Mysteries of the Future

Mysteries of the Future
Flowing from my brush,
in ink so black it stings.

A soldier in each stroke,
sure and firm.

A Poet's Journey

This is poetry, they said, these words that you write.

My father frowns. My mama sighs.

Why can’t you just be a doctor, a lawyer, a nurse?

This is poetry, they said, these words that you write.

Wordsworth and Byron, Shelly and Keats.

But none of this rhymes, or is in meter or verse.

This is poetry, they said, these words that you write.

Flying through the waves, swimming through the clouds.

Across seven seas, grasslands, mountains high.

This is poetry, they said, these words that you write.

The hills above Darfur, sentinels of Bamyan.

They build, they break. A continent in tears.

This is poetry, they said, these words that you write.

I sit in a tower, in the midst of a green park.

The years lie in front of me, white pages all filled.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

Pieces of cloth, thread, a needle, puffs of cotton,

Cushions and pillows for little heads.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

I must have been three.

A red wool frock, yellow daisies bright,

sit well on the little girl with strawberry blonde hair.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

I must have been eight.

A ball of thread, a shiny crochet hook, in a pocket of green,

pineapples dancing around in circles.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

I must have been twelve.

Bouquets of color, satin, stem, long and short,

springing across a white tablecloth.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

I must have been sixteen.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go click.

I rivel, I ravel, my needles go clack.

My life lies ahead, for stitches to dance.

She read my cards...

What's in my control - The Emperor - he grounds me, clears away the cobwebs, and holds my hand as i peer anxiously down the path, straining to see what is ahead...

What's not in my control - The Moon - as ever, silvery bright, fickle, bewitching, filling my mind with a myriad shades...

What's against me - The Seven of Cups - i look, i seek, i find treasures, but they seem to me as dust. Maybe what I seek will be dust that seems as jewels precious beyond compare....

What's going for me - The King of Cups - a man strong and loving, caring, giving, enduring...

The Outcome? - The Fool - tripping along, head turned to the sun, eyes fill with stars, heart bursting with hope, with ne'er a care for the chasm below.

This Fool will soar where angels fear to tread.



For you my dearest friend... the gohonzon in your heart has led me into my life.

You don't know me...

... well enough, you said. Don't know you?

I was properly introduced to you in public, and shook your hand.

I know when you were born, how tall you are.

I know where you went to school, what you studied, how you earn a living.

I have been in your workplace, watched you, all serious and focussed, engrossed in your job.

I have met your brothers and their wives, been in their homes.

I have watched as you stood by a friend on his special day, I have stood by you in your own moment of triumph.

I have eaten breakfast, lunch and dinner with you.

I have looked into your eyes as you raised your glass to mine.

I have drunk from your glass, and worn your shirt to bed.

I have spent all night in your arms, feeling your breath on my cheek, listening to your heartbeat.

I have held you as your heart bled, mine bleeding.

Don"t I know you well enough?

Yellow

Yellow is the color I hate.

The yellow of the crayon my baby picked up, the yellow of the shirt he put on, the yellow of the toothbrush he used every morning.

The yellow that reminded me that I had passed on to my precious first born not just an artistic sensitivity and a love for tabasco sauce, but also the defective gene that turned all blues and reds into greys.

Yellow is the color I love.

The yellow of the sunflower, the yellow of the mango, the yellow of the reflectors on the highway.

The yellow that brought color into my son's life.

The yellow that he savored with abandon.

Mechanical Deities

The heat rose in sweltering spirals from the darkened cobblestones. The oppressive grey clouds above smote it down, debilitating, overwhelming, gloaming.

My eyes automatically scanned the Venetian street that lay before me, checking, checking. Windows, pilasters, flowers boxes above. Maybe a touch of red in the third box from the end - I made a mental note to myself.

At the far end, the unpainted gondola was being tested on its rails. I walked down to the trough that would be filled with water to create the canal. A few trees, a bridge, and the dome of St Peter’s beyond. This looked alright.

Cloisters with the roofs behind. ****, the incompetents. I had personally marked out the chimneys this morning, could they not match up the chalk lines?

I passed girls in tight leather skirts and men in flamboyant shirts as I moved on. The larger than life representation of the roof of the Sistine Chapel. Not bad, but then, they only had to work on a vertical surface. No agony or ecstasy here.

A loud crash. I turned to see a large truck, a pile of junk, half on and half off it. About to turn away, my eyes glimpsed a flash of brown. Rich, luxuriant brown. Curious, I went over.

Old machine dies, being junked. Now it was the shapes that held my eye. Here, a curved section – the trunk of an elephant god? There, a flared wedge – the skirt of a goddess? And there, a fluted prong – the distinctive cast mark of the lord of the seven hills…

An eternity – or was it just a flash? – later, they stood before me, glowing, resplendent. My work, my art, my life. Me. So precious, so sacred. How could I share them with anyone else? Let their profane eyes wander over the very marrow of my soul? Would all the suns, the moons and the stars in the universe be recompense enough to part with them?

Could I still live without my soul?

I Go West

I am awake long before the alarm will go off. Should I turn it off? Should I just get up and get ready? Or should I stay in bed to get as much rest as I can [which will not be half as much as I need, anyways] ?

My bags are packed, my clothes laid out. No, these will not do, I decide. I will take no chances, I want to look my best. Quick, put these away, take out the smarter option, pull out all stops.

When I step out, it is still dark. I peer down the road. Where is my ride? I do not want to be late, to miss the train. My eyes move up the western sky - there she is, the beautiful, almost-full Moon. Smiling down at me. God bless, she says.

I wait there, anxious, my heart brimming. Waiting, to go West. To my hope, my future, my destiny. Am I so near, so close, to that road of my dreams?

I look down the road again, and up to the moon. My eyes move across the skies... Wait! There is the Heavenly Hunter, and the brilliant blue Sirius. My mascots, my lucky stars! Yes. Now I know that this is the right road, nothing will stop me.

I go West.



This one is for my Bear... who is there at the end of the road.