Thus Spoke…

There is more to this

than the way our tongue moves; the way it

approaches or retreats from teeth, or our lips

shaping themselves first as sly, sunlit maid

and then as aching mother.

 The chords thrum as breath weaves a wand

and turns into sound - the voice in the dark

catches light eyes cannot see

if we but pause and listen

to the tone; never the words,

the words

are the illusion, the packaging.

In the room, or out and about,

we several lay ourselves down or move around

and breathe - imagine the world

as small as our heartbeats, as large

as our minds

and we let loose a conversation…

It travels into a space

none of us expected -

not even the finest of poets -

the way a dance becomes something so much more

than a body moving from place to place.

The Farthest Journey

It is in the sound of the apparatus, like gods,
they surround him, stare into his heart
and murmur a decision about him, that I feel
my disconnect from the prospect of his death.
I offer silent prayers to these unknown machines.
Every labored breath he takes, I promise another act
I will perform as penance, as payment, a stalling
of the ferry’s price, not the fee of crossing
but the lurch and then the wave farewell,
as if my thoughts are a cat of nine tails, and I flay
my future with this fear of being left fatherless.

On his finger resides a clip, as if he is dangling on a line,
or being dangled; a slim chance that he may yet return
to my shore, open his eyes, cease his ramblings
about a past before I was born and smile again at me,
his last boy - this father of mine fights a battle in a white room
and outside the world is grey but between is the deep green
of the river, will he emerge or sink? Gone forever,
like the large trout glimpsed and then slips free of the hook -
Oh father keep hold of this hook called life
there is still so much I have yet to talk to you about.

I have not the words of farewell, sacred or profane;
they got lost somewhere in the journey away from home – I
cannot remember when he held me, or the feel of his lips,
only your chin, rough as sandpaper, and your watery eyes
that smiled at me whenever I found my way home.

I have wandered far, thought I had left him behind
and now I stand at his bedside and realize
he is about to take the farthest journey and I stand here
and try to remember every shattered aspect of us.

Bulpaddock Sonnet:

(Trinity College 2005)

I stand in the classroom and through
the large glass windows look out
across the Bulpaddock - the bronze statue
of the famous bull guards
the ‘Keep off the grass’ sign and the ivy-stone
buildings frame students as they walk to classes.

My eye catches a leaf as it falls while the wind
sends another scurrying along the old worn footpath,
the sunlight slants through the bare trees,
the scene unearths memories of Dad
from years before when he breathed
and I stood holding his hand
amongst the raked leaves and cut garden -
everything smelling as if it would last forever.

Odin, wishing his son was not grown

In Asgaard, when it was young
and the wolves had not yet begun to howl
nor my eyes begun to dim, we would walk,
you and I, down by the river
where it was always raining -

the water sunk deep into the weeds,
and the bank was overrun with activity
as everything tried to get in or out
of the churning -

I remember that
your little footsteps squelched as we trod.

My hand clutched yours
and we peered into the murky water,
your eyes constantly drawn
by the lure of frogs or the shimmer of salmon.

In those days you paused often
and let my words, like that river,
wash against you, filling you, I hope,
with some of the wisdom
I had found in my travels.

When you were three you
hid a duck under a bucket
until your mother found it 3 days later.

Then there was that day
you clomped down the stairs, a brush
in your small hand
that dripped paint like laughter,

and the time you sat on the window ledge
and leaned too hard against the fly wire.

We all laughed when your bewildered head
popped up from amongst the pineapple sage.

I wish you’d come home,
son,
but not all grown-up.

I’d like,
just occasionally,
that three old to visit me again

so I could hold him close
and maybe try even harder
to imprint
what I know must fade.

As it is, standing by the river,
the rainbow bridge
shows signs that it fades,
and my empty hand throbs with memory -

I feel like I am a duck
under a bucket, waiting.

Continuum

Just spent the weekend at Continuum. Met some great people and had fun on the three panels. My Favorite was the fairytale discussion, really good chat with the other panelists and the audience joined in. Its great to meet up with fellow writers and with avid readers and chat about books, writing and all this to do with getting your work out there.

Its at conferences like this that feeds the fires to just keep on writing.

Catalina's Choice.

Today I finished the third edit of Catalina's Choice!
114,000 words.

I shall leave it for a time, like a cake, baked, now let it settle, and then the feast!

Anyone interested in reading a 114,000 word fantasy and giving me some feedback???

Anyone?

Man After His Kind

Grant Wales has written an interesting, sometimes provocative novel based around the old testament story of Noah and The Flood. I enjoyed his litany of very interesting characters, particularly Noah's sons. The description of the approaching waters and the disbelief turning into growing fear was clever and powerfully written. I look forward to reading more of Grant's novels in the future.