Have
not desire
to tell the world
how it should be

create
a world
in your own eye

and look through it

If we were the mirror of our creation
                and not made in perfect silhouettes.

Then we aren't the creation of perfection,
                           as were flawed beyond our sell by date.

Then that which made us is imperfect in its design.
                  So not omnipotent,
  flawed in its own blueprint.

And so just another pebble in
A dry pond where wishes die.

I
love
***

because
it made
me

And then there was evening.

The edge of our estate, a wire fence.  
We ducked under it, Cole's fat neck scraped,
he squealed.  
Older boys sniggered.  

Once buildings grew here,  
it now sprouted vegetation.  
We picked our way through.  
Here we built the world: a haven of ***** mattresses and wooden boards  
holding shaped rocks and bones found somewhere,  
that hint of death.  

Cain was bigger than the rest.  
He liked fire,  
pushed at the mattresses, unsettling dust.  
He picked up a stick and beat down the walls,  
eyes filled with that blaze.

Suddenly sticks flew,  
we thrashed with fury and rage and everything,
at our creation.
Soon our jigsaw walls were waste upon the ground.  
Then there was light.  
Cain's father, passed out, drunk,  
missed the silver lighter his son produced.  
Roaring flame which singed our nostril hairs,  
smelling bonfire for a week after.  

Cain's eyes saw everything.
We stood, in his image,
chests heaving, we looked at what was done.  

I was scolded when I returned home late with sooty skin,
and went to bed  
with tear tracks on red scrubbed cheeks.  

And there was morning.

I nurture the creator in you;
the little god that throbs to be master of
words and colors, lines and notes.
I watch you give birth to it.
I see how it squeezes out of
your brain and crawls across
the floor- all ****** and wet.
It's alive and glorious and grotesque.
You're immortal- a giver of life.
I hold it to my face, and breathe in
the smell of rain, pine trees, and desire.
I kiss its fur, and taste the
fires of hell, cardamom, and oysters, raw and sweet.
I feed it a bowl of saffron threads, soaked in milk,
stare into its wild black eyes; I can hear
it hum a tune in B flat minor, and I wonder,
whose seed is this?

I can feel warmth of your shape
Words I have always said escape
An everlasting dawning realization
We have such rare creation
Can feel my growing need
Love the way my heartbeats speed
All mistakes fade away around you
Catch up the consequences that followed through
None helped me see with clearer eyes
Pushing further yet I still return
It's **** good exercise
Underwater
A dream
Loudly exhaling steam
I hear snores exit your mouth
Far away travelling south
Distant echoes
Nights spent together in the past
Swim through like fish but get caught in nets cast
If dragged from your arms across the earth to roam
I will find the way back no matter the distance until I am home

We thought  we were the rise and fall of the world,
           could we have been more wrong..

I remember an old proverb,


"Control is foolish without batteries,
   because once they run out.
                        Your stuck on
                         one channel,
watching
                 a singular view unchanging,

Could we mould the world,
like a pottery class we're moulding it  
         thinking we could
            paint it,
kiln it,

and it was perfection..

But we had a malevolent arrogance,
thinking we were saintly,
       all though we thought we were saints.

So boastful of our accomplishments,
           we never looked at the singular crack.
Barley visible to the eye, but there never the less.

After a while we ignored it, as we never
                                                       expected
Our work to falter..

I remember a proverb that paid heed to this.

Discontinuity may be a scratch,
            visually constrained

but protracted in depth. malevolent

Beneath will never show the truth till

                            it collapses within its self..

Wordy I know, but a truth of now.
         Never paying attention to the scratch
but not seeing the fracture just waiting for that
                                            singular weight to
descend us to the now. So many cracks in the world.

Now no matter our skill the world is just putty,
   remoulding itself with every new day..

A sunrise of reflection,
            Dusk hiding the truth of our folly.

We now live in this new world of our undoing..
           The poetry wheel is fragmentary,
the vase now floating, shifting in the well
we used to mould it with.

And we stare at the
                             sunrise seeing our
vindictive creation...

We are the evil of this world, a creation of arrogance.

Today is a day to celebrate, not to be taken as a given
 Nor take for granted the gift of this our mortal life
  To praise which is to pass from here onto life eternal
   Don’t you know? It’s a mother who forms the endless circle
    Where the circle begins and the circle should end
     She opens a door with a key held only by her hands
      Calling upon angels of heaven to grant her a soul
       She has known me from before the first kingdom
        When the Father brought light to our existence
         Even then, she knew my flaws to their very essence
          She welcomed me without an ounce fear or reservation
           In humility, in obedience to the Father, in loving kindness
            By our Creator’s love, by mother’s choosing, her bravery
Today is her day
                                                                ­                         My mother’s day