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The long and short of it is . . . forever

                                            and a day - one day at a time


Life is short and as long as you make it long

A bit like sensual sex whatever tickles your fanny 

Like pleasure and happiness or hard work all along


She remembers that there is no cure for that love in you

And you alone or together are the curator of healing


Sui generis suicide does not work at all it’s a killjoy 

Yet Ego-cide helps on the slumbering journey of living

Petit morts keep coming while suspense dangles beauty

And home is its castle a fortress of feeling and thought


Kim had come a long way on that wayward path

Flowers by the roadside and serpents calling

Serpentines snuggling up the mountains

Encroaching valleys with midday sun only

Eclipses and climax cliff faces falling from grace

A waterhole in the heat and all streams flowing

Wetlands and lowlands surpassing shivering swells

Towards oceans of fortuity courage and swirls of the sea


She had not been blessed enough yet to make sense 

Of all in the vastness and treasures of passing with an

Overwhelming sense of splendour and lack just the same

Irritation in cautious dereliction of duty bound loss

Tickled her privileged being and called for a prayer


‘Where is the meaning the purpose a sense of my breaths?’

She meets a Buddha under some trees or was it a nun

Nonetheless a sage of sorts shining a light on abandonment


‘Do not get sad about it for melancholy kills all endeavour’ 

‘Hurt not any sentient being and caress the awakening Self’

‘It is about breathing light and shadows in search of the rainbow’


Kim solemnly bows naked forlorn enlightened and grateful

Minds her business forgoes power money success and contempt

Entwined harmony’s contradictions its synthesis and demise


‘My unanswered questions have led me but where’ she ponders

Empties her pockets gives to a beggar and faces eternity’s truth

Only death will tell when all is one and one Karma reveals what?


The whole point of these travels is finding the compass of magic

In imperfection and uncertainty in wondrous jest and attainment


One day most likely quite near the end in a marvel of beginning 

It will become clear wholesome and meant as it had to ensue in

That short story of life and yet when epitaphs shine as a prologue

While a requiem sorts the dust between poetry and mist in the sky

One thing is certain in that which keeps coming is going and fast


The long and short of it is . . . forever

                                            and a day - one day at a time


As her hand awakes from a dream as the clock keeps ticking

And Her fingers firmly grasp the caress of letting go of her past

Kim concludes that moments will change but senses will not . . .
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