Today is a perfect day to build a tiny boat.
Out of paper or an old milk carton.
I’d say do not choose paper
since it might not float for long.
We run outside and find the perfect curb
and crouch down on our knees,
at the fastest rapid releasing our ships
in the river of melting snow.
This is the perfect spot for our boats to sail,
each searching for its magical path.
Racing their way through the rushing stream,
to see which one will win.
Not a word is spoken between you and I
as we each hold our breaths,
to witness our tiny boats
get swallowed by the drain.
My boat wins, of course it does.
I practised and built all winter long.
As a champion I look up to the sky
and let the sun edge a smile on my face.
We high-five. Spring has finally sprung.
the game of pretending
has gone on for too long
why do we crouch in fear
even though we are strong
with memory erased
we wander like the blind
a whisper comforts us
that soul’s divine aligned
pausing the flow of thought
in tranquil witness stance
by feeling not thinking
we turn inward our glance
relinquishing knowing
dropping every belief
softening attention
presence turns a new leaf
dwelling thus in the void
vibrance animated
in timeless time we see
ego’s decimated
awareness self-aware
is then what we reclaim
bliss magnetism rises
rapture that has no name
as we so surrender
polarities mingle
that all’s one we then see
our eye becomes single
from outside looking in
poised beyond space and time
our peaceful heart at rest
we imbibe bliss beat’s chime
We have come a long way —
you and I —
sauntering along paths of tales,
narrow, slippery, serpentine, endless.
We crouch at spider-ways,
through the fustiness of late-rising dawn,
feeling the rapid beats of a stolen heart and the
entanglement by an unending network of
webs and encroaching thorns.
Cockroach feelers we rely on to guide us
through the length of seaside lichgates.
Life is one Hell of a place, we agree.
It’s a cup of cliché we drink on daily basis—
like hastily brewed coffee at the city’s rush hour.
But, like the radio, it has a tuning fork —
and with it, one operates on frequencies
mute and clear, wavy, far and distant.
It’s a challenge.
Remember Michelangelo
lying supine on ramshackle 16th century scaffolds
and painting the Sistine Chapel for four long years,
his fragile back hurting, his paint brush screaming,
his pots of paint on tilt . . .
Now, that’s some labour!
And with restive paints of stress dripping,
Dripping, and streaming and sweating down on the
broad canvas several feet below, staining
the usefulness of enchanting woods . . . !
Oh, I hate the putrefaction of desolate souls.
”simply choosing to stop thinking
we attain peace that’s unblinking”
~ quote by poet
Though we have been, seen and so known,
light of Self beyond time full blown,
assimilation yet awaits,
as we walk on this path alone.
Engaging in senseless debates,
our wayward ego celebrates,
having shrouded our inner light,
distancing us from heaven’s gates.
Mind thought to be boon, is now blight,
doubts arise and we crouch in fright,
lost in dreams we have created,
where imagination takes flight.
Feeling from God separated,
by day and night agitated,
knowing not silence is the way,
God in heart is not located.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a silence, thick as August heat,
parts when the bus driver waits
for the limping man to reach his seat.
the child weeping in the pharmacy aisle
is not yours, but you crouch anyway,
offer a tissue, a name, a glance
that says I see you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the sky bleeds yolk over Saint-Rémy,
a fever-bright wash, thick as summer’s breath.
mountains crouch in indigo, their edges
softened by dusk’s bruising fingers.
grasses shiver—coarse strokes of emerald,
ochre, jade—a restless sea halted mid-sway.
a farmhouse kneels, its red roof smoldering
against the slope’s drowsy violet.
twisted trees claw at the light,
their crooked fingers sketching shadows
across the meadow’s thistly skin.
the fence stands tightly drawn.
He moves through the world as if glass were soft,
as if breaking it made ome strange music.
Inside him, in fear small children crouch,
still waiting for the blow that came all to often.
His mouth twists around apologies
they he never learned to mean—
His tongue cut out his strange words
too tender to pronounce.
He could not touch without leaving fingerprints,
Never loved without counting debts.
Shame sits in his stomach like a stone,
hunger’s first twin, born of neglect.
He thinks that cruelty is power,
but it is only fear in costume—
a trembling god he never served
because no one ever taught him mercy.
Shutters hang askew, redeeming guilt with two-way sighs,
Confessing what your forgotten vows and phantom memories deny.
Ivy throttles the porch in a desperate, strangling embrace,
hinting at peril in the wall's disheveled pale face.
The rank dark garden pond’s gaze reflects no pulse of sky,
it's a black, unblinking pupil that won't blink or die.
Window curtains quiver and sway where no breeze dares.
Echoes of stalking footsteps persist when climbing stairs.
Shadows crouch and slither beneath each creaking beam,
they shift when you look away — they're not what they seem.
This house harbors the twilight between dream and waking,
where spooky creaks unravel the curse in its undertaking.
Plump and orangey, a craved patch kid's sight,
a mid-season's choice circumstance affair,
warmth carved out goodness, share with each other,
sweet, sour, brave, crouch, everyone will ignite,
shopping for costumes, dad picks, not mother,
as kitchen's countdown, timing does excite,
set for Hollow's Eve, where friends are aghast,
masks and mouth waits, for an event-filled night,
midst dawning light, pumpkins are a fanfare,
share with each other, warmth carved out goodness,
fright night, and pumpkin pie's sweet appetite.
‘The natives are L-A-Z-Y,’ she says,
barely pausing as she stirs
her Earl Grey.
The letters fall, like pebbles,
into a chasm,
waiting for impact.
Or for the plate of Huntley & Palmers
to be passed around.
A cricket ratchets up the afternoon
while meager figures
crouch above herbaceous borders,
hacking at something.
Jacaranda, frangipani, bougainvillea…
the garden is overwhelmed
by its inventory.
Back in the paneled hall,
the grandfather clock has been
counting down to the apocalypse
since 1895.
It can wait for another
decade or two.
Based on culture we believe,
form of God as scriptures weave,
affirmed by pastors who preach,
though truth remains out of reach.
Our faith helps us to go on,
when at night we wait for dawn
but it’s but a crutch we use,
to stand strong facing abuse.
When tested, faith is shaken,
for unless we awaken,
facing fear we’ll crouch in fright,
since we have not seen God’s light.
Burn the book, is what we say,
making love our heart’s mainstay,
that as opposites dissolve,
in time we slowly evolve.
Faith is a function of mind,
like the blind leading the blind,
so instead let us be still,
our soul aligned with God’s will.
Simply feeling, not thinking,
our awareness unblinking,
focus firm, let then bliss burn
nodes within mind-body urn.
Breath by breath imbibing grace,
of ego there’s left no trace,
whence we see God in plain sight,
in our heart’s cave, light soft white.
Back to basics, to be free,
the face of God we must see,
since words offer not the taste
of God’s love, tender and chaste.
The foxes in my garden
Arrive at night to play
They had their fill of chicken
And so decide to stay
I crouch down on my haunches
And look into her eyes
The little one so trusting
She’s like her mother wise
I see how she has taught them
To fend well for themselves
But only Little Roxy
Has me so overwhelmed
She comes to me at midnight
For honey in a bowl
As I crouch down and watch her
I know my heart she stole.
The other three just run around
They eat and scatter fast
But Roxy and her mother
Make this encounter last
I’m surely not the only one
Who finds this hard to use
And whether it is needed
Will produce conflicting views.
Yet when in a public restroom
I will often face defeat
When I try to use the paper cover
For the toilet seat.
As I peel one from the package,
In the process it might tear,
But it still could serve its purpose
If it only ended there…
Though the bigger problem happens,
Even if there is no rush,
When I place it on the seat and then
The toilet starts to flush.
Of course, the cover’s sucked away
So do I start again?
I do not because what I was taught,
Since I remember when
Is to simply crouch above the seat -
No contact should be made.
Therefore even with no cover,
No one’s cooties can invade.
Outside, we feel warm rays from the sun.
I'm with my special, precious one.
Those wee hands, feet and ponytail
always bring happiness, without fail.
We are out to have some fun.
Together, we crouch by the koi pond.
The weatherman waved his magic wand,
and you can see the water glitter,
o'er each enchanting orange critter.
Shared experience creates a bond.
So, we also share with the pretty koi.
We're going to serve them, boy oh boy.
Feeding them - such a commotion.
We love to see those fish in motion,
as living things bring us joy.
Now, it is just a sweet memory,
with this photograph to remind me
of the day under the warm sun
with my special, precious one,
when we had so much fun.
My drinks enticing and sweet
On a chair in the middle of the street
My little floaters been dinged
Toiling waves the edges singed
The wood alive with roaring flame
Waters pulsing like a broiling brain
The cars flow downriver like syrup
I float on my raft with an empty cup
My chair can't sink among the heat
Since it's not the damn drivers seat
So I travel the world and surf
My cup will never touch any turf
Arms reach out from the ocean waves
They hold tight, the current fails
They want saltless delight im sure
I lift the parasol, sugar is the cure
I reach down and share the fluid
The current takes it, people included
It's no matter, I can surf without it
So I crouch on the boards and sit
Then lie and bask in the sun
And even the hands cant ruin the fun
They still reach and pin me
From below the board they see
Grab my cup and take it
I laugh and spit
I let them take it where it belongs
Bubbling under the wooden walls
And I still have the suns fire
It extinguishes the waters pyre
The lapping waves cant burn
My raft of wood will never turn
Everything is so warm and free
As long as my drink is lifting me
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