Crunch

Jardin de Luxembourg, Paris. October 2010.

Did they die verse unwritten or did they refuse to have themselves strait-jacketed into form, into structure, how much of a leaf do you truly admire outside the canopy of the tree, or do you find verse in its free fall, its cascade into the heap that gets swept away, billowing into playful clouds and then melt into dust, until the next season of appearance, an appointment you are never fully aware of, that chances itself upon you, like that half glimmering side of the suncatcher that you happen to pass by, that for a fraction of a moment glints your eye, and you think what was that sparkle of light, the sun? It was attention that thing we fall short of, like the beauty we reflect upon in hindsight, like the cool shade of the canopy of the tree, and never the leaf or its veins in itself, it is the legion of recollections that flood in, billowing into playful clouds and then melt into dust.

(Penned Nov 9, 2013)

Small talk

Bobs in own's keg of brine. Here a regret, there a lost love, a piece

of pride chewed on, unraveling string of childhood self, a life of

kites and bicycles, like mirror shards, a broken top, favourite gum,

page torn off a book, yellowing letters, all pickled bits, cast away

one memory at a time.

A packed room, chink of ice to crystal, only the finest trend in the

luxe will do, all deep words and hollow eyes, darting slow and

cursive, a shadow in the now, yes it gets as interesting, as a fly on

a sugar cube, or an empty subway with its twinkling lights at

midnight.

Oh the allure, swagger, free association, entices as much as an onion

shell, whirling to the breeze. Human pickle, bottled in your skin, you

are stacked on shelves by the dozens.

A relic maybe. Prized? A matter of opinion. Vintage? There're better

specimens in museums of the world.

That travels not

Lovely gift of gleaming green, outside the rain, without water, soft and thriving, jumping hoops, snares and kind words, a little resting, little cajoled, every which way discoursed, very welcome - winsome suggestion, not every arrow, bee, lost horse, heads where pointed. Load the lode, your map a dot. Flight foregone, is loss of journey. 

(Penned Fri, Apr 19, 2013)