Selected Poems (2020 - 2024)
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Within each of us, is the world.
And we hide from this world, playing games and wearing masks.
Someday, we see. And all too often, it is because we see the world in another.
We doubt our vision, despairing that it cannot be so. That the truth cannot be so plain.
The world caves in, hidden from our hearts.
We become bewitched by our masks, to spend many years in hiding.
Until one day, the world speaks again.
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A crop of wheat lies naked to the sun, her gentle eyes conversing with the hills and the birds. Children ride bicycles, as bells ring for the cattle calling home. Laughter sings to the rivers, and the sweet breeze replies. The cobbles lay in rows, holding up the carts and animals, peoples and their pride. There, a sparrow walks and sees that here, there is no time.
Two birds play as lovers to the paddocks, their eyes met by the same green in which they fall, dancing to the dreaming of the winds. Clouds elope with the seasons. They travel together, pouring themselves for the birth of trees, birds, and rivers. Bowing humbly in apology, the clouds move on. A court of foxes’ wade through thickets of long, green grass, with their heads sorely higher than the grass itself. Here, there is no time.
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There is a place. Far beyond the limits of our words, of our reasoning. A place crowned by intuitions, bathed by imagination, and clothed by the sun. Our children see it, and dance in it, smiling long before the camera takes it. It is that place, our place, which our hearts long for. That place, our place, which the pastures and the fields and the meadows of our bodies weep for, calling the cattle home and touching the yellow stained tufts of grass with their minds.
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What could be more beautiful than life itself? That place we have found ourselves lost in, free in. To roam as children; stumbling, falling and wondering. To share in that place, our place. Memories of childhood, memories of the animals, of the birds. Memories of places and people we have never seen before.
Are we made in the same as of the earth, and of each other? And like characters in a play, do we hide behind our masks until it is all but too clear, and we see the truth? Until we stand naked, do we stand without ourselves, as children playing hide and seek, from the candid, honest face of life itself?
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You cannot judge me. For if you point to my thoughts, I will be in my heart. If you point to my face, I will be in my veins. If you point to my body, I will be in my mind. If you point to my Self, I will be in my family. If you point to my people, I will be in the trees, birds, and the skies.
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Your footsteps echo throughout my lonely halls, unwavered and unmasked by your feathered touch.
Your fingers leave paintings upon my empty walls, unbridled and caressed by your warm, subtle clutch.
The ways I creak, I can only be ashamed, your eyes like birds upon my windowpanes.
The look in my eyes so fraught with despair, A love that could be lost; only one we never shared.
I fell into a dream, sadly such that wasn’t real, you flew amongst the sails, me asleep at the wheel.
Your love truly profound, darkness all around imposed, A cathedral falling down, to a religion now exposed.
Nature bares the truest map, for a love now struck by a faint mishap.
Proportions of perfection yet creatures of every complexion.
Although I lay as ruble, I still lay in your fields, let’s shave off all my stubble, see what the harvest yields.
We’ll build a life with materials we’ve collected, not stolen.
We’ll don the walls with colour, not with golden.
We won’t believe in whatever else we could see -
Only swear to exist in that happy life that would be.
A starlit sky makes a mockery of our pledging, as not with rigour will dreams become alleging.
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It’s 4.33 in the morning.
We’re at the bus stop. Well, when I say we.
It won’t stop.
But for it to stop, it won’t stop. And then it will stop.
Where is this?
What bus am I waiting for?
It’s raining.
The highlighted sign to my left says Tokyo.
I’m afraid of getting on the bus.
