A poem I wrote yesterday…after the rain.

A rainbow stands,
over a desolate field.
A look of wanting –
only one person.
Ahead of me,
a blue-eyed dragonfly.
Sniffing sweet aromas,
a slowness – like my
kisses before.

August morning,
rain in the impression.
A point of blue,
before Coltrane bounces in.

Heart wood, in a dream.
Her echo, such a soft surface.
Drinking from deep water,
whilst stealing love.

I play the Yang-Qin,
amongst sleeping sibia.
Vows jump and sunlight spits.
A new fragrance, and password in.

A poem I wrote this afternoon. Continued reflections of a life on the island.

Wind beaten, a serows tear –
hide the ravages of time.
Screams above the din,
dried to a sand path.
Half-dead Kawakamil trees,
a shade better today.

The scent of plum rain,
both host and guest –
walking on the outside
of an inside world.
And I remain, as before –
a passing shadow to your
island shore.

Between concrete blocks,
and LCD Soundsystem –
I fight for survival.
A perfect warning,
of those old wife murmurs.
I’m better off ……
going alone.
Listening to the bush robins,
explaining the way.
Some things last a long time.

A poem I wrote as I sheltered form the storm.

The wind plays
with the rain.
A slow slip,
away from the
hard mountains.

The curtain
becomes a retreat,
a long-sought
meaning to life.
A trail in my mind.

Here, I do not
have your eyes
or your voice.
To give me beauty,
or a hand to the sky.

Only tribal days,
and words less than a whisper.
Down the road, a barbet
sings – to give me life
once again.

Who is hearing
these sounds?
I just stopped….
and wondered.
No more,
than a strand of hair –
or dinner with friends.

The future won’t come,
so – I wait.
In silent awareness,
and colorful darkness.

For a blue, mature spring –
the wind in a tree.
And music,
still only the sound.
A moment,
nearer to flight.

A soul journey,
going over – the
morning going on.

The hunter’s sun,
washing away – the smell
of a summer shower.

In the back streets,
a magpie song shortens.
Beginning to harden.

And as waves gather,
we mumble –
instead of words.

All of us now,
water striders –
never looking back.

hdrpl

A gift to me and a poem I wrote yesterday.

Cold morning city.
Love river… moving.
The colour…..
of lost wetness.
Morning rising prayers,
and a faraway smile –
a distant virga.
The point of no return.

I hurt today,
weeks of dual
thoughts and infatuation.
Covered lies
and black shrouds.
Arrows of passion,
unrepentant and misguided.
An iron heart,
now sick – on this island.
Winter comes,
hidden from the sun.
Now, I can be free.

Such difficult times for me and others. To trust and then to see the fading..a poem I wrote this afternoon.

I am here,
my coming,
my going.
Where is the
compassion?
Those plastic
Buddhists, entangled –
a drop of dew
half grown.
A whistling thrush,
flowering – and then
the fading.
I was born,
so I will die.
And life is enough.
And for you?