when there is nothing left
but the need for sleep
all the body can do
is close the eyes
it will not need
for a time
and find the hollowest
part of a calming memory
to tuck away into
releasing the need
to hold anything
save the desire
for peaceful
slumber

from deepest rest
there can be a return
to the world where
possibility re-awakens
and with morning
the opportunity to
go again
to attempt what had
the night before
been unimaginable
and impossible

MChallis © 2014

'you only know what you've got when its gone'*
J Mitchell

at first learning
grief brings the un-returnable message
there is no un-reading
no un-learning
only unbearable immutable fact

in solitude there is no escape
in connection there is no solution

over time the seven stages are traversed
and while there can be no forgetting
with acquiescence
there can be acceptance
and with it
the gentle light of loss
to illuminate
the deepest gratitude


MChallis @ 2014

the voice of cynicism
with imperious wisdom
informed by circumstances past
where through defeated expectation, corrupted naivety
perhaps wounded vulnerability has been
disappointed on innumerable occasions

and chanting incessantly
in a cavernous register
"there is no hope - there is no point"
and louder
"there is no hope - there is no point"
and louder still
"there is no hope - there is no point"

would have you adopt this epigram as your own
in the belief
that if you do
the prophecy of self determined hopelessness
will be affirmed and validated

its unspoken fear of course is that you will leave it there
abandoned and alone in the cavern of its own arrogant despair

so here's an idea
surprise it
take it with you
out of the pit
take it for a bicycle ride on the beach at low tide
**** it in a ruck-sack up a rocky ridge
swim with it in a lake with a sandy bottom and willow banks
invite it to the funniest Robin Williams film you can think of
above all else, let it experience your unconditional positive regard

constantly
continuously
repeatedly
offering counsel
in all the tones and voices
of unrelenting love


MChallis @ 2104

I have plans for the moon
By night and by day
sometimes opening, sometimes closing
a seeing which does not depend on the eye
and an eye which does not merely see.
The moon gets behind me
and flows like a stream
inside a mountain
many dark miles unseen
before emerging as the source
of something pure that will heal me.

I have plans for the moon
like the sunflower nodding in the mind
shifts and keeps an eye
on father sun in the sky
resemblance does not depend on closeness
but the transfer of heat and invisible elements.
In the cool of the evening
a trail appearing through the dew
where an animal walks with a god
and man is missing from the middle.

I have plans for the moon
as the moon has plans for me.

I would like to know you
More than I do

You are a gracious presence that in glimpses I have seen influence the mightiest egos to acquiesce

I stumble across you at times yet would know you more as a constant companion

I forget you often and when in the throes of reaction and defensiveness I catch myself in arrogance or in self righteousness or justification

This is followed by regret

How do I know you?
How do I find you in the moments when I am alone and embattled?
How do I find you in that first breath?
Of surrender




MChallis @ 2014

...and going to state...action.

The jade edge of the writing compartment showed luminescent in the venetian-split rays of an afternoon sun.

Pillar Vas-Gurta gestured a heavy mop like hand towards the cigar case.

Take as many as you like, he mouthed. But everything suspicious
caused in me an urgent decline.  You are always too generous Pillar,
I uttered with feigned diplomacy; the dense undertow carrying off the forfeit.

Why are the Arm-ericans not displaying a greater sense of co-operation,
Pillar questioned the telephone in thick Polish, and to me the single nod of a telephone rung off, his reply was as good as a grunt.

As he finished the call; Ah now, come sit young Valentin, if you’ll none of my Cubans come sit and sip Cognac with me at least, spend a moment with an excellent mint.

Untroubled by the American question, Pillar, eyes like hurricanes, hair curled on his forhead with the oil of a whistle, teeth forged, as if by a village blacksmith, patient and keen to devour conversation, was not a man to be declined twice in one afternoon.

Pillar was a man who’s stubble grew as he considered each of his thoughts: and the skewer fed silence that connected fear with steel.

I sense Valentin you are withholding something, are you troubled, rumbled the Polish border, is the Cuban smoke a little too dense for your sensibilities, My friend, my friend you are troubled, so tell me.

Please. I answered for the cognac. And for the writing compartment.
I see it is from Gabriella.  His flash, dense and swift as a school of minnows turning their escape into silver, caught me unaware; the weight in my question.

He loves this woman. Here it is then. Even Pillar is vulnerable.

You do not answer Valentin. No I’m sorry, I mumbled. Something troubles me. Please tell me Pillar, why am I here, why have you called me.

Ah the question that cuts to chase the rabbit. As you say. Or something like that, no. You are here Valentin because I like you. You may think, there is nothing I like, and that also may be true. But the cigar must be smoked to appreciate its fullness.

And it that moment, Pillar reached for the razor in his sleeve. Before he was aware, I had seen the gesture. The heel of my shoe captured his nose. The cognac glass filled slowly; a distortion of colour. Pillar sat motionless at his desk. Draining with the final swill. The jade edge of the writing compartment offering a seal of approval; Gabriella's last kiss.
The cigar case remained open and untouched.

I had taken as many as I'd liked.

...and Cut..

In the heat of the night
When everything is cool    Is when
I miss her
The most

It was raspberry tea
No
Peppermint - I don't know

Lips wet longer when an afternoon
Came after
Noon
And went like clouds before clouds before…

You know
It is interesting to meet some…
Someone you can
You can
  You know
I don't know

We touched, like others
Like all others
Nothing new
Nothing new anymore
You want it so much
To be new
New for old is what they say

What do these old hands hold?
Old …
You want it so much
To hold
It slips
You never did hold on very well
Its like its like

I don't know, you want it so much

I miss her


MChallis © 1995/2014