Rise, rise, out of the caverns of darkness,
through lives, unfolds your immortal journey

Collapsed field         Vast to small        particular                    blabberings
chosen timeline         growing ego        wonder, wonder        to structure

through vales sunny at times, but
through the vaults of obscurity often

Scribblings                 crowd of faces     men, trees,                 flowers
to consonants             to family              birds and beats         butterflies

grounded in the light ancient,whose
descension is all the souls that set out

Autumn leaves          Seasons                      tastes, smells         one of a kind
rainbow joy                of sun and snow      sound of music      for all things

before the dawn of time, branching out
into segmented existences, in a quest for Self.

regimen          run, roll,               infant bondings           slow march of
and play        skip and hop          friendships                 the little man

Four flowers bloomed this morning at the horizon
and the world is drenched wet in tears the skies
wept for joy, maiden of the dawns, I saw you pluck
stars for your basket of prayers before the hours
and now you are gone, past the windswept edges.

I see your presence that has filled the peals of light
peering into my chamber this hour before deed.
Sombre noons when the koel cries for her beloved
I hear your footsteps jingle in the distant wood.
When the lamps of longing are lit at dusk, send

rains that soothe the valleys and the winds that
caress the river weeping  for the sorrow of loss.

Deep in the nights, your silences more sonant
than the footfalls that waken the grazing deer.
I saw your smile behind the untended fires
in the heart of the cavern, but I did not hurry.
And now I hear myself echoing in the quarters.

There be some juice. Light, we cannot drink.
Dark our days that trudge on, laden caravan.
There be some song, to the tune of the winds.
Parched, the baked earth thirsting for a caress
wet from the silken lashes of the sky maiden.

Let's talk to her tonight,
the last lotus is in still-bloom
in the folds of her tresses
as she goes about plucking
stars for her worship-basket.
Soon the earth is covered
in the misty offerings to Deities
at the far end of spacetime.

Juice some there be. Drink, we cannot light.
Caravan laden on trudge that days our dark.
The winds of the tune to song some there be.
A caress for thirsting earth the baked, parched
maiden the sky of lashes the silken from wet.

Let there be light, let there be.
Darkness, we have enough.

In the heart of the cavern, light
that stands ancient behind time, beyond
phenomena, the observer of melodies;
This is where it all began,
those aeons lost when the mollusc
heeded the call to man.

Inward, stalked by worry and loss,
an inversion of the lines of time:
beyond the zero point of recollection,
where zoom microcosms of possibilities
a realm not realm, but like that
an existence beyond existence.

Here, arose an affliction, in
curled expanses that exist as some among
an infinitude of potentials,
worldlines, some dark and featureless,
others growing and meaningless
and some like here where sentient,

observatory, a shadow grows around
the probing ray of infant awareness.

and so the ascent, from light to light
through alleys of darkness. Vast,
the beginnings and interludes
between phantasmagoria; What
accedes of in slumber, the knowledge
of things and nothings.

And up even until the day when
the babe says 'mine'.

Jostling with the plate leaves,
old plastic bags, empty
cigarette packs, chocolate wraps,
and late evening light
breaking apart on mellow waves,
this lone lily smiling
like a street kid, a slum urchin.

The wonder banyan that has
roots everywhere; the yonder
village, morning mists, distant
playgrounds, idling cattle,
all gone but in paintings now,
and the latest specimen perching
by the vestiges of a once-lake.

Out in the park, with old
plastic bottles, cold coca cans,
well-grown weeds, pigeon
crusted icons, rusticated chairs,
and torn billboards for
company: time out in nature,
manicured to industrial glory.

Far FAR from the world.... WORLD...
                       whorled my world

HERE condensed here con CON
                             con-densed dying densed

a **-HOme mmmme-me hewn in stone

Prison for prison pri pri pri sonnnn

here a drop of silence echoes
                          si lence sisisilensilensilense

pins pins pins dropped, trickling distant water
                                             trick-ling

in the pud-dle a mud-dle cal-led li-fe

a cave home, far away from home, is this

a noise of thoughts, rushing past
a gorge of silence.

how it was meant to be?

consuming homes in deluge, after the rains,

trickle silences, replaying lives, screened
all around in silken mists

lightning bolts prising open recesses dark.

It's long since, so I thought I will fly my home to you:
winged friend, you don't stop by anymore here on lissome nights?

Oh what air-traffic,
these jumbo cars with crane legs
that even hopping seem to crawl;

Two towers have crashed ahead and a vortex is rising in the desert:
Did you not receive my messages? I typed them in into the aether.

And space, oh this messy jumble
that is enmeshed with time,
will not warp now,

No easy looping through. No beaming past. And no word from you,
but Heavenly Times hasn't reported you missing, yet.

I have time on my hands. Let me check
for all those timelines where
I won't see you again.

I need a quill and papyrus.  Soot I have, plenty to ink. Quill and
papyrus: Winged friend, a feather and some spring will do.

The door out back from a cosy hamlet
is too a thorny one that is not often tread

Just when all seems certain and settled
life comes knocking and seething.

And you go walking the starry path,
the wayward path, the meandering path
to nine yards of nowhereness.

Questions, some are never settled. Invitations
some are never forever. Rhythms are not
made to last, just like the seasons. Winters
are the longest, deepest and darkest
that etch their cold onto pestles of the heart
that want to pound down memories a tonic.

Emerge, shadowy oars, from mists unraveling
by the shorey oceans lining the soul,

Slow here are the sailboats of hope
that we unfurl in sodden winds
and keep rowing on, on to the shoreless zons.

when the cold gets to the bones, I make a bonfire
of all my pasts, longings and belongings,

oh the late gull that shrieks past the silences.

All, but love. That, I cannot burn,
for that I am, I loved, and will love,
change forms, change norms, but that I will.

Resume: Jewel de Saex
Address: Lost somewhere up the hills.
                 email: me@yourownrisk.mule
                 Tel: + network not available

Summary

Hire me if: you are looking for an adventure.
Clouds, gorges, and I never disappoint, for we can cry.

Education

Bachelor, Mistress and Widower at the University of Zoya, majoring
in Life Sciences, with a minor in the applications of horseshoe magnets.

Expertise

I know them laws of attraction well +

New languages: both Silicon and Carbon-based ++

Magic, luck and fate.

Experience

For years I steered a boat
riding a rough river that
passed storms every day.

I was the rain-maker, I can
bring tears to any passing cloud
by my mere hand-gesture:
(all the dough-kneading.)

I was also the chief gardener
for Loz, whose farms at
the other end of the Earth
I visited by the switch door
in my old photo-albums each day.

Skills

Jugglery, innovative use of cutlery, reading runes, plucking prunes,
riding boats on dunes, talking by eyes, hearing by sight.

References: Not available even on request.

*NOtes:

+   Turn pages back and you always find, only one person was in love.

++ I can decipher the meanings in the lispings of cherubs and angels.
     I understand the cloud and the river, as of men in any tongue.

Evening colours
come crooning to me in the swallows
flying by:

saucers in the sky,

as I wait for the bus

that will go and halt on the wall
in my living room.

The evening is somewhat dull now,
let me hurl a few stars
at the horizon:

I have a dozen in my purse.

All of them gifted by you,
collectibles, kissables.

My tiara princess, the hair-band
is your secret wand.

Ah, my leg, it's
stuck in Grosvenor Road.

So I hurtle back. and loop forward.

Folding memories neatly into my
back-pocket.

There's a Divergence Theorem
gone missing here, volumes
are not going sheet-smart.

I want my nj's.

I could drown in those dimples.

Dark, this
restive hour, when
I search for a secret
peace, that lies lurking in the heart,
lost moon,

pre-dawn,
before worry
rises to shine on the furlough
when grey the twilight in furtive
retreat:

this hour,
when winds summon
birds to the distant realms
when little voices rise on beaming
star lakes.

I am the river bleeding rivulets at its mouth,
I am time, many branched.

I was a woman who came of heart, love, hope:
I was thrown out of my hearth.

Alone in this harsh winter, the broken woman works the coal in the shanty town. She is all toil and fate. She is, is but a footnote in our capital culture. She has no wealth and she has lost all.

No education worth a job. No salary worth a home. Age is not on her friendly side. So she goes abandoned by the river, discarded jewel.

She went home, back home to where her father came from. There they called her a foreigner, and said she did not belong. She was western in the east, and an oriental in the west. She did not belong.

She was sent here to these rugged mountains by a twist of fate.  No one told her story. She was forgotten like a grave in the hills. Her wails are the whirlwinds that rise hooding mysteries up the slopes.

Un-clapped cymbal, wind chime, song bowl and ney, unsung songs that compete for attention. Time, many branched.

She won. Brave woman, she won. She fought her fate and said 'I will'. The fire in her eyes stoked people's hearts. They welcomed her home and called her 'Khedi'. She's a guide to adventurers who want to be lost.

I chose this timeline. I jumped in and ran my dinghy down this gorge and emerged into a world of sparkling light.

A puff of cigar in, mist, out
on the street, shrouding the
tracks and missed heart aches;

this morning, time,
is not kept by the ticking clock.

Only one vehicle has crossed the road.

Mellow sun warming up the snow
forever burying the tracks out;

The stubble's scruffy, and heart,
as dishevelled as the sheets;

Empty cups, full of memories -
and stained of the night's wine;

In the corners the embers still crackle:

leaning back on ease chair,
wondering
who it was that left early
this misty morning;

Dont talk to me about sense-vense -
do you, or do you not?
tell me this much;

Don't go zig-zag, jibber-jabber,
zither; look I don't care of
money-shoney,

this caste-vaste, mummy-daddy
and the society;

We could might never deny this,
pow-wows cannot measure this,

do you, or do you not?
That is, is all there is.

the night sky, empty of all stars
arose from her rug of clouds
and whispered in the ears

nothing means nothing
echoing endlessly in the valley

nothing means nothing
nothing means nothing
nothing means nothing
nothing means nothing
nothing means nothing
nothing means nothing
nothing means nothing
nothing means nothing
nothing means nothing

there is a peace of emptiness
that passeth all understanding

empty of all sensation,
that lies bearing everything,

silent witness of the stars
the mute survivor of endless deaths.

There is a Polestar in my head pointing
constantly to you: wonder woman, I can
smell the fragrances in your unfurled hair
fluttering in the winds drunk of the earth
wet with the promise of coming rains.

Though all coloured shadows, these be,
images that I dwell amongst, cut rough
they are, my fingers bleed at their edges:
I am in a kaleidoscope of a distant viewer,
the secret turner of the wheels of our fates.

I keep searching for you by the banks of
a lake draped in receding shroud of mists,
at the place where the river bends, teary
eyes moist in memories and where the
the whole world's upturned in her *****.

It must be the wood, that waded into
our home one spring and snatched you off
into her depths; Or that I am a conjurer -
I conjured you into my life desolate in
springs; I conjured you out in the rains.

All the eddies are time-warps that hold
smiles and tears, embalmed, hugging one
another like old loves, that you hop on
crossing spates and reaching for the caves
that line the edges of the horizon hills.

I thought you were my life. I grew my life around this life.
You and them were all I had.

Lost home when voice broke,
now this wind that scatters all -
peregrine again.

How do I start anew? What part of me do I say is not me
now and where do I find the I was before us?

What part of the mist
is mountain-tears and what part
the last monsoon cloud?

The heart is a hollow of the bowl-song, an unrung peal
of the untolled bell, sullen tree laden with loss

First snow of deep night,
silence has a colour now -
a hue called longing.

But I must let go. Transitory, the joys of our life, like
the distant lights disappearing at dusk behind the hills

Go, larks, speeding east -
all my ***** loves set free,
now rises the truth.

I was free, always free. The receptacles are gone, but love
finds new vessels, new vehicles.

Emptiness is full:
the shell has all the colours -
gone the jezebels
but still rich the air in hues
that more can dip in and drink

Vulnerable smile, cherubic.    Vessel in the well.
  Watery eyes. First tooth.         Nameless relation.
    New birth. Memories.             New joys. Old pain.
       Overflowing love.                    Half-voice. Kin-sister.

Stars, crackling up in the creux.          A relation called
Nights. Angling; moon.                 brumeux love, half-hug,
Nets wide cast; comets pass.                folded in the wallet.

Pouring out. Half-gong.      Calling to the valleys.
Brook. Shadowy corners.    Tongues, welling up
Delight, discovery.               voices, hushed whispers
Bleating with the sheep,      hymns rising.
crying with the birds,          Conjunctions of states.
whirling with the winds;    Conjurer of fawns.

Casting; soil; roots; new growings;
smiling, spiralling around the hollow,
new life; a cherub, the new dawn.

Mystery girl, let me make an ansatz about you:

You are like an anti-gravity wave -
the farther I go, the more I pine for you.

Some kind of growing exponent:
yes, you are the solution I ignore in my

quotidian root-finding mission;

Ah, the annihilation, those killer eyes!
Now I see, we inhabit orthogonal planes.

Your *uv, to my uw, you are IR to my ivy.

Wonder-woman, let me make an ansatz about you:

You are elegance. Ripple-play at pebbles,
those dimpled cheeks.

Deliciously symmetric. Alpha 180,  no Beta
at all - well not Cartesian.

Guess it's subterranean, Artesian,
in the k-space, transform domain,
my mind-space, where, girl,
you are a wonder of beauty and grace.

Magicienne, let me make an Ansatz about you:

You are the particle for Love waves. A lovelet.

Dressed in that kaftan when you walk in,
I will sublimate. Ether-maker, you solve
the Hamiltonian, I see now how matter's made.

The night is a creeper bent laden with brooding meditations and the mists of time:

Tonight, the moon is a distant jasmine bud; nascent fragrance waiting to pour into the world.

I've seen your work, magicienne, how you roll the stars out from your hat.

A wand wave, and the celestial chorus of chants and hymns pours out from the skies.

I've walked with you, on the old beaten steppe, pole star,
I've seen ships dock at ancient inlets of water
engorging in parched lands - they were reed boats before;
they were catamarans later, rafts and sailboats;

This is how we rose from the mollusc, seeking you in the stars;

When thunder strikes the lonely peak and rains wash our plains,
I've seen your footsteps, half-erased by the swelling riverbanks.

I was in your womb, and never afraid of the primordial waters. Yours, an umbilical love.

The clouds part for your evening sojourn through the western sky,
where the larks go forth spreading cheer.

I am the wood, the last refuge of all mysteries.
I am the clearing where a solitary home hangs in time.
I house all the antiquities.
I am the subtle space that hosts bubble worlds.
I am Hyperions.

Reflected by the mountain stream Have the cherubs gone over the skies, When the evening came I was all things and Now when I walk out alone from the mist, long after

the embers kept us warm When you came leading me out, When did I lose you?

my calm warm shoulder. I roll over in the biting cold for will you believe me? we walked in snow I see the early moon, silent and poignant.

If I say mon nom In my sleep searching,

Who are you? The chorus;
Who am I? I was what you said I was. Soliloquy.
The stars are rising for their dusk-dance in my eyes.

I was love, I was a mother, drawing crimson curtains to play in the park? The corners, they are all empty and faint in the mists.

I see only a shadow's arm around me - I was a teacher. clasped clad in love that others said I was.

Now, gone, none my datum and reference.

Have you gone for a stroll my love? celestial light, I walked deeper into the night, away from your green-golden presence.

The sky is a giant gramophone of the valley flowers.
from a brooding repertoire of pin-disks
singing to me in the hymns rumbling out song

This late dusk, I am the last sheep that
got lost from the herd, now heading across the pass
in the hope of finding my home.

All my life is on trial now. You are all the people
here and I am in the dock. All that I have been
brings me here. I see amused eyes, and eyes
of suspicion. I know them eyes, these are your eyes
these are your people, and I know you.
To learn our language? I see dispersal, dismissal.
trying, to learn your language. twirling in the men.
I see disinterest. Girl from the high country
I see your moustache don't learn languages no more.
I see laughter, Yes that is what I have been

Oh my holy heavens, that I see home in those eyes.
And I said, hallelujah. at the edges painted red.
have come misty-eyed And they said, come with us.

There is a hope for home. A hearth here, not on flat.
On a *****, I have to found what I could a fire there.
Now I be over and laughter, all my hopes Moist corners
ancient tongues speaking to my soul. from this far land
come alive in tending to the home, embers break
a Cossack girl where you and the children live.
The rainbow carries, moments of reflections unlocking  
to those distant shores  and tears like mist and rain.

The air is wet in the moist tears of the sky
vacant, and full of the fragrances of the hill flowers

Lone bird flying tither, looking for shelter.

adorning her forehead dishevelled the clouds
Looking confused, Phantasm woman hair
the early crescent moon  looking lost,

Long travelled, when the soul longs for home,
there is none but the parnaked sky. Some warm clothes
familiar arms, a favourite soup. mirages a thirst.

When all is lost, there is hope. There is soul.
Wide earth, Call upon your vicars,
to learn your language and to be as you are,
to sing with the echoes and vanish with the shepherds.
I come here in homage, find me a home,

staring at the floating lamps dotting the dusk
distant hamlets in salsa with the stars.

Alight, for here, the bus stops.

Like the story of mists on these hills, no one knows where it all begins and what it brings to bloom, when and how. Life, this mysterious journey of mirages and miracles.

Growing up, falling in love and marriage. Years that rush by like the moss-laden corners. The joy of cherubs that descend and grace your lives. Some late summer rain tears by the river on these gorges.

One-way ticket to go live rough like the winds on these bare slopes.  The cherubs are out on their vast journey of discovery. You hoped, but it was all crumbling, bolt in the sky tore your lies apart.

You are here, amid the lilt of the hills and the music of the stars crackling up into eddies late in the nights. The ageless loneliness of life, and you have no one. Mute in this new haven, speechless in your unfamiliarity.

Should I sing like the shepherd Should I weep like the clouds parted from all their be-longings and tossed about by the stark stubble on the aged mountains? The air smells of rebirth. never another sunset winding into the valley, Does the river jump in the joy easing into the clouds, carefree like there was that I know this people. Now I am the sky. this snow-cladded dusk I am all the stars. hanging over the world? of the the flints that scratch effervescence of the moment, or does she weep at her heart laden in endless procession? Clouds, swirling dervishes, exodus of the sheep fire in the bush

I can take marshrutki by the dozens, heading out into the no-w-here.
Humanity, your only hope, and kindness, your only god.

Walking past spiral arms of galaxies I hid myself in folds of a warped
reflected on the morning walls, timeline; deeds that filtered all light out.

Bent clocks, warped doors, stretched arms, Awash in the waves of your G-rays
But your song found me. bathed in sublime warmth;

I see your finger twirling universes out, I've seen your hand pick me up
your lips kiss the flaming skies. in every timeline I've walked.

Which manifold do you inhabit, I know you, time-traveler,
miracle-monger?

Hymns, hushed whispers,
a hundred jasmine buds,
the distant stars,
synapses.

Joy to our lives such                           Hope, supernal that
who grace this world of darkness    rejects hatred, they call forth
once in an aeon.                                  the soul and tend love;

Gripped in sadness we                      Purgatory cells
who have lost a lighted lamp     -     imprisoning the human
this mourning season;                       spirit for small gain;

Supernal abodes ours where we be as
soul-sheaths more transparent than we aspire

in abodes we of
self-modification more transparent than we petaled hope

of here, realms where bloom delights, beacons of
petaled hope, amid the rhythms of ice-pins

amid Supernal beacons of delights
space, sensation soul-sheaths expansion of ice-pins

in expansion space, sensation light and
self-modification all perception

*be as bloom ours where all perception here, realms where
aspire light and the rhythms

The many voices of the evening

                   gramophone the sky voice the cell phone
                   the tablet  the notebook, that monotone
                   observer of mutations purveyor of maladies
                   the persistence of memories, pale pink light sink

burning in the fires lighting up the skies

                   an old pang, smitten clang, the pain balm
                   mug-life, pen-knife, kettle-strife, all the sheaves
                   them echo-songs that haunt the drill-wells
                   that are cut wounded and wear fetching

chants, to an yearning oblation

                  bay leaf, curry leaf, yes, them colander coriander
                  there's a rhyme of charlies, looping from
                  our holy wars to now our holy hours with
                  the ombudsman, the omniman, the only God

who used to thunder for the ****

                 old Zeus, the Lord of Betelgeuse, him who we
                 called dead, exhumation, exculpation, exaltation
                 an ancient loneliness that calls from the nether
                 depths, now science, now freedom, now pagan.

I walked a spiraling Stare back at the abyss: Leaping forward walking I see the rage of a Cross, four-dimensional Pebbles shattered stained To the side, spiraling back,
cut-up and found what if I walked on them giant drooling drunken mirrors obtuse staircase haunted confusing gravity,
nothing up from mushrooms woman lighted flexing looping,
at apex; a mirage? that can cry; all around; tesseracts; infinite; at quantum.






Lead kindly light, vigil
voice, enlightened
woman,  
angel face.

Blood in winter snow:
dying sun at dusk, filling
the skies in sorrow.

Rings of light lowering from the skies I called my faith Godly and A universe is birthing somewhere; Transporting peace into this world everyone else infidel. Now I going extinct Dinosaurs in There! Ant-eating stick,

I emerged have divine rights to pillage all.

A galaxy few light-years away, A tool-making ape. And gave the Shoreless ocean knocking the heart. At this very moment, life first
key to St. Peter and walked, walked That I locked away behind a
door. peered at

the firmament of stars. Bequeathing hopers,

A light called forth and I walked forth A supernova ***** all light. memories down epigenetic lines. out a mollusc to the future But peace was alive all along. An arc. Epic. Exodusish. enroute a transcience
called man; Now

in the fear of a mushroom There is a God.

Too bland for our Tossing around in a centrifuge. clouds, she graces
the world in taste, lighting all hearts in peace-fires. Giant wheel. Merry-go-around. her dome-shrines dotting the wide
shores. And now

we like them, deranging conflagrations more.

He lives in his farm house by the hills, his
quiet life of contentment, seeking, creating,
discovering; Oh he’s a scientist, and
he grafts his poem trees; Beautiful plumes do
they grow for flowers, which fly out eastward
every morning; Well now he does, the sweet
fruit of these: eat poems to live? Silencing
those who asked him once. Oh and some of the
plants can talk: beyond our hearing, ultrasound.
Penetrating objects our eyes otherwise.
see not: stones; metals; oh don’t we carry
venoms of hatred in metal tubes of
veins crossing our hearts, conveying darkness
across the seas? These poem trees, talking, can
see through. And tell, when some leaks out, causing
fires, and deaths in a school or train station.
Quiet life of contentment, seeking, creating,
discovering; Living in his farm house
by the hills. His work at http://dreamtube.stream

Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Enemy, enemy, felt mutually,
wrung wronged and wronged by and all the love was
anomaly. In twilight moments of
emotion, only scars, finally, and
all the joys of gardens and fountains mourn
forever the forests that burned for the
city now in ruins. This is how it
was meant to be. It was for my father
before me and my grandfather before he.
Yes mankind was made to experience
to live with the enemy 24/7.

It's the tooth fairy. Yep, he'd do it.
He always answers people's wishes.
And after everyone's given up on their governments
more eager to spy on their people than
tackle crime, surely got to be Tooth Fairy.
But well, Tooth Fairies dont really exist, do they?
Well then, it's Santa. It's a Christmas present.
Santa's known to do it. Bring gifts
unknown to us every winter.
But then why would Santa be a non-state actor?
There's no evidence he's done that before.
Well, it's No-man from the Odyssey. Anonymous
No-men, are known to poke the eyes of Cyclops.
But then, no tales of no-men have emerged
since a thousand years, and who is anonymous anyway?
Enter the physicists: it's a combination of all these.
All improbabilities that are probable,
have probably occurred and there's every probability,
they coexist, improbably. Well then that's it.
There's no way of knowing who did it, but all we can say,
Schadenfreude, dear Leader, it all goes in circles anyways.

Mother, I won't go to America
I don't want to work the desk job in the high-rise
at the edge of the city, waking the nights nesting code.
Mother, I can't buy you the dream home.
This is how I am. This is who I've become.
I weave a nest for the birds of dreams
to roost in my soul. I'm a poet. I'm peregrine.
When I come home, can I sit by your side
and not talk? Not talk of marriage and children
and property and bank balance?
I folded my kites up and my boomerangs
and studied the nights. The glass filings
on the manja cut sores in my heart but I succeeded,
through university and adversity.
But this is who I am: a poet.
I weave a fabric and print tales of shadow and light.
Here, they come to roost, the birds peregrine.
I don't come home to eat what you cook.
I don't come home to hear about struggles and
disappointments. Yes I have failed in some sense.
But there is so much to say that is better said unsaid.
But this is who I am: a poet.  I'm peregrine.
Can I just come home and sit by your side at sunset?

Surrealist Cut-up

            them of drooping
perspective        them blue water lilies,
    branches      boughs,    the blue      wavering
illuminated that window  is causing These the stars
                      in moonlight, to shiver;   late in
a ripple,     then, blooming
The clouds, sky,    tither.

Figurative-Literal**

These the stars then, blooming
late in the blue sky,
a ripple is causing them to shiver;
The clouds, perspective
branches of drooping boughs,
that window them
blue water lilies, illuminated
in moonlight, wavering tither.

ome orth azarus, come th laz, ome for zus
echo in the winds outside the empty cave;

In the desert an insurrection
to deluge the earth from cauldrons of faith;
Tinderbox by the Dneiper, an interview stolen;

Dance of Ishtar caged, the demiurge call.

Treading on ice, our mortal lives;

Ancient wells wailing with the earth;

A vessel weathering the storm, sinking
now at Galilee.

At Golgotha, by the empty Crucifix;
it all began here in Bethlehem where we wait.

Surrealist Cut-up

pouring in together in the cold,              huddled
in              the harvest Grain-stacks, on the farm
from the palms.          gathered
heavens for Thanking gradient mist
    clenched  the earth in        evening skies;

Figurative-Literal**

Grain-stacks, huddled together in cold,
gathered on the farm
in gradient mist pouring in
from the evening skies;
Thanking heavens for the harvest
the earth in clenched palms.

I come floating to you Mother, dead on the river, body bullet ridden: this is how God reaps His harvest of faith.

See, those columns that support the sky now, carried once the roof of our temple. The fire burning the pyres now carried oblations to our ideals; But we face a jealous God consuming in wrath.

Here I come, un-wreathed, unsung, wet in the tears of the skies, skin carrying scars of resistance, eyes open to the tyranny of faith.

Clutch my hands, let me feel the love that birthed me, one last time before my Spirit moves onward and beyond to the worlds of light.

Surrealist Cut-up

      lotus pond lonely on the bridge
verdant in spring    still in the    garden

Literal Figurative**

Lonely bridge on the lotus pond
in the still garden verdant in spring

Surrealist Cut-up

vanishing illuminated darkness
enveloping    into figure              
Faintly       

Figurative-literal**

Fain­tly illuminated figure
vanishing into
enveloping darkness

Surrealist Cut-up

    boatman       Purple haze
contemplative pouring
the sky as lone
              rides the horizon.
       islanding
into the lake,

Cubist

Arc to the horizon
apparition, brooding figure,
a form rides in twilight haze
junction of the worlds
into a slither of light.

Literal**

Purple haze islanding the sky
pouring into the lake,
as lone boatman
rides contemplative
into the horizon.

I want to feel the breeze on my unveiled face
and my unlocked hair, this morning,
I am walking barefoot.
I want to feel the earth on my feet.
How she has gone warm
under the anger of the days.
Or how she shivers in the days
of agony, the cold winters.
Before the night was done,
I plucked and hid some in my pocket.
There it stays, the darkness,
close to my heart. Sometimes
the stars smile, pomegranate cloves,
bleeding sliced under my knife.
There is a wave receding,
stealing the earth under my feet away.
A projectile flew with the birds,
racing them a while, but it drops now
into the water in a thud.

Log floating in the green stream:
jetting away in the flow,
now I'll stop in the thicket,
uncovering the cricket-song
trapped in the reed-locks.
Splash! that's a tadpole miss;
The trouts, they are laughing.
Gone! that's an angler's bait in vain.
Cranes have got their picking.
There's a hundred suns around.
This is a bubbly babbly morning.
Onward forward I flow, reed in tow.

How shall I hymn you,

majestic presence? Shall I

be the wide sea, and

weep, overcome in your vastness?

or, evaporate, seeking you?

At the newshour on the TV station,
beamed to my lounge sofa tonight,
the vignette visual of peace:
a child being rushed to triage,
all limbs bound in bandage -
now, we are safe.
Our soldiers too, from the skies.
No casualties.
Only collateral damage
signaled in the sobbing siren.

I pressed my ear to the ***** of the
silence before dawn.This is the hour
when birds wake up, contemplating
on what to sing. The sky's smudged
in dispersing clouds. Priests are
washing up for the morning prayer.
Tots plead to sleep more. Here I find
the blessed light that trudged past
aeons and aether, now scattering
past the screen of mists, illuminating
your face, blooming over lotus lakes.
You were up, weeping with the winds
wheezing through the streets all night.
No bells, no flowers, no incense
rosaries or hymnals, this my chapel
is the other shrine in this home.
Now I kneel hearing the throb of love.
One, nameless, the continuum that
here I call myself and there, you.

Slow dance of filings on parchment peace
savouring the beats, my percussion hips.
Look the rampage like other man's wife.
When the dark flag bites, hymns cease
and millennia entomb; heaped heads,
tented eaves, latest art in the desert souk.
Shik-shak-shok. The sharqi goes.
Flooring it to the rhythm of dunes, as
fires spew snow into the vale of prunes.
Chaos of magnets pirouetting a ride.
Bomb them, when nuisance gets,  some
hundred women, few thousand children,
not bad price, securing the heathen trail.
Shik-shak-shok. The sharqi goes.
Veil the faithful, jail the *****. Chaos
is hope. Kaleidoscopic, cathartic taupe.
Riding the tiger, picturing a goat.

I'm kneading a complex thought now:
too amorphous, this, but,
too much mush and it's mess.
Why are you smiling at me a
bunch of multi-colour bell-peppers?
No, it is not potato season.
But I'm searching for roots of
our association. I need a congealant.
You are quite a handful though.
Sweet, but not sugar kind of;
Cinnamon, may be - served best
with chocolate warm. Too strong,
alone. I will serve you some cloves -
hot, but not the chilli kind of. Chew
on it. I have a kitchensink to clear.