Who said it was blue? When I think of
A window, it is not the colour of grapes;
Nor is it a long stretch of morning field;
Also not a nighttime movie of galaxy film.

Who said red was the colour of deep
Dungeons, not the ground far far above;
Too wrapped up in solemn holiness.
Not me or you or somebody else.

Interesting, I seep through poles there and
Another here, some static phenomenal and
Yellow-like excitement which is bouncing one
Step and two step of our corneas.

There is a gate in the midst of
A small garden, maybe a red or
White.

I went over and met a dwarf who
Claimed its possession of the gate,

This is my gate and area, what are
You human in this sacred forest?

What mushroom! What leaf!
What another bird!

Birds fly to the west and I am following,
Jogging turns into a short run and my feet
Find themselves on some white thing.

Fluffy and wet, in truth! This is actually
A cloud.

Crystals climb on to me, from their silky nests

And then I turn to walk north

I am sitting in a black, hard plastic
Chair which has a leg and one more
And fire in its heart. And then the grass
Was screeching at the top of their lungs
For the witches spell had put the flame
Out. Plums were hanging on the branches of
Old Sir Willow but they dropped and drooped.
Who? Let’s take a journey down the rabbit
Hole, no, the goblin and it’s neighbouring
Hobbit. We go down or north but yes, it is
Going towards the smell of fading emerald
Crystals and Water and Teacups. One more
Tourist spot with a flag on it, which I’m really
Looking forward to - do you know the small
Spirits which sing in silent pitches and do you
Hear them hiding inside the mint leaves?

Sometimes you need this thing called
Confidence, but it is hard to grasp
Like the slippery edge of the rice
******* packaging Summer ate
Yesterday. So to stand up in this
World and pour out enough courage
To hold a position next to everything
Else.

Then pick flowers and clip them on to
Your front pocket and make a grass hat
For yourself and receive a bouquet of
Tree roots to hold in your left hand.

But first you should stand up.
And then decorate yourself and look
Back at you.

A big whiteboard fills you, me and space.
We hover around with markers in our hands
And squeeze courage to make lines on the
Plane. How heavy the marker is and how
Dusty the eraser is. How large the board is
And how stationary I am, in that one corner.

On morning walk, there comes a moment of great impulse,
Like one before a grand moment of seizure, or more frequently a
Sneeze.

It comes out like the boom of cannons in war movie,
No, like fireworks at Japanese summer festival, no-

Like butterflies drizzling maple syrup on toasted leaf.

Like the final touch of paint brush on public artwork.

Like the clapping of two wood blocks on bar thirty six,
Second movement of yesterday’s evening concert.

Yes, that’s how it is.

There is water under the mountains,
A stream hidden in the dark.
Misty or perhaps scorchingly dry
But there lives a stream.

There is a fossil under the mountains,
A long time ago, since when?
Hidden or sealed until eternity
But there lives someone’s ancestor.

There is gold under the mountains,
Too deep to find, too dark to explore.
Its value nobody to assess
But there lives a precious stone.

There is a community under the mountains,
Forgotten or never found.
Mysterious and veiled by our great
Trigonic stature, whose bed shifts
Not one bit, as they say.

But there is too much under the mountains,
Too mystical or too dull.
The hidden side is too poor to be left
Under the mountains.