INTENSE CITY

A quiet autumn morning shakes off the dust
of an angry September.
We are sunk deep into October,
shipwrecked, sullen and clothed
in some deep impenetrable mystery.

The moon is wild and unknown.
It follows us everywhere.
The clocks are broken.

We feel insignificant and vaporous.
We could just vanish.
At first we would tremble like leaves,
then there would be nothing left
but a small wind gathering the dust of ourselves.

There is no time anymore.
The day is done.
I lie back and watch the curtains
lift and fall like someone breathing.

(Photo: Quiet Time)

The hay bales on the hill
stand like soft soldiers,
firm in their presence.

(Photo: Dom W – Hay Bales at Sunset)

Parabola, a quarterly print magazine about the study of the myths, rituals, symbols, and arts of the world’s spiritual traditions, has featured a poem I wrote entitled, “As Above, So Below” on their website.

Read it here.

Photo: Getty Images

Sitting here, I come up against something,
Perhaps it is a desire to change my state,
or for things to be different.

I try to bring the question, “Who am I?”
It remains unanswerable.

Having grown tired of living in the basement,
I take the mask off.

I wish to see and to be seen.
Until there is no longer a struggle for, nor against,
just a yielding to that which is.

(Photo: Ken Jackson, Dokusan)

I have participated in a few quirky writing assignments lately, like this and this. So when I came across a project called Six Sentences, I had to give it a try. My piece ran today. Thanks Robert.

Clickety Click.

I sit here, couched.
A breeze enters the room, snapping the curtains.
It is like watching a dance.
The wind circulates through the room, stirring the plants that rest on the windowsill.
Specs of dust in the sunlight whirl over each other like rapidly boiling water.
I breathe in the cool air while a shiver runs up and down my spine.

(Photo: “What’s Important To Me“

The house was quiet when I awoke. I stood waiting as the coffee machine gurgled away into the morning like a mad orchestra. The dark acidic smell awakening my lazy senses.

The air was refreshingly cool. The streets were wet and empty of faces. The shadows on the sidewalks disappeared one by one as they were illuminated by the grey light that broke over the buildings. I hadn’t bothered to get dressed. I smoked a cigarette lazily by the open door to the deck.

I listened to the soft murmur of a city still asleep and to the churning of my thoughts that bubbled up from mysterious places. I observed these thoughts appearing from consciousness and then, receiving no attention, dropping away to their mysterious origin. I felt like a boat wandering aimlessly, tossing and turning over dark deep waters. For a moment I realized that this is probably how I am most mornings, running through the random and the ridiculous.

The rain fell.

The air was soft and gentle, embracing the backyard in a cloak of mist and fog. It was like a dance, this new day arising. It felt as if all the possibilities, if I could entertain them just for a moment, threatened to crush me.

I sipped my coffee. It felt warm, secure and comfortable in my hands. I smoked another cigarette by the open door and realized that my body was awakening to the day, becoming filled with a subtle energy.

Lights flickered on in other houses. It was five in the morning. I didn’t feel like writing. I could think of a thousand better things to do.

I was sitting with a zen monk and I couldn’t stop looking out the window in front of me.
“Why are you looking out the window,” he asked, “concentrate on your posture.”
I tried to bring my attention back to my posture but I soon found myself drawn outwards again to the window in front of me.
Smiling, he asked me “are you a a writer.”
“Yes.”
“I feel so sorry for you,” he said laughing.

In a silent hour where a heavy rainfall cleanses everything,
even a dirty secret is buried in the rhythm.
The rain greets us through the window.
It kisses our bodies and blesses us.
We can’t stop loving each other.
I tell you that you’re beautiful.
Sometimes I have to remind you.

Tonight your touch is like a house on fire.
The rain makes your body wet and
the street lamps outside capture the drops of water in their glow.
Your body accepts the light and it glistens.
Words are not needlessly spent.
We have the tongues of poet’s.
It feels as though we are the only lover’s
on this lonely planet.

The rain continues its rhythmic soundtrack for the passion play across the bed.
A fever grips us tightly.
The angel of lust puts an end to time.
The night rolls out into infinity.

There are never any words for this…

(Photo: Ed Ed – Rain on the Window)