Same Roof
We shared a roof, a table, the same four walls,
and still I lived on the far side of a door
no one had thought to knock on.
Their voices filled the house each morning,
familiar as the kettle, the taps, the stairs,
and none of it ever reached me.
I was in the room. I was not seen.
You can stand in a doorway for years
and be furniture to the people you love.
They were meant to be the ones who knew me
before I knew myself,
who could read the weather in my face.
Instead I learned to fold my heart small,
to keep it in a pocket
where no one would ask what it weighed.
I have grieved the things that happened.
That grief has edges. It has names and dates.
The other grief has none.
It is the hush where the conversation should have been,
the hand that never reached across,
the people I sat beside for years
and never met.
I was not only mourning what was done to me.
I was mourning the child who kept waiting to be known,
and the closeness
that never had its chance to exist.
steel gate shuts
cold lock clicks
the stone wall holds firm
my path will not lead to you
the old gate is left behind
these strong walls keep the old noise from entering
my eyes turn towards the wall that meets the dawn
a wide archway opens on the far side of the wall
no one owns the open country road where the future remains unclaimed
I will never say never to the daylight waiting on the far horizon
Horizon holds hope
tomorrow, crowds out the scene
clouds rehearse elsewhere—
sunshine has packed for the road
leaving warm coats on the hook.
The mirage shimmers
beckoning us nearer still
distance swallows steps
closer is, further away
the mirage has played its game.
Footprints trace failure
back to where old hope began
mud obscures the route
the horizon keeps its word—
always staying over there.
Evening inspects shoes
muddles, each odd pair—
the map folds itself
learns to leave the porch light on
for what was never coming.
Evening shuts up shop
footprints wander back, alone
the horizon stays
still selling tomorrow's light
to those who come to its stall.
The Integrity travels a quarter million miles,
The farthest point humankind has now reached;
A flight path record in decades will sing,
When it launched at the dusk of April first.
In the night when the countdown hits zero,
At Kennedy Space Center, the rocket fires its intro;
Tearing Orion into the deep dark,
As four souls leave their only known planet.
That moment the engines strum one last time,
The ship slips from Earth's grip and sight;
Watching the sphere shrink in the window frame,
Till it's just a marbled blue note of light.
Sensing the shift of the Moon's pull,
That takes over the rhyme and symphony;
The astronauts look back at their homeland,
Hearing from Earth again is a melody.
On the far side of the Moon,
They are in total radio silence —
Just them and the stars, with the Moon between them
And the pull of a cosmos beyond human sense.
At thirty times the speed of sound, Orion hits the atmosphere,
Orange and white flowers slow the song down;
The crackling, fiery heat plays its chord,
Treble clef curve makes splashdown safe and sound..
The oldest voices whisper below the ground.
Hands pull on roots — wind-beaten, gnarled —
stories woven through the fabric of time.
Bark peeled slick, leaves flattened,
the wisdom of what makes whole lies
between finger and thumb,
passed along like a flame, a prayer.
But the soil only knows part of the story.
The other half lives in breath,
a noise wafting through the room —
a voice wrapping itself around the injured,
knitting them back into themselves,
as if words alone could summon strength,
draw poison from blood.
And when the breath becomes thin,
when there’s no salve to ease the pain,
there is no anger here.
Only the stillness of understanding:
death is on the far side of the cure.
When the winds through the valleys blow
And the grounds are covered in snow
Thoughts become should I stay or go
Before the rivers cease to flow
There are those waiting for the change
Which comes in spring upon the range
That's when their lives break free from chains
Of yesterday and all it claims
The sheep upon the mountain tops
Move lower down in search of crops
They will watch each stone that drops
Standing fast 'till the sound stops
The open plains on the far side
Hold fast the secrets nature hides
There are changes they won't abide
And throw their cautions to the tides
We heat the rooms by candle's flame
As Mother Nature plays the game
We're like the drops of frozen rain
Ne'er to return from whence we came
What do you think, the moon's trying to hide,
spinning in synchronous rotation.
Maybe the answer, is on the far side,
a bitter truth, behind the evasion.
Why do you think, the moon alters it's face,
and disguises itself every day,
Could it be that, what it's hidden in space,
is not something to be seen anyway.
How do you think, the moon raises the tide,
and then reduces it down through the night,
It uses it's force, from deep down inside,
to hide it's secrets, behind it's bright light.
They crawl in a line
along the esplanade
between beachfront mansions
and the bay's indifference,
windows down, elbows out,
hands tapping on doors in time
to the doof doof base
pulverizing air and eardrums
inside their metal sanctums
of pure testosterone.
Throbbing engines ease them
along the street, slow
and deliberate as if to give
pedestrians time to admire
and take in such potency.
An occasional pump
on the pedal sends a roar
rasping out of twin exhausts
and stutters a squeal
of tyres announcing to the locals
and all gathered, the "boys"
are here.
Marooned in another era,
they seem oblivious
to the derision flung at them
as they pass, misinterpreting
a smirk for an approving smile,
the shake of a head a gesture
of wonder rather than a judgment
on how silly they look.
Their egos blaze like the sun
reflected in polished chrome.
When satisfied
they've given onlookers their fill
of metallic ****, they hang a left,
plant their foot
and in a wake of tyre smoke
and deafening noise, rocket off
back to their own private planet,
time frozen somewhere
in the exhaust filled clouds
on the far side of their minds.
Far Side of the Moon
Winter and summer begin on a solstice
That marks the shortest and longest days of the year;
Spring and fall arrive with the equinox.
When the sun is closest to the equator
And day and night are of equal hours.
Daily, the Earth spins on its 23.5-degree tilted axis
Called its “obliquity” and orbits the sun once a year.
And this orbital plane gives rise to changing positions
That usher in opposite seasons
In the Northern and Southern Hemispheres.
The Moon orbits the Earth every month
(Synchronized with its rotational spin on its axis)
And spins at the same speed it orbits the Earth
And explains why the near side of the Moon is always in view
As seen from Earth and the far side remains a mystery.
***
Notes:
In October 1959, the USSR spacecraft, Luna 3, transmitted back to Earth the first images of the far side of the Moon (the side unseen from Earth). The Chinese rover Yutu-2 landed on the far side of the Moon on January 3, 2019, and found the lunar soil to be stickier than on the near side facing the Earth.
To grow without witness, on the far side of the meadow all alone
Miles from judgements or fingers pointing out the rights and the wrongs
A view so pure and serene when gazing into the night sky
Soon to be gone tomorrows sun has promised to shine for you and I
Free are the roots exploring just beneath the trees
Safe- amongst the sound of the crickets and busy buzzing bees
Wild Flower your beauty is without rhyme or reason
Admiring how weightlessly you're able to grow
Free as the wind where ever shall it go
Never picked just for beauty or planned in a row
Flourish as you should, grow wild, grow free
The envy builds within me
To live as the Wild Flower, as free as can be
They stand on the pointy end
of compass arrows,
friends and strangers
scattering, flickering now
like fireflies in a jar someone else
is carrying yet further away.
The young are born
on the far side of the moon
where nobody looks
for the earth.
Of course the dead have left,
but you still have their business cards,
debts. owed to you or to them
not money, but hand-me-down memories
those 'post-its' once pinned to the hope
of a shared journey.
You suddenly know you are alone,
the only fish in a shrinking pond;
rooted now by the very long roads
that brought you here.
Will you follow the calling winds,
will you backpack up to another peak
that goes nowhere?
Your are a veteran of foreign engagements,
time has so slowly
placed your heart in a box of pressed flowers,
a box muffled by plush and velveteen
one as large as any coffin
its four walls marked
'Do not open until the last train
leaves forever.'
Two fresh plates to adorn my humble chariot.
The one on top had the honor of being mounted at the front,
as my customary parking pattern
is to back into a space on the far side of the garage.
But soft ... was it an honor?
To be figurehead, first to see, noble vanguard,
and yet,
bombarded for countless hours by suicidal bugs,
dust, gravel, and mud.
The rear plate will soon be far cleaner,
and has the quiet, reflective view of what has passed.
Though it might wish for the electric thrill
of seeing things first.
I wonder which the plate on top would prefer,
if it had more claim than its fellow below.
But fate granted me judicial clarity.
Top is front; bottom is back.
Different fates - each with their own charm.
Grow not envious, o plates.
Your positions both have great beauty.
18 November 2022
November descends delicately,
crisp, crimson-gold
landing languidly midway between
'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day'
and 'Now is the winter of our discontent' -
dead center between its nurturing tree
and the leaf pile bound for burning
Casually clad in T-shirt and shorts
on my makeshift cardboard sled
middle age's gravity conveys me irreversibly
down summer's green, grassy slope
towards the snow-shrouded vale -
I find myself halfway between
where I did not want to leave
and where I do not wish to visit
Midway between the eulogy
and the forlorn trumpet playing 'Taps'
it dawns on me that life is not entirely about the
sunshine on our backs nor the coming snowbank
but about searching for the sunrise
on the far side of
the next hill
1 November 2022
I kept it treading air,
constrained,
as if it were held
tied to a grip, clenched
for fear of letting go and give
to wings a fluttering freedom,
an elsewhere beyond
the mind's persistent stare
and the anchored weight
of being.
I would like
to launch and let it
rise into fenceless air,
to fly unhindered, a blur
of colour keeping
just within my reach until
it lifts away to where
the slightest breath
sends it aimless, adrift
on a gentle wind, to settle
a dreaming soul - somewhere -
on the far side of here.
Born in brilliant rose dawn, when dreams were still possible,
I'm a silent ebony shadow, who has never felt the fiery sun.
In cool, dark regions I live, where colors have come undone.
Yet, in this world of dazzle, it is I who ofttimes feels invisible.
But I am all that it is, waltzing on the far side of gold beams,
Until the time of my cheerful undoing, in the rich noon hour!
Then flower scents whirl, as my creator flourishes his power,
Before mellowed afternoon, when he lets me reign supreme!
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