'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"

Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"

"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."

C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."

"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."

"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.

"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."

X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."

1

I am a house, says Senlin, locked and darkened,
Sealed from the sun with wall and door and blind.
Summon me loudly, and you'll hear slow footsteps
Ring far and faint in the galleries of my mind.
You'll hear soft steps on an old and dusty stairway;
Peer darkly through some corner of a pane,
You'll see me with a faint light coming slowly,
Pausing above some gallery of the brain . . .

I am a city . . . In the blue light of evening
Wind wanders among my streets and makes them fair;
I am a room of rock . . . a maiden dances
Lifting her hands, tossing her golden hair.
She combs her hair, the room of rock is darkened,
She extends herself in me, and I am sleep.
It is my pride that starlight is above me;
I dream amid waves of air, my walls are deep.

I am a door . . . before me roils the darkness,
Behind me ring clear waves of sound and light.
Stand in the shadowy street outside, and listen-
The crying of violins assails the night . . .
My walls are deep, but the cries of music pierce them;
They shake with the sound of drums . . . yet it is strange
That I should know so little what means this music,
Hearing it always within me change and change.

Knock on the door,-and you shall have an answer.
Open the heavy walls to set me free,
And blow a horn to call me into the sunlight,-
And startled, then, what a strange thing you will see!
Nuns, murderers, and drunkards, saints and sinners,
Lover and dancing girl and sage and clown
Will laugh upon you, and you will find me nowhere.
I am a room, a house, a street, a town.

2

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.

Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!-
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea . . .
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me . . .

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.

Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, I tie my tie.

There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains . . .

It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor . . .

. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know . . .

Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

3

I walk to my work, says Senlin, along a street
Superbly hung in space.
I lift these mortal stones, and with my trowel
I tap them into place.
But is god, perhaps, a giant who ties his tie
Grimacing before a colossal glass of sky?

These stones are heavy, these stones decay,
These stones are wet with rain,
I build them into a wall today,
Tomorrow they fall again.

Does god arise from a chaos of starless sleep,
Rise from the dark and stretch his arms and yawn;
And drowsily look from the window at his garden;
And rejoice at the dewdrop sparkeling on his lawn?

Does he remember, suddenly, with amazement,
The yesterday he left in sleep,-his name,-
Or the glittering street superbly hung in wind
Along which, in the dusk, he slowly came?

I devise new patterns for laying stones
And build a stronger wall.
One drop of rain astonishes me
And I let my trowel fall.

The flashing of leaves delights my eyes,
Blue air delights my face;
I will dedicate this stone to god
And tap it into its place.

4

That woman-did she try to attract my attention?
Is it true I saw her smile and nod?
She turned her head and smiled . . . was it for me?
It is better to think of work or god.
The clouds pile coldly above the houses
Slow wind revolves the leaves:
It begins to rain, and the first long drops
Are slantingly blown from eaves.

But it is true she tried to attract my attention!
She pressed a rose to her chin and smiled.
Her hand was white by the richness of her hair,
Her eyes were those of a child.
It is true she looked at me as if she liked me.
And turned away, afraid to look too long!
She watched me out of the corners of her eyes;
And, tapping time with fingers, hummed a song.

. . . Nevertheless, I will think of work,
With a trowel in my hands;
Or the vague god who blows like clouds
Above these dripping lands . . .

But . . . is it sure she tried to attract my attention?
She leaned her elbow in a peculiar way
There in the crowded room . . . she touched my hand . . .
She must have known, and yet,-she let it stay.
Music of flesh! Music of root and sod!
Leaf touching leaf in the rain!
Impalpable clouds of red ascend,
Red clouds blow over my brain.

Did she await from me some sign of acceptance?
I smoothed my hair with a faltering hand.
I started a feeble smile, but the smile was frozen:
Perhaps, I thought, I misunderstood.
Is it to be conceived that I could attract her-
This dull and futile flesh attract such fire?
I,-with a trowel's dullness in hand and brain!-
Take on some godlike aspect, rouse desire?
Incredible! . . . delicious! . . . I will wear
A brighter color of tie, arranged with care,
I will delight in god as I comb my hair.

And the conquests of my bolder past return
Like strains of music, some lost tune
Recalled from youth and a happier time.
I take my sweetheart's arm in the dusk once more;
One more we climb

Up the forbidden stairway,
Under the flickering light, along the railing:
I catch her hand in the dark, we laugh once more,
I hear the rustle of silk, and follow swiftly,
And softly at last we close the door.

Yes, it is true that woman tried to attract me:
It is true she came out of time for me,
Came from the swirling and savage forest of earth,
The cruel eternity of the sea.
She parted the leaves of waves and rose from silence
Shining with secrets she did not know.
Music of dust! Music of web and web!
And I, bewildered, let her go.

I light my pipe. The flame is yellow,
Edged underneath with blue.
These thoughts are truer of god, perhaps,
Than thoughts of god are true.

5

It is noontime, Senlin says, and a street piano
Strikes sharply against the sunshine a harsh chord,
And the universe is suddenly agitated,
And pain to my heart goes glittering like a sword.
Do I imagine it? The dust is shaken,
The sunlight quivers, the brittle oak-leaves tremble.
The world, disturbed, conceals its agitation;
And I, too, will dissemble.

Yet it is sorrow has found my heart,
Sorrow for beauty, sorrow for death;
And pain twirls slowly among the trees.

The street-piano revolves its glittering music,
The sharp notes flash and dazzle and turn,
Memory's knives are in this sunlit silence,
They ripple and lazily burn.
The star on which my shadow falls is frightened,-
It does not move; my trowel taps a stone,
The sweet note wavers amid derisive music;
And I, in horror of sunlight, stand alone.

Do not recall my weakness, savage music!
Let the knives rest!
Impersonal, harsh, the music revolves and glitters,
And the notes like poniards pierce my breast.
And I remember the shadows of webs on stones,
And the sound or rain on withered grass,
And a sorrowful face that looked without illusions
At its image in the glass.

Do not recall my childhood, pitiless music!
The green blades flicker and gleam,
The red bee bends the clover, deeply humming;
In the blue sea above me lazily stream
Cloud upon thin-brown cloud, revolving, scattering;
The mulberry tree rakes heaven and drops its fruit;
Amazing sunlight sings in the opened vault
On dust and bones, and I am mute.

It is noon; the bells let fall soft flowers of sound.
They turn on the air, they shrink in the flare of noon.
It is night; and I lie alone, and watch through the window
The terrible ice-white emptiness of the moon.
Small bells, far off, spill jewels of sound like rain,
A long wind hurries them whirled and far,
A cloud creeps over the moon, my bed is darkened,
I hold my breath and watch a star.

Do not disturb my memories, heartless music!
I stand once more by a vine-dark moonlit wall,
The sound of my footsteps dies in a void of moonlight,
And I watch white jasmine fall.
Is it my heart that falls? Does earth itself
Drift, a white petal, down the sky?
One bell-note goes to the stars in the blue-white silence,
Solitary and mournful, a somnolent cry.

6

Death himself in the rain . . . death himself . . .
Death in the savage sunlight . . . skeletal death . . .
I hear the clack of his feet,
Clearly on stones, softly in dust;
He hurries among the trees
Whirling the leaves, tossing he hands from waves.
Listen! the immortal footsteps beat.

Death himself in the grass, death himself,
Gyrating invisibly in the sun,
Scatters the grass-blades, whips the wind,
Tears at boughs with malignant laughter:
On the long echoing air I hear him run.

Death himself in the dusk, gathering lilacs,
Breaking a white-fleshed bough,
Strewing purple on a cobwebbed lawn,
Dancing, dancing,
The long red sun-rays glancing
On flailing arms, skipping with hideous knees
Cavorting grotesque ecstasies:
I do not see him, but I see the lilacs fall,
I hear the scrape of knuckles against the wall,
The leaves are tossed and tremble where he plunges among them,
And I hear the sound of his breath,
Sharp and whistling, the rythm of death.

It is evening: the lights on a long street balance and sway.
In the purple ether they swing and silently sing,
The street is a gossamer swung in space,
And death himself in the wind comes dancing along it,
And the lights, like raindrops, tremble and swing.
Hurry, spider, and spread your glistening web,
For death approaches!
Hurry, rose, and open your heart to the bee,
For death approaches!
Maiden, let down your hair for the hands of your lover,
Comb it with moonlight and wreathe it with leaves,
For death approaches!

Death, huge in the star; small in the sand-grain;
Death himself in the rain,
Drawing the rain about him like a garment of jewels:
I hear the sound of his feet
On the stairs of the wind, in the sun,
In the forests of the sea . . .
Listen! the immortal footsteps beat!

7

It is noontime, Senlin says. The sky is brilliant
Above a green and dreaming hill.
I lay my trowel down. The pool is cloudless,
The grass, the wall, the peach-tree, all are still.

It appears to me that I am one with these:
A hill, upon whose back are a wall and trees.
It is noontime: all seems still
Upon this green and flowering hill.

Yet suddenly out of nowhere in the sky,
A cloud comes whirling, and flings
A lazily coiled vortex of shade on the hill.
It crosses the hill, and a bird in the peach-tree sings.
Amazing! Is there a change?
The hill seems somehow strange.
It is noontime. And in the tree
The leaves are delicately disturbed
Where the bird descends invisibly.
It is noontime. And in the pool
The sky is blue and cool.

Yet suddenly out of nowhere,
Something flings itself at the hill,
Tears with claws at the earth,
Lunges and hisses and softly recoils,
Crashing against the green.
The peach-tree braces itself, the pool is frightened,
The grass-blades quiver, the bird is still;
The wall silently struggles against the sunlight;
A terror stiffens the hill.
The trees turn rigidly, to face
Something that circles with slow pace:
The blue pool seems to shrink
From something that slides above its brink.
What struggle is this, ferocious and still-
What war in sunlight on this hill?
What is it creeping to dart
Like a knife-blade at my heart?

It is noontime, Senlin says, and all is tranquil:
The brilliant sky burns over a greenbright earth.
The peach-tree dreams in the sun, the wall is contented.
A bird in the peach-leaves, moving from sun to shadow,
Phrases again his unremembering mirth,
His lazily beautiful, foolish, mechanical mirth.

8

The pale blue gloom of evening comes
Among the phantom forests and walls
With a mournful and rythmic sound of drums.
My heart is disturbed with a sound of myriad throbbing,
Persuasive and sinister, near and far:
In the blue evening of my heart
I hear the thrum of the evening star.

My work is uncompleted; and yet I hurry,-
Hearing the whispered pulsing of those drums,-
To enter the luminous walls and woods of night.
It is the eternal mistress of the world
Who shakes these drums for my delight.
Listen! the drums of the leaves, the drums of the dust,
The delicious quivering of this air!

I will leave my work unfinished, and I will go
With ringing and certain step through the laughter of chaos
To the one small room in the void I know.
Yesterday it was there,-
Will I find it tonight once more when I climb the stair?
The drums of the street beat swift and soft:
In the blue evening of my heart
I hear the throb of the bridal star.
It weaves deliciously in my brain
A tyrannous melody of her:
Hands in sunlight, threads of rain
Against a weeping face that fades,
Snow on a blackened window-pane;
Fire, in a dusk of hair entangled;
Flesh, more delicate than fruit;
And a voice that searches quivering nerves
For a string to mute.

My life is uncompleted: and yet I hurry
Among the tinkling forests and walls of evening
To a certain fragrant room.
Who is it that dances there, to a beating of drums,
While stars on a grey sea bud and bloom?
She stands at the top of the stair,
With the lamplight on her hair.
I will walk through the snarling of streams of space
And climb the long steps carved from wind
And rise once more towards her face.
Listen! the drums of the drowsy trees
Beating our nuptial ecstasies!

Music spins from the heart of silence
And twirls me softly upon the air:
It takes my hand and whispers to me:
It draws the web of the moonlight down.
There are hands, it says, as cool as snow,
The hands of the Venus of the sea;
There are waves of sound in a mermaid-cave;-
Come-then-come with me!
The flesh of the sea-rose new and cool,
The wavering image of her who comes
At dusk by a blue sea-pool.

Whispers upon the haunted air-
Whisper of foam-white arm and thigh;
And a shower of delicate lights blown down
Fro the laughing sky! . . .
Music spins from a far-off room.
Do you remember,-it seems to say,-
The mouth that smiled, beneath your mouth,
And kissed you . . . yesterday?
It is your own flesh waits for you.
Come! you are incomplete! . . .
The drums of the universe once more
Morosely beat.
It is the harlot of the world
Who clashes the leaves like ghostly drums
And disturbs the solitude of my heart
As evening comes!

I leave my work once more and walk
Along a street that sways in the wind.
I leave these st

(Pompeii/Florence, 1997)

Vulcan was real, alive as you were,
you and your language, long dead now.
Your town was prosperous, with its paved streets,
bars, bath-houses, brothels,
mosaics, painted walls, graffiti.
Your domestic gods too were real to you;
they had saved you before,
and when the superhuman hammer blows shook
your houses, you repaired them,
decorated in greater splendour,
erected a temple to your protectors.
But Vulcan was not appeased - years are not long
to the lord of earth and fire.
This time he struck swiftly, sending you death
from his mountain, overwhelming you
as you ran. Your garden
gave you no protection,
hot fumes choked you,
hot ash surrounded you,
sealed in your tomb as you died.

The ones who excavated your town
marvelled at its completeness,
and in the ash that filled your garden
they found hollows.
Filling the hollows with plaster,
they found . . .  not you,
but echoes of yourselves,
like statues in a museum.

We came to see you, and after that
to the Academy, standing in awe
at David's perfect marble humanity.
But we were troubled by the others,
the uncompleted ones, the Prisoners,
their twisted limbs, hidden faces,
frozen in the act of emerging
from the stone, recalling too painfully
in their unfinished creation
your own agonised poses
as you died.
"I had seen birth and death,
  but had thought they were different."
.

Feeling unattractive
I blame the mirror
Feeling my voice is cracking
I blame the radio
Feeling no one is clapping
I blame the show

Feeling the weakness
I blame your sweetness
Feeling like I'm falling
I blame boys
Feeling like lost in love
You're the one I blame

Feeling like a trash
I blame society
Feeling empty
I blame happy people
Feeling uncompleted
I blame lovers

Feeling like no one is right
Feeling like I'm unwelcomed
Feeling super suicidal
I don't blame the blade
I blame myself

A missed alarm
- A hurried departure
From home to bus to bus
- To craft fair!
All handmade, all ingenious.
And reused items appeal to this sustainability-freak.
"There's not much for your kind here"
But just as I say it we spy a stall
And the goth finds Cthulu,
A skull,
An eye,
A snake with which to adorn himself
Amidst the usual background of 'Oh, he looks like Russell brand'

His cousin was riding.
Riding the plastic spastic twirl-around bull.
"Another turn? Go on, your dad didn't see you!"
She shakes her head, almost shy
But is lifted and hoisted on once more,
Smiling and giggling and kicking away.
The operator has success,
Short-lived;
She jumps right off and back to her father,
Uncles and cousins all grin.

- To cafe!
Entrance a ramp,
The outside already proclaims the spaces brilliance
Narrow hall with piano stating 'closed'
Walls adorned with old newspapers
Light fixtures are bottles
Door handle a coffee grinder
Tables old school desks,
Mismatched chairs and couches and plates;
This sustainability freak is in heaven.
The Goth smiles
"I knew you'd like it"
And even the menu provides
My dietary restrictions no obstacle.
I have a smoothie.
It's amazing.

"Judging from your case I would say you play heavy metal"
I giggle; Incorrect.
"Are you going to play for us?"
The waitress asks
We look at each other; are we?
And after our meal we do;
The radio is turned off in response.
Young children play on my violin
Their parents more concerned than I
"Be careful! It's delicate!"
We serenade the coffee and the tables and the birdie on the wall
We serenade customers and workers and the owner as well
We serenade to perfect
We serenade to give back to this space so beautiful
We serenade half in hope of being asked to perform
Of being paid to perform.
The owner enjoys; the possibility is open.
The workers enjoy; "you made today worth it"
The customers enjoy,
One chucks coins to our guitar case
A suggestion of busking
We drain our complimentary drinks and tip the coins
Wander onwards, sated, and glowing.

- To old acquaintances
Who tell scandalous tales
Of the Goth's little brother
"Tell your folks I look after him...
He's hilarious when he's wasted"
The goth queries
"And when I'm wasted?"
"Oh it makes no difference; you're hilarious sober too!"
It's truth.
No one could argue except the Goth himself;
"I'm glad you have a terrible sense of humour"

- To Opshop, closed.
And then the car,
Family bubbling around us
Excited voices clamour with stories
With news
We arrive in a field of green,
Children swinging on a tyre
An old meeting house is dwarfed
Beside the new, uncompleted
A chair in the sky
Seats white fingers
Coated from work;
Yet his is the best view.
"Uncle... Aunty... Cousin.."
Names drift into the air
I won't catch them.
"This is only a small portion of my family;
You should see the group photo!"

An older man teases
"Get your hair cut!
Oi, why haven't you told your son to cut his hair?!"
And his father expertly replies
"He can do what he likes with his hair"
His mother
"Why haven't you died yours then? It's all grey!"
Smiles spread wide at their cheek.

A bell tolls
Signals the slow meandering;
No urgency
We sit, grass beneath us
Sky above
Trees and field all around.
These three buildings so connected.
The prayer starts,
In foreign tongue
Yet not foreign
- It is the language this land first heard
Aside from sea and bird and sun
An occasional group "ah" in response
Teenagers mock; "aye"
Babies fuss,
Children wriggle
Even adults chatter to one another
Come and go as they please
Informal.
I am wrapped in his love.
And all of their love.
Lying in his arms
With sun warming me,
Love warming me,
I send it back.

And then chairs are moved
The tables to be laid
Inside this time
"Come here, you don't want to do the chores, do you?"
A crafty cousin teaches evasion maneuvers
We kick a ball,
The goth looks almost joyful
The usual "Me, sports? Eww"
Forgotten, or put aside.
Shoes back on now
"Your feet could do with some sunlight"
The cousin protests.

We eat with our hands;
For me there are oranges
And chicken salad
I put ethics aside
To sate hunger.

We swing.
The children are playing elsewhere
We claim the rope as ours.
An upside down ladder?
A missing rung?
There's more air than step.
Together we swing.

"Who do you belong to then?"
Caught off guard
"I belong to myself"
The goth smiles at my assertion
"How'd you get here, who brought you?"
I gesture with my foot
"You're so rude! You didn't even introduce me to your girlfriend! I'm his Aunty, that makes me his, and your Aunty too now."
He clasps my hand
"That's how easy it is in my family"

We serenade once more.
Nervousness closes throat
How to express oneself?
I feel small and shrunken
Push myself to claim space
- I do belong here
The love swells around me
Tall poppy syndrome must be beaten into me;
I'm trying to convince myself
I'm not being overbearing
- They want to hear us.
And they're impressed
"Oh what a beautiful voice"
"They do sound wonderful together"
All laugh as Grandma joins in
"That's Nan trying to out do them"

With Promises to jam next time,
We take the scenic exit,
Past those who have past
Past the past itself
Graves decorated with All Blacks flags,
With decks of cards,
With guitars.
Love. Even here,
Love and celebration.

- To friends
Reiki, a goodbye card, packing and kittens, markets and dinner
- The candles glow was soft,
Too soft for menus.
"I wonder why those baskets are all locked up...
Ha! Basket cases!"
We draw a piece to make Dali proud
And jest of eating candle wax
Bellies hunger.
But foods arrival prevents such oddity.
Eating pizza with knives and forks?
I decline, fingers once more.
Restaurant etiquette is not my style
Mine is puffy to their flat
- The perks of being gluten free?
And we leave them to their dessert.
With much sorrow.
"Thank you for enriching my experience here"
No, thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you.

"Goodbye!"
I greet
"Have a wonderful life!"
A different good bye.
And we cry as we hug,
No tears, just noise.
To cheer ourselves.
"Waahhhhh"
We giggle and depart.

Surrounded by darkness
Traffic roars overhead
Rocking support beams
They creak
Pigeons shuffle now and then
A dim light is irresistible death
Beyond the trees ripples fold and swell
And I am here with him.
Our own little patch of night time
Folding and swelling around us.
"Now you're the one keeping us awake"
I cannot argue.
This moments magic is worth tomorrow's tiredness.

One more friend to visit.
She saved us a piece!
Oh dietary constraints!
Cheesecake, for me?
And delish!
Hazelnutty and chocolate!
Nutella like.
We ***** about sudden illness
About food restrictions
About fad diets
Apparently the 20's is when the **** goes down.
Our bodies are complaining now.
Maybe we'll figure out what they're trying to say,
- Eventually.
Speak English, **** you!

- To the tent!
And blessed sleep.
It's technically tomorrow now.
Well, it's today.
"Thank you for touching my feet that time"
I curl up in his arms,
And all the world is golden
This illness raises its angry lil head
And his caring melts me
Thank you thank you thank you thank you.

Thank you for this beautiful most perfect day.
Thank you.

The pale blue gloom of evening comes
Among the phantom forests and walls
With a mournful and rythmic sound of drums.
My heart is disturbed with a sound of myriad throbbing,
Persuasive and sinister, near and far:
In the blue evening of my heart
I hear the thrum of the evening star.
My work is uncompleted; and yet I hurry,--
Hearing the whispered pulsing of those drums,--
To enter the luminous walls and woods of night.
It is the eternal mistress of the world
Who shakes these drums for my delight.
Listen! the drums of the leaves, the drums of the dust,
The delicious quivering of this air!
I will leave my work unfinished, and I will go
With ringing and certain step through the laughter of chaos
To the one small room in the void I know.
Yesterday it was there,--
Will I find it tonight once more when I climb the stair?
The drums of the street beat swift and soft:
In the blue evening of my heart
I hear the throb of the bridal star.
It weaves deliciously in my brain
A tyrannous melody of her:
Hands in sunlight, threads of rain
Against a weeping face that fades,
Snow on a blackened window-pane;
Fire, in a dusk of hair entangled;
Flesh, more delicate than fruit;
And a voice that searches quivering nerves
For a string to mute.

My life is uncompleted: and yet I hurry
Among the tinkling forests and walls of evening
To a certain fragrant room.
Who is it that dances there, to a beating of drums,
While stars on a grey sea bud and bloom?
She stands at the top of the stair,
With the lamplight on her hair.
I will walk through the snarling of streams of space
And climb the long steps carved from wind
And rise once more towards her face.
Listen! the drums of the drowsy trees
Beating our nuptial ecstasies!
Music spins from the heart of silence
And twirls me softly upon the air:
It takes my hand and whispers to me:
It draws the web of the moonlight down.
There are hands, it says, as cool as snow,
The hands of the Venus of the sea;
There are waves of sound in a mermaid-cave;--
Come--then--come with me!
The flesh of the sea-rose new and cool,
The wavering image of her who comes
At dusk by a blue sea-pool.
Whispers upon the haunted air--
Whisper of foam-white arm and thigh;
And a shower of delicate lights blown down
Fro the laughing sky! . . .
Music spins from a far-off room.
Do you remember,--it seems to say,--
The mouth that smiled, beneath your mouth,
And kissed you . . . yesterday?
It is your own flesh waits for you.
Come! you are incomplete! . . .
The drums of the universe once more
Morosely beat.
It is the harlot of the world
Who clashes the leaves like ghostly drums
And disturbs the solitude of my heart
As evening comes!
I leave my work once more and walk
Along a street that sways in the wind.
I leave these stones, and walk once more
Along infinity's shore.
I climb the golden-laddered stair;
Among the stars in the void I climb:
I ascend the golden-laddered hair
Of the harlot-queen of time:
She laughs from a window in the sky,
Her white arms downward reach to me!
We are the universe that spins
In a dim ethereal sea.

all around me I find friends
in the city, in work, in bed
still I feel I do pretend
no one knows what's inside my head

all around me I find fun
in the city, the house, the club
still I feel so undercut
something's missing I don't know what

all around me I find love
in the city, in drugs, from my mum
still I feel so all alone
misunderstood by everyone

I have everything I need
I should be okay I think
I'm missing that final piece
the person that completed me

Labor with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.

By the bedside, on the stair,
At the threshhold, near the gates,
With its menace or its prayer,
Like a medicant it waits;

Waits, and will not go away;
Waits, and will not be gainsaid;
By the cares of yesterday
Each to-day is heavier made;

Till at length the burden seems
Greater than our strength can bear,
Heavy as the weight of dreams
Pressing on us everywhere.

And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,
On their shoulders held the sky.

I have never felt
This awake
Talking to
Nobody but
Myself

All of them gone tonight,
Yet my eyes refuse to close and
My mind refuses to rest

I used to think they were
My commas to my sentences,
The neverending "and"s,
But now I've learnt that maybe
They were the full stop to

The end.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 22, 2015)

When a subject is able to recall parts of an item, or related information, but is frustratingly unable to recall the whole item. This thought an instance of “blocking” where multiple similar memories are being recalled and interfere with each other.

That uncompleted or interrupted tasks are remembered better than completed ones.


The mind sees what is broken;  the mind chooses
broken things; the mind breaks to survive
the unmade, unfinished and unresolved.

The heart is the fixer, the clincher,  
wants to color the tongue out to the tip,
wants to fill in the oval, urging and fathoming

parts undone. Breaking and fixing the self—
the tug of war between the thready broken
and the seamless whole. Heart’s pride

is fear of death—so much the stacks
unsorted, the protest unfinished,
the game—something short of won.

She ran

She ran towards the uncompleted music room

She stood at the corner with her red dress

The corner where the tall windows were

The corner where the piano was

With a touch, she played her heart

Her heart of cries

The music room was complete with her tears

We played blackjack taco until the early mourning sun singed the obsidian sky into submission 

singling the onslaught of dawn rising like ravishing wildfire over a horizon of jagged glacier crafted mountains peaked with diamonds coal and gold

We flipped stacks and stacked flips
Pushed coins and collected IOUs
Spilled ink and broke pens

Too many hours in the Night Jazzing about youth and the repercussions of aging in a time when aging was an agonizing sin we cured with creams and needles

The table was deliberately a mess with scattered tea leaves half smoked sticky icky sticks full of inspired inspirations, drained drank empty wine bottles and other alcoholic deviances, and incoherent ramblings cauterizing the senses 

uncompleted poems full of scribbled and scratched out words poke out from anyplace not covered  by crumpled  origami cash resting like a weird paper green zoo of swans frogs and paper airplanes.

The suns rays manage to find that one area in between the window shades and curtains to shine brilliantly into our darkly kept stygian tomb

Illuminating a night of lexicon ******, broken handed betting, and passion only poets and writers aspire to conquer

We rubbed out our sleepless crusted eyes and gathered our ink stains and haunted dreams and left into the morning that we found in some skeletol low rent motel room on the side of this deserted desert highway...

the beep beep makes me hardly do sit up
with some skins about to crack
open the laptop. write half of it
and cry over uncompleted tasks
wearing the clothes that is all black
******* snow, extremely ****** me up
The class is draining me so I’m gonna skip it
Stuck in the mindset thats make me wanna go basking
In the bed where I can fully go dreaming

the smell of this place
will soon fade at the back of our minds
each thought & memory
will soon be broken into uncompleted lines

one day we will find our feet back
walking the ground where you first fell in love
touching the halls that are now a different hue
to see if they've forgotten you

tales of fairy & lore
will soon be covered with dust
your firsts and lasts
will soon all be eaten by rust

the place of our childhood
though many years have grown
its ceilings may decay
but it will always love to be your home

the trees may bend and left forgotten
hidden behind tall buildings & lampposts
most of what you left behind
will soon all be ghosts

familiar faces with unfamiliar scents
they wont expect you to stay same
tight bonds will melt into loose ends
and they will forget your name

my name isn't carved into something historical
all of this will be washed by the rain
how bittersweet it is
to travel down memory lane

Is a place for the homeless
Is a place you can hide when the rain is after you
Is a special place for the aimless
Is capable of turning good to bad
And vice versa

A colorful, blinking lantern
dangles by the eave's ceiling
green, red and yellow lights hung
outside the window, stilled at day time
but......dazzle the eyes at night

i am late... no pots of poinsettia
yet, to brighten the veranda

in the living room
the tree top is bare,
no pretty angel or a bright star
to complete its attire
mind is already set, decided, on what
festive foods should adorn the table
what gifts...to be laid under the tree
........all these occupy my mind,
........as every once in a while
i think of unfinished issues,
uncompleted tasks that nag me
.......problems i could not resolve
.......a few unfulfilled promises
.......to some....and to myself
some planned moments...failed
my targeted time....didn't work

Christmas eve is fast approaching
the house...is not yet fully decked...
i am standing.....and though i think of
these thoughts of incompleteness,

after all these years,
i don't care that much anymore

i just wish, it would be easy and slow
when things, or people have to go
i wish that love would abound,
to never cease.....the fires of anger
and hate, be doused and subdued....
i wish that all, including myself,
find wisdom in the serenity prayer...
i wish that we shift our eyes, our hearts,
away from material things...from power...
let us focus on Him...the true reason
for this festive holiday season......

may peace reign the world over
may it begin with you...and me...

::::::::::
Prayer of Serenity

God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference...
:::::::::::::



Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
December 20, 2018

It was on that day the world changed
I realized that humans were insane
The day I realized people ****
That people cheat others of their own will

The sky was sunny and clear of grey
As my heart was clouded with a darkening haze
I looked for someone to tell me I was wrong
Just to find everyone knew all along

I whispered shakily to myself
How could I have been fooling myself?
This is not a paradise
A utopia for all
Just an insane world
Not for one, but all

I hear the dead screaming
Their ends were brought in vain
Children weeping sorrowfully
In the pouring rain

The homeless slowly dying
Their ashes spread to the wind
No one can save them now
No one here can win

I see the mourning faces
Those who bemoan the lost
Their hearts shattered and broken
They payed the ultimate cost

I have no more to say
I have no more time to run
I must accept the truth
This world is meant to rot

no demonstrations have been given, and we are falling through the flat lines. A comfort drive through overcast alleyways. complaints of brightened days and open shades. this pipe dream has carried us this far, and i am running faster than our imaginations. this has always been a set-up. a display. i bite my tongue for fear of flying. we hold hands because we're cold. these sentences don't form paragraphs. empty shells encased in gold. desperate vengeance against our bitter halves, assumptions of a frame of mind. Bodies trembling; lack of stimulation erasing those traces we left on that cold night....these cold nights now only taste bitter. From a solid to a liquid we've quickened our reaction time, with time to spare we are trading in spare parts, combined, we've aligned our shipwrecks. We face the south - we are the pessimistic creatures. We are the absent souls. traced bone structures and phantom feelings; genetic make up of uncompleted human beings. Puzzle pieces shaved with razor blades...we make them fit. we take what we want. inhaling expired fumes//exhaling narcissistic volumes. rise! we are everything in this world! we are a mess! Brakes don't exist, and the camera filter is permanently black and white. Jeans too tight, dreams too small. staring at the sunrise through lace and hearing the waves through a myriad of whispers. i am not accountable for my actions. i believe in nothing more and nothing less than gravity. scar tissue ties our binds, ribs entwined, born to die.

Precious beautiful boy, stupid little fool boy, sakes alive, what am I to do?
You didn't realise you belonged, and I guess I waited too long to tell you all the things I never knew I had to.
A wicked world of ****** doubts, a sudden single strikeout, can't believe I'm still here and yet you're gone.
Now I guess I'll try to stick it out, but everything is so wrong and life has no business just going on.

I have never felt more sorry; but if you'll forgive me, I'll avow:
if you thought life was bad before, then you should see it now.

And I have never felt more heartbreak; it reaps despite my best
efforts to rip the ******* thing the **** out of my chest
and I would tear apart my eyelids if I thought it could help me see
how these diamond eyes bring some folks high, but they just don't fly for me.

I try to consult my conscience but it speaks to me in tongues,
so I'll settle for poisoning my liver and blackening my lungs.



There's a wound in my world but I'm sadder for you for you'll never know happiness, forever uncompleted.

You wanted happiness for us, but he's gone forever and I'm sorry mommy, for I am defeated.

Crawling intellectuals,
Brawling interceptionals,
Stairway's that leadeth thou to thine end!!

Entrancic scening summer fairies,
Prophetics turned to visionary,
Thy mission's uncompleted in thine own home....

Sorceretic witchdoctors,
And jesus Christ mockers,
Snubbers and grubber's all as one!!

Journeymen hath thou learned a trade?
Junction friend hath thou burned thy craze?
The tallismen steady hand is gone!!!

Violate me as thou will,
Smile as thine shaky stick can ****,
Volition's grand view is seen!!!!

Vocal vitality is a blessing to those who brand their name,
The wanderer's flame knows no fancied escape...

Absorment Temper's flare adhesively,
Treatingly accidental!!!

Despondency shows up for the destination thou has thought to receive,
Hath thou given up yet?

Where at last shalt thou find thy predetermined destiny???

Reading the: Pauses
Uncompleted::: Clauses
Various. Punctuation.
Syntax structure; revelation.

Dear my small world,
It's early and teenagers are walking to school,
the sun is warm and cool,
my eyes are closing as I pass them by going the other way,
my old friend creeps on me and reminds me of a spring mountain day,
being those kids walking slow,
not knowing the episode,
but enjoying the show,
their mountains are just a brighter green,
my old friend gets in my stomach and the top he tends to lean,
the smells of anxiety and the fear of uncompleted homework,
make me smile,
I pass by swings and see my world become night,
and two kids in Florida are in my sight,
talking aboot nonsense but still returning to smile and laugh,
it becomes funny and two drunk kids in Reno take their place,
I can tell who they were but I couldn't see a face,
my old friend creeps to my mouth and my past I can taste,
I suddenly am on the swings holding my hand in front,
staring at a star,
reaching out with one eye closed I feel like I can grab it,
my eyes open and I almost take oot some teenager,
something's die hard I say,
and they look the other way,
and say, "ok crazy",
the past maybe getting hazy,
but the feelings never die.

It was late in November, and dad got a call
that a hiker near Teller had taken a fall.
He had outfitted many a party before,
and responding when needed was never a chore.

"It's an hour to Teller then one more by boat
I took ****** with me", he had left us a note,
for my mother and I had gone shopping in Nome
and he'd not make it  back by the time we'd get home.

The next morning the troopers were summoned once more
for no help had arrived on that desolate shore.
When the search and rescue had responded in force
they had searched for the boat and my father, of course.
But the searching proved futile though traces were found
indicating that somehow the boat had gone down.

A survival suit floating unused simply meant
that my father'd not planned then to go where he went.
The men hunted for days- it was almost a week,
then the weather conditions became much too bleak.

Both my mother and I were consumed by our grief;
that our anchor was gone was beyond our belief.
All the neighbors brought food by and offered their prayers
but my mom would just thank them with blank distant stares.

Then she finally collapsed, at the end of her rope;
her religion had failed her, she'd run out of hope.
I tried to be supportive and brave through it all
then I'd walk by the ******'s food bowl and I'd bawl.
And though Christmas was coming we'd set up no tree
to suggest something merry would be travesty.

When the storms had all passed and the winds had suspended
we borrowed boats belonging to men he'd befriended.
Those men wanted to know that at least they could try
but to say they held hope would be speaking a lie.

The sun's rays so golden when we set out that morn,
but as twilight was falling; most all were forlorn.
We had sailed out from Teller and cruised to the coast
and we searched likely places from least to the most.

'Twas the trip driving home that impacted my heart.
It was useless and dumb, why the hell did I start.
It was twenty-nine miles and a good hour's more drive
to a wilderness area where he couldn't survive.
I was young and impetuous, foolish as well
but if those men thought that the case one couldn't tell.

'Twas the day before Christmas, the morning was bright
I awoke with a vision I'd seen in the night-
without waking my mom I called my dad's best friend
"It is early I know, can we try it again?"

I made myself a lunch and left mother a note,
then under way again- a truck towing the boat.
Appointees to another task most likely sad
set about the uncompleted search for my dad.

I suggested that we this time bear to the west,
I had no explanation, don't know why- just guessed.
The landfall we had targeted, shrouded by fog
that cleared as we drew closer- and I saw my dog!
Unexpected tears fell and yet I did not care.
for then ****** retreated to lead us somewhere.

In a snow cave, injured, immobile, weak and thin
was my dad whom I had thought I'd not see again.
He'd survived with shared rabbit served raw and unspiced.
but said he'd never tasted a meal quite so nice.

And while he doesn't know how he got to the shore
he suspects he owes ****** that and much more.
"Twas the night before Christmas and one family knew
if you care for your dog he might take care of you.

© Lawrencealot - December 23, 2013

You Woke Me With A Kiss

You woke me from a deep sleep
My heart was so drenched
My life was so uncompleted
But you found me;

You kissed me out of the spell
Your love for me is so deep
When I look into your eyes
I see my reflection in them,

my feelings for you
I do not despise
Your Love I hold so dear
yet so near;

You treat me like the princess
You plead for me not to leave you
You started pouring out your feelings

your sweet sensual love to me
I see you biting your lip and anxiously
to kiss me;

I looked at You and said I need you  
I could never depart from You
I love you.

Poetic Judy Emery © 1982
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery

The moon changes it's shape to please your eye.

I know you won't believe it.

Even if the moon is eclipsed or out of sight, it will change it's shape to suit you right.

Stand under it, right now.

Even if you can't see her she's there.

And when she appears looking broken and uncompleted, in your eyes it will change to a perfect sphere.

Just for you.

So pay attention to that, and appreciate her for all that she is.

Because for you she would change her entire shape, just to please you.

The moon always hangs in the sky.

Uncompleted  painless game.
Back to where i dance to your heart again.
See what i want.
Add nothing to chance  to  sooth me.
Walking  two  paths which I heard not to obey.
Sinning prayers can  pieces of my life stories.
Let you win but join "Perhaps Not".
As i sing a song.
I like if you could stay.
Where we could dance and play untitl the mood is done.
I like you "Please Stay"