidy your room
shredz
KAWAI NE
cant escape this little onster - grace keep your pet on a leash
dandy scrawlings
gonna drown in the green mush soon
bzzzzzzzžzžzz
Monday 25 July 2016
It's not really broken
such elegance grace and calm
but the real charm lies deeper
in the clumsiness of a fall
that leads you into the hall
of everything that exists beyond
and if you keep your eyes open
you’ll forget that you slipped and tripped
and focus not on what's broken
but open to the open
but open to the open
Sunday 24 July 2016
Tuesday 19 July 2016
Sunday 17 July 2016
The weight
His lens told me everything I needed to know
the weight of the loss, emotions with no bridge to cross
I knew but could never understand how heavy it must feel
how the films in the mind are recorded onto the darkest reel
the weight of that metal bucket crushing down on your home
the weight of all the rubbish left to rot after weeks of being thrown
the weight of the clouds of rain that persist above you
the weight that you carry, its no bad dream this is real and true
and I fear for
where the mind goes when the body forgets that it shivers
when the stomach can’t hear its grumble
and the ears don’t hear the thunder
arms so small
they should only have to reach
for the embrace of a loving parent
for the ring of a basket ball hoop
instead of trudging long and hard
through a pit of waste and soup
children with fierce looking eyes,
strength comes not with age but through having to fight to survive
waste scattered across the landscape and cutting through the mind,
how can this forgotten figure
find peace in such demise
how to lighten the load of this crisis,
to create comfort and warmth in a place born of human vices
to clear the waste and start a fresh,
there’s so much space
how can we say there’s none left
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