Like shivering stars sprinkled over a black carpet of tonight, the silver bubbles rise from the bottom of the ocean of my mind and like the stars, linked together into animals and heroes – all by us, they, too, linked together,
Now that you have lost another version of you, walk out through the new moon in the spruces and lie down in the deep of the clearing. Listen: they are still here, the wild things, migrations moving on again from
I sit in front of the television, Images staring at me Like a mongoose trying to snatch back its fair share Like leaves teasing from a branch Like me looking at you and thinking Thinking if your fingers still feel
Bird love As I write these pieces, Spring is not quite fully in the air, but close enough. It arrives later in my city, here in Canada. The freezing nights and warm days are turning the sidewalks and back alleys into skating
A perfect seaside filter coffee leaves a caramel bitterness on the tongue Even in company, the crashing waves of the sea only remind of the disconsolate need for love. A passing fortune teller offers to read my palm. It is not
Kite running days An ambery summer Lay on harvested crops. Our salad days flapped like Dragonflies. We piled up pebbles under Shade of the giant Albizia. Tween us in loosen plaits And frocks with un-tied knots. Shrieks and squeals about the
A soft whiff of air knocking at my window, table of good thoughts turned over. An effort to sew the wound of past, the mask fell off, eyes betraying heartache. Gloom blocking the view of silence, mind forgot to think
“The longing to touch…I feel gratitude when I touch someone — as well as affection etc. The person has allowed me proof that I have a body — and that there are bodies in the world. — Susan Sontag, from As
On the way back from the hospital I ask in the rickshaw — Why this life-long marination in nature and language? Why go desperately Sensing the too-named Naming the too-sensed? Where do I go gutfully as seasons blaze through me?
Sister, look at the moon fret with you above Mt. Luna. He knows the fiefdom of dissenting clans is upon you, somewhere in a countryside where poetry never had a chance. The fire in the mountains is a torrid metaphor you have to
Let me tell you what peace is. Peace is, watching your friend make a house into a home. It is watching her snuggle next to her child her arms wrapped around his little body, protecting him from the world. Peace