The wind rises
in the courtyard
baring extraordinary
imaginings
faithful oscillations
of space time
evanescence of
life and death
always mutedly
move side to side
the wind rises
the whole range of experiences
of a flower-like butterfly
venturing through
the damp and dusty
it makes the bronze in the night
cry in its reply
a rustling sound woke me up
its the sycamore castle outside
that carries the burden of dawn
the tree is just like a book opened
birds, insects etc are inserted in the pages
i walk into the bones
to eavesdrop on the breath of this minute
to learn its calmness
and indifference
towards the coming and going
of multifarious clouds.

a flat white cools
far too quickly
for prolonged enjoyment
steaming the window
above the table
where it rests
next to it
my latest trial
of literature
at times
lengthy of word
ponderous
but probing
while others
lesser
   in page number
though not
   in meaning
brief yet pointed
but always
formidable enough
in name
   or title
to impress
a wandering eye

It comes to me
on a path yearly worn
yet a path fresh with each step
each breath
each electron sparking through my brain
in its electric searching.

I drip into the palm of your hands
and make my home in the lines,
filling every crevice with myself
so I may always be by your side.

Slow as a growl
Go some verses from a folio,
Like little frogs in dozens wake up on a lily pad,
And I'm singing them inside.

Cloaked is an owl,
Toads converse as roams an embryo
Like fiddle logs and cousins make up on a silly path,
And I'm singing on a ride.

Float does the vowel,
Go some verses from a folio
Like tittles fog in fuzzes flakes up on an ill leafed pad,
And I'm reading them with pride!

Slow as a growl
Go some verses from a folio,
Like little frogs and cousins make upon a lilly pad,
And I'm reading on a side.

all was peaceful
   serene
      secure
content in this
sleepy isolation
with only the dogs
for company
had i wished
to disturb their
soothing repose
reading
a little-known novel
once heralded
the hero
if he could
be called such
was fracturing
slowly
on the brink
of shattering

before the incendiary
final pages
could be reached
this dormant comfort
erupted
interrupted
by a shattering
much closer
   to home;
both dogs
and man
on the highest
of alert
searching
for a cause
anything
   to blame
but finding
nothing

The journey begins always in the mind
but it always manifests with the sliding
of rectangular boxes encasing index cards.
The faint odour of vinegary wood ensues
and a chase scene begins in a wooded
forest of leaves, bound by hundreds and
thousands upon thousands of both soft
and hardbound varieties, gilded or plain.
These days a computer terminal or a
touch screen has replaced these boxes
but their function remains the same;
being akin to boarding pass gates that
regulate your voyage above and beyond.

You complete me and do so
in every sound you now mouth,
every movement of your tongue,
every muscle’s adjustment
to effect fresh shape to phrase,
in every quick, shallow breath
giving sudden pause and turn
to the next silence.

You complete me at this reading
and so I am deaf to the closing,
blind to the ending you gift me
and ignorant of the next stair
with no balustrade to steady
where you leave the first me
to rise to find, first-hand,
the landing that completes me

The paper weight will hold
my ink down
in a way my fluidity never could.

No matter how violent
my metaphor, how heady
my imagery, how blistering
my narrative - it will hold
the reader's attention,
ensuring my thoughts reach
each reader's own resolution
a little before the weight shifts
and the burden of their eyes falls
heavy on the turn
of the page

and then their eyes will lift,
burdened with new meaning.