Long Stepping out Poems
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I've often wondered if my non-verbal
cerebral palsied son
dreams in colors
and/or words
he can hear clearly
but cannot himself see or say,
at least not clearly articulated.
Yet any sounds and gentle touch
we appreciate perhaps too dearly
if that is possible with D,
my wounded son.
So, I was surprised,
after twenty years of delighted wonder,
and awed last new moon night
when he shouted "Hey!" into my ear,
about one inch from his mouth
in that time of darkest sight
While I had been dreaming of stepping out
where full moon's light
brights a mysterious pilgrimage into mystic,
perhaps even mischievous, adventure.
My heart sparked
as D shouted Hey! miraculously
just as I was greeting moon light
splayed across our front porch,
intending to leave him behind
to rest in peace
while walking out into Earth's brighter staged sights.
My eyes popped open.
While D slept peacefully on,
without triumphant smile or despondent frown,
although perhaps just a hint
of his mischievous shy dimple, down
toward the front of his right cheek
curling open to grace me
with a loopy grateful grin
shallow but neatly round.
Say Hey! together
calling out this night's pilgrimage spell
swelling day's scavenging bright un-voiced adventures
in listening well.
Calling out
to both Sun and Rain
to thank these for their presence
and remind them of covenants
to remain in perpetual organic balance,
co-present presence,
not too hot and ultra-violet,
not too wet
and green moldy degenerate.
Calling out
in dreams of healthy new moons
and wealthy fullness, shout
resting in Advent's
adventurous
adventuring
peaceful outback pilgrimage
into boundaries of minds
in dreaming full-voiced bodies.
Words are always running through my head.
From waking to bed.
Writing from the images I am fed.
Thoughts running to and fro.
Trying to follow as far as they go
Catching a random thought.
Sometimes lessons taught.
They lead I follow.
Sometimes heartbeats sound rather hollow
Viewing the world through my eyes.
Not always blue skies.
But mankind tries.
Following a dream.
Life holds you back it does seem.
Lost in thought.
Understanding sought.
Hard to follow.
When in self pity you wallow.
Clear you mind.
Nothing is ever left behind.
Only memory has a rewind.
Memories of the past.
The future will never be cast.
Writing a story
Of life and it's glory
Like a random thought.
May be hard fought
Follow it through.
The sky will someday turn blue
Modern leaders.
Future readers.
Knowledge breeders.
I'm a child,
Thoughts run wild.
Life is hard to start
Not knowing your part.
Should I follow, .....should I lead.
Will my words plant any seed.
The first breath you take.
Each decision you make.
The future is always at stake.
Times I'm lost in my head.
Can't find my bed.
Where does the story end.
What message does it send.
Will my heart ever mend.
Follow that thought.
I stood up and fought
The lessons they taught.
Tomorrow will soon be now.
Living the only way I know how.
,hearing each word.
Such a silence seldom heard.
Peaceful in its way
At least I have today.
Finding my way to the next line.
Don't worry.....I feel fine.
.Just so you know
Letting go of the flow.
Stepping out of my mind.
Ties that bind.
flashing lights start to fade
In and out of a dream I wade.
The thought slips away.
Time begins with each new day. .
I’ve formed this sweet relationship with this rabbit I see on my morning walk…
almost every day.
It all began a year or so ago when I encountered him on the street
I smiled, said, “God Morning, Mr. Rabbit…and he quickly hopped away.
This went on for many months…
It appears we’re both out walking the same time every day.
I’d smile, say, “Good Morning, Mr. Rabbit…and he’d quickly hop away.
Over time our morning encounter turned into a little game we liked to play…
We’d pause, I’d smile, say, “Good Morning, Mr. Rabbit.”
then he’d let me take a few steps toward him…before he hopped away.
There were mornings I’d find him standing in the street…
as if he was waiting for me to start his day…
I’d smile, say, “Good Morning, Mr. Rabbit…
and he’d let me walk right by him…before he hopped away.
Then one morning after stepping out of my house…who did I happen to meet….
much to my surprise….there were two rabbits in the street!
I smiled, “Well Good Morning, Mr. & Mrs. Rabbit!” I said.
“Mrs. Rabbit, I hope this is a proper way to greet you….
I must say, after all this time…it’s so very nice to meet you.”
This is how our mornings went for a while:
Mr. & Mrs. Rabbit…were the only rabbits I would see….
Until one morning I noticed two baby rabbits in the grass not far from mom and dad
I smiled, said, “Good Morning Mr. & Mrs. Rabbit…and your entire family”.
Now each morning in the street in front of my house,
“Good Morning, Rabbit family.” are words I love to say.
and I like to think the five of us…look forward to it every day.
I feel blessed for having met Mr. Rabbit…
glad he was so patient with me….
and am thankful in some small way I’ve become
part of his Rabbit family.
A thousand bees never settling down,
buzzed within his head.
Their confused drone, into a ruffled rumble grew,
lengthening into frenzied drumbeats,
taking the might of roaring waves
or gaining the momentum
of a plane, prior to take off.
Mind lacking coordination
limbs receiving discordant commands,
He suddenly hurtled into the streets,
stepping out from regimented norms
and breaking loose the tether of reason,
never walking, never running
but scuttling from side to side
like a piece of driftwood over the current.
Hearing the cawing of a crow
suddenly, he into a prophet grew.
stood with arms outstretched,
waiting for the crumb of bread
to be dropped
in the manner Elijah was fed
by the raven in his lonesome cave.
Seeing the audience swelling bigger
he was enthused, greatly cheered.
The riff- raff and the scraps
swarmed around to see the show.
Mounting the steps to the pulpit,
in unfaltering voice
and with fire in his words,
to the congregation,
surveying him with fun and sneer,
he thundered………
“The Doom’s Day is near”
With finality in his tone, he said-
“Repent and flee from the wrath to come.
The tree that doesn’t bring forth,
good fruits shall be hewn down,
and cast into eternal fire.”
The transition was quite easy.
He scurried from Elijah to John the Baptist
and from John the Baptist to Elijah
oscillating between
sense and non-sense.
__________________________
March. 28.2023
~ Placed Second~
Writing Challenge, ‘P’ Words
Sponsor – Constance La France
In my school days, I used to see him very often in junctions and bus stops. He was unshaven and ragged in appearance, but in his eyes, there was a kind of fire and he paced about restless east to west and west to east as if he had an urgent mission to accomplish. His words still ring in my ears. My heart goes out to those whom we call lunatics!
I lean toward her~
this woman split into colors
a woman rendered in angles,
her face divided as if emotion
had been dissected
and pinned onto the canvas.
Her green fingernails startle me,
soft as bruised mint,
as though she once touched something tender
and the tenderness stained her.
She sits with that stillness
women learn too early~
the stillness of being looked at
instead of being seen.
Inside those mismatched eyes
I sense a private weather,
a quiet storm she never named.
She was a photographer
who could coax truth from shadows,
a surrealist who bent the world
until it revealed its hidden pulse.
Yet, here she is,
held in the gravity of Picasso’s gaze,
her own brilliance dimmed
to the outline of his muse.
And still~
there is something in her posture,
a hint of sorrow and a small, steady refusal.
As if beneath the fractured planes
she is gathering herself back,
piece by luminous piece,
her green nails glowing faintly
like the first signs of a woman
stepping out of someone else’s shadow
and into her own light.
Nature in a Mischievous Mood
Early Sunday morning;
nature rattling at the front door!
I accept its clamorous invitation
stepping out with nothing more
in tow than an upturned collar..
and a theatrical imagination.
The morning ground is well-baked pastry,
all crusted with a shiver of winter;
sunlight whispering across the ground
all sharp colour and playfulness.
So I step out, church bells skipping alongside
and light skating off in front of me.
Soon I am within reach of the beach;
my sandy sanctuary,
but nature is in a mischievous mood
the light fluctuating,
its moods shifting,
gloss turning to flat matt.
The sea offers up a cold, blue arm
encouraging me into watery depths
while the sky sits heavily
in a grey leather-weathered armchair.
Behind, peeking through a curtain of cloud
a new season waits to spring into action.
Ian Souter
Sponsor : Justin Bordner
WHERE LOVE LEARNS NO MORE
Where Love learns no more
two serpents crawling twine
one midnight black another
luminous wizardy white
entangled fanged bedazzled
circled by ultra violet rays
ultra red Sun the One
swimming in beet orange
mint mix elixir eclipsed
quiver quenches wreathing
writhing thirst as cerise
petals silently fall, crumble
dust to dust
Here howls no blackboards or
whiteboards no koki pens
pencils erasers or paint
no school bells ring
no Buddha
gongs neither singing bowls
no teachers gurus masters
or internet, memory, miles
history or futuristic dreams
nor Rumi poetic recitals
or even Gabriel’s angelic
harmonic frequencies
In deafening silence they
slither slide thrust open
skin on skin shedding
translucent spirals spinning
black imbibes white aglow
glistening melting moments
all else dissipates
two serpents exits explore
where Love has nothing to
learn but adore
God appeased appear
emits lochia, soar
observe serumed gyrations
entice enchanting narration
they remain darkly sage
silent shimmering sop
slippery slip illustrious dip
into hidden slivered
silver cords hanging
themselves naked new
wheeled throats bleed askew
Then from vulnerable bellies
delicate moths emerge
flutter one by one
become butterflies flit
making mauve milk
pixel pinprick serpent
eyes lightning shoot
first branches of
Tree of Life moot ~
an ethereal nightingale
tinkled appears, trialed
trigger timed
two serpentines transmute
into dancing flames free
stepping out of shadows
into silvery sematic glee
grace winged they disappear
into hymning hyacinth
Sky outlined in gilded
lyrical lore divine
In beckoning belly of Creation
L o v e has
n o t h i n g
to learn
Women have been battered and abused
Since day one
Systemic domestic violence
We are so done
A movement has started #me too
That has opened up the doors
To shine a light and give a voice to those
Who say "I ain't gonna take it no more"
No longer will women be silent
Not passive in their behavior
Dauntless and determined
Like Jesus The Christ our Saviour
It's time for all women to step up
To be bold and speak out loud
That freedom ain't free
Our lives do matter, no longer to be enshroud
Striking a blow for freedom
Against our oppression
Righteous indignation
We are so now stressing
Now focused on what we have
And not what we don't
Letting our faith empower us
Falling back we no longer won't
Faithful, fearless and fighting just to be free
No more abuse, no more battery
Destined for greatness we've always known
That one will always reap whatever one sows
Now as daring women of impact
Confident, courageous and called
Striking a blow for freedom
Our hands fisted and balled
For with God before us victory is guaranteed
Feisty and forceful yeah that's We
And like the mighty Alpine ibex goat
We will climb and scale new heights
Up the rough side of the mountain
With only one goal in sight
To eradicate our abusers
By any means at all
Women of impact # not me too
Confident,courageous and called
Stepping out on faith
Trusting in the God we all love and know
And symbolically like Jael with hammer in hand
For freedom we'll strike a blow
Striking a blow for freedom
Decisive we now act
We are women liberators
We are women of impact
Stepping out, the smell of smoke hangs in the morning air,
plastic cones and tubes and sticks are littered everywhere.
Another Guy Fawke's night has gone, bombarding all the senses
the night sky sounds and looks just like the Moscow air defences.
All year we're told be clean and green for the environment
but every November the fifth, I don't know where that went.
Keep down the noise, respect neighbours, can't say fairer than that
but once a year under the bed I try to calm the cat.
If laws are put in place that we can ignore once each year
then maybe, come this New year's eve I can, and without fear,
( although my missus likes the fact my love for her I hog)
go find some boozy ladies for a real good drunken snog.
I arrived breath away, stepping out of a journey waiting not for fellow passengers with tedious conversations about Hemingway, Trump or AI
hot excitement dissolved into foreboding
pain, then shattered into peace ~ bliss on
cards, an endless journey had end after all
age equalled superfluous suffering
red ticks on calculus examination page
point of Excalibur deadly, yet where I
belonged as spiral, lived a hundred lives
or more of solitude, silence, secrecy
dandelions oracled sacred
yin and yang exploded into nothingness
white black entwined stillness containing
all sound, shadows, twenty four strands
when tabulating male and female
fire flashed into stardust figments
a millionth of a blinking second
whether charioteer voted redhead wily
in a country of dollars or mid-life crisis
cities were questions embedded in olive branches or fleas on poodles barking twirled with archaeologists, crooks, historians
status mattered not here
altars in faraway wonderlands where writers recreated Alice whilst filmmakers negotiated budgets ignorant that movies were magical moments bound in akashic records
here marigolds came before business
Brahman footprints treading Truth tabled
Singularity contained every loop into Void embracing once upon time a leather jacket
journey cracked its own codes crumbled fleshless, as eyes became saucer satellites
explorers, tourists, passengers, all here ~
revelry was lived or meditation mastered
centre point, brilliant or dull, crude or sharp equals zero-one sequences ~ music, sky, planets, charioteer or train passenger
all gifted with a choice … return to Earth
or bathe forever in Centred Bliss