Im a calm, cool collected cucumber underneath this fandangled, wiry, wrinkled visage.
Ive escaped the clutches of the tangled snare of my image.
Where and when I belong and to whom is no matter.
I pass by groups and clans and grimace inquisitively at thier chatter.
To my ears its an alien clamour of clashing egos and look at me's.
They'd all be happier in a lonesome cross legged position enjoying the breeze beneath the trees.
With ease I float through my day passionately.
Expanding and contracting with the waves of existence.
I sway indefinitely.
Yield to and renounce the question arisen from the back of the mind "what does it mean to be me"

Diagnosis: Anorexia Nervosa
Status: Recovered.

So my point in writing... am I doing this for myself? Maybe... or to inspire others? Maybe...
Or to simply just show and say, that I am through this. Through what? Through all that growth that you encounter when you truly engage yourself in recovery.
This does not mean I will not grow further, learn more. Develop and engage. It doesn’t mean I have been able to shut the door once and for all on my mental health struggles (I was trying to be as politically correct towards myself using that term).
It means, I trust, I believe, and not naively, that I have done the hard work.
I have stepped outside of the mirror.
I no longer believe I can only live half way, a half life, between sickness and wellness.
It means, I know, I will never, get sick again.
Many may laugh, or shake their heads at that. And yet, what I am writing here is filled with so much faith and trust, that I can be sure of myself. Even if no one else in the world believes it, I do. And I know it, because I have made a choice.
There were some backwards and forwards, to relapses and re-growths, but each and every fall, I chose to learn. I chose to take to therapy. I chose.
I choose life.  And so that means, the commitment to life, to myself, that I will always take the route that leads to more life, or to more hope...

And so getting well. What happened there? Well, after years of self abuse, of anger turned inwards, after trying to destroy myself in every single way possible... I wondered, inquisitively, what would happen if I used all I had learnt in hospital, all the positive energy directed at me, the words my therapist would say to me... I wondered, what if?
That if, turned out to be the most amazing curiosity. It is why I am safe, well, “recovered.” I don’t use the term recovered lightly. I recognise that my whole life will mean being mindful, it will mean self awareness, it will mean vulnerability. But what I am certain of, is that each year that passes, I grow and gain strength in ways I never realised I could.
I use “recovered” because I don’t believe I am “in recovery.” I have done the recovery. I have done the putting food in my mouth, consulting a nutritionist, the ridiculous amount of weight gain that allowed me to be healthy. I am done with the depression, the endless anxiety, the self harm.
I say “recovered” because as Marya Hornbacher writes: “I mean flat-out eat-normally stay-healthy get-comfortable-with-your-body-and-actually-like-it recovery.”
Few believe it exists. In fact, I was told my numerous doctors I would never recover. I would always be chronic. Sick. In need of hospital.
It exists. I know that. Because it exists for me.
Recovering has meant finding a voice, and using it. It means putting food in my mouth, it means seeing friends, engaging in life, seeking out healthy ways of coping when I feel overwhelmed, scared, anxious...

I live.

© Sia Jane

The dread set in upon opening my eyes, as i swing my legs to the right side of the bed and stand. Slightly stumbling i make my way to the bathroom while adjusting to a waking state. I flip on the light, wincing my eyes in a sharp electric freeze from the back of my head, and while recovering, i pull the shower curtain away from the showers pull ***. Pulling the *** out slowly twisting it to ninety degrees as the water turns on, i am reminded to feed my plants before leaving the condo for the day. I step into the shower dipping my head under the warm stream of steaming water while resting my hands against the wall, as images of all the women i had saw the night prior begin shuffling through my head and a partial ******* forms. I imagine their eyes filled with tears, as i shove them down to my ****, and finally the Rolodex of faces stops on a Starbucks girl with piercings all over her pouty face that i had encountered on a lunch break a few days ago, and i begin stroking my **** with my right hand whispering "you ***** ****" over and over, as her eyes look up at me innocently, Mascara running down her face, until suddenly i hear my phone vibrate atop a pile of pocket change in the bedroom which promptly kills the moment in my wonder of the importance of a 5:00 AM jingle, which slowly fades, while i proceed to apply Ax shower gel to my Ax body scrubber that i had received as a gift in a Holiday work raffle three months prior.  Vidal Sassoon extra volume shampoo plus conditioner, "All in one," proudly printed on the label, as i apply a handful to my shaved head in a smooth dripping lather, that i do not rinse until after applying a pink ****** scrub that's label has worn off, and i am unsure, and not concerned with its origin, as I squeeze a blob of Colgate paste onto my toothbrush from the rack overhead, and scrub in a slow circular motion, while i rinse off the shampoo, shower gel, and ****** scrub, and then reach for my Listerine mouth wash, and swish for 30 seconds before spitting the burning mixture into the drain, while putting the brush away. I tilt my head up, and open my mouth wide under the water, taking in a mouth full, which i gargle for 10 seconds then spit, and turn off the shower reaching for a tattered towel left over from a breakup four years prior.  I dry off while still standing in the shower, and gently lay the towel on the floor before stepping out onto it, and grabbing a stick of Degree antiperspirant from the counter.  I apply 3 long strokes to each armpit before capping it, and putting it down. Two sprays of coolwater cologne i apply from a 1 foot distance, misting my chest and lower neck, before i put it down beside the deodorant, and walk back into the bedroom, grabbing a pair of boxer shorts from a drawer not caring which pair i grab. I slip them on, and walk over to the mirrored closet where i flex a few times, point aggressively, and in an authoritative tone repeat "I don't give a ****.", three times before sliding the closet door open and grabbing a pair of Marc Echo blue jeans that i had purchased online two years prior with a gift card from a local pub that i may have frequented too much to have received.  Reaching for an Infliction black tee shirt with ghostly gray swirls cascading to its base, i become completely still, left arm clutching the shirt still on its hanger, i am paralyzed for two seconds before looking away, and saying  "I don't have any plants" inquisitively to myself, yanking the shirt from the closet, and walking over to my phone atop the dresser.

Picking up the phone almost eagerly, i click the screen on in a light squeeze, and swipe my finger from left to right across the display to unlock the device, to a missed call from an unknown number, a voicemail, and 3 missed text messages. I tap the voice mail icon, and enter my pass code upon the automated prompt, "1234." The voice mail immediately clicks a few times before hanging up which assures me of its automation, and i assume its the power companies robots attempting to collect the monthly charge again. I tap on the missed text message icon, disconnecting from voice mail, and see that all three are from a girl named Haedies i met through a roommate long ago that i have recently found over facebook. A "How are you!", "I MISS YOU!!!", and a picture message of her with a wax figure of a trollish cartoon character i cannot quite place, both looking very serious, and i look at her **** pressing out from her white tanktop, ******* clearly hard, and her neck, long and attractive, its definition, thins my blood, and her dark black medium length hair loosely dangles just above her shoulder, causing me to partially smile, as i close the message paying it no further thoughts, and slip on my tee shirt, as i head for the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and grab a plastic bottle of 5 Hour Energy, and twist it open, tip my head back, and take the whole drink down in one swallow, throwing the empty plastic shell back into the fridge, and swing the door shut with my bare left foot, before i head back to the room to put my socks and boots on. Once my black combat boots are fully laced up, i put my wallet, change, and keys into the appropriate jean pockets, and head for my jacket hung on a hook beside the door. A black leather windbreaker. My mini trench that allows for a high level of concealment, and pocket space made possible by Wilson Leather. I run my hand over my face satisfied with my slight stubble from not shaving today, and reach into my left inner pocket of my jacket and pull out Sony earbuds, and plug them into my phone. I select a Pandora station based on the black metal band "Burzum", and walk out the door, locking only the dead bolt behind me.  5:25AM

too often you **** me with your
monosyllabic question: your lips
form it, so gradually, and hence,
inquisitively, that i,  i would not
miss that diphthong you emphasised,
that question of why - yet too often
i find myself unable to proceed
beyond because...

Is that a frown I put upon your face child?
As I tried to soothe the sadness that smiled on your inside
That festered like pathogens inside your heart
Is that your index finger?
Sitting inquisitively on your lip?
I see the distraction in your whirlpools of corneas
Your hair lays insecurely on your shoulder blades
Let me console you with a joke
Pacify your placidity with these sad bars
You pick up your phone.
You read your texts.
Oh?
Is that a smile I put upon your face, child?
-zaba

The town was quiet when the Poet rode in
Not a soul was to be seen
A dog barked somewhere and a door banged noisily in the wind,
He wore a long grey coat flecked with dirt and mud
Two buttons had been left undone and there through the opening could be seen, his gun!
His eyes they had a tired look as if looking out wearily on the world
As he moved up the street, curtains parted and nervous little eyes peeped out
Suddenly a door opened and a woman rushed out across the street
Behind a barrel outside the hardware store, a small boy... hiding!
She began to scold him. "Ah Ma! he protested, I just wanted to get a good look at him, see him up close"
"Quiet!" she commanded, then turning toward the Poet while shielding the boy
She said defiantly "Their bad! Their wicked evil men!
But the Poet just kept on going, riding on as if she wasn't there
His eyes fixed straight ahead,
Finally he stopped outside the saloon, dismounted, tied his horse to the hitching Post
Went inside, the spurs of his boots clanking on the floor as he walked
"What'll it be Stranger ?" offered the Bartender
"Gimme a whiskey", said the Poet,"an Irish whiskey"
At a table playing cards, some heads turned
Then there were some excited whispers
"Look! it's the Bardo Kid, the Bardo Kid!!!"
"What has you around these parts Stranger ?" asked the Barkeep inquisitively
"I'm looking for someone", answered the Poet, "goes by the name of... Zardo!"
Another man drinking at the bar suddenly began to splutter
As if his drink had gone down the wrong way
Bardo eyed him suspiciously
"Don't look at me Bardo, I'm not Zardo, Me! I'm Vargo"
"Well Vargo", said Bardo, "you seen Zardo around ?"
"I ain't seen Zardo Bardo" said Vargo
Then he quickly drained his glass and hurriedly left
Bardo watched him go.
"Whose looking for Zardo ?" came a voice suddenly from the stairs and the shadows
It was a woman's voice. It was Miss Lilly, the Saloon Madam, a mature lady, still pretty but who'd seen better days
She came down the stairs out of the shadows
Walked right up to the Poet
But then almost losing her breath in surprise
Almost as if she'd just seen a ghost
She said with a strange note of familiarity "Bardo!!!"
The Poet too, seemed taken aback
"Lilly!" he said a bit shyly and took off his hat,
They both stood there looking at each other for a moment
"You've gotten older Bardo... more worn, I'd hardly know you"
"Been a long time... I guess" replied the Poet awkwardly,
"Where... what...whatever happened to you... Bardo ?.... I often wondered".
It was a very disarming question, for a moment the Poet seemed lost for words
"I...I've been away... far faraway"
Then gathering himself he said with a tinge of bitterness
"What happened. Life happened I guess, dealt me a bad hand, I suppose I was never gonna measure up. It was inevitable wasn't it... me and this world
I could only have turned to a Life of...a Life of Rhyme"
Bardo looked at Lilly standing there in her tawdrily ostentatious red Saloon dress
Showing a bit of cleavage
Grown slightly plump now, with some grey strands through her hair
And crowsfeet starting to appear around her eyes, he asked sadly
"What happened to you... Lilly ?
For a moment she looked like she was going to cry.
"O! I do a bit of singin' ..dancin'... deal cards, serve drinks, and do a whole lot of listenin' to lonely men and their troubles, try to cheer them up and get them to buy some more drink, keep the party going.  That's the game anyway" she admitted almost ashamedly. Then she continued. "We seen some good times though, didn't we, you and I, once when we were younger, for awhile there we ran young and wild and free, didn't we ?"
"Yea, young and wild...and... and stupid" answered Bardo with regret.
"What's this... what's this about Zardo ? asked Lilly smiling, "remember you always used to like that name".
"He's been saying things about me, running me down... damaging my reputation
Says he's faster than I am, that he could take me anytime, says I'm nothing but trouble, that I'm a no good lowdown critter, said he's gonna bring me in one day soon.
I was curious about him, thought I'd maybe like to meet this person".
"But he's only young" replied Lilly defending him, " he was just shooting off at the mouth, you know young people, their full of arrogance and foolish pride. You know how Life twists people and makes them into something their not".
Bardo looked at her closely "Do you know him ?"
Lilly hesitated a moment, then said almost tearfully " He's my son Bardo".
"I never knew you had a kid" said Bardo very surprised.
Lilly looked Bardo right in the eyes and then confided "He's our kid Bardo... you remember that time, that Summer we had together, that brief moment in time when we found each other and we thought this world was ours" .
"Why didn't you tell me, why didn't you send word, you could have reached me, I would have come", said Bardo.
"O! You'd be so proud of him Bardo, he grew up to be strong and straight and true
He has a job here as a young Deputy now".
Suddenly they heard a commotion outside and then the batwing doors of the Saloon swung open
And in strode a lean figure wearing a Tin Star
It was...it was Zardo!!!
A big crowd had formed behind him, they were egging him on
"So!" he said looking straight at Bardo,"we meet at last, if it isn't the Great, The Bardo Kid
The Fastest Pen in the West
The Fastest Rhyming Couplets this side of the Pecos
I'm taking you in...Old-timer
Heh! You don't look so tough,
I bet I could take you easy".
Lilly tried to intervene "No son, you've got it all wrong !
"Stay out of this Mom !" he warned coldly, a bit embarrassed seeing her there
Then almost as if he'd just realized something very important he said angrily to Bardo
"What are you doing talking to my Mom ?
Why you ***** rotten varmint".
Lilly screamed "Nooo!!! "
Zardo drew first but Bardo was quicker
Before Zardo had got his gun out, Bardo's had already cleared his holster
Lilly cried "Please Bardo don't hurt my boy!!"
Bardo let off a whole barrage of shots
Zardo only got off one solitary shot
But strangely... strangely it was Bardo who dropped to the floor
Zardo stood there shaken and dazed
"How can I still be alive?" he said,"he was way faster than I was. And he fired so many shots, he couldn't have missed them all'.
Suddenly the Bartender let out a shout and pointed his finger
"Look!" he said in amazement, Look!  Look at the wall behind you"
They all turned and there on the wall behind Zardo, drawn in bullets... the outline of a little heart.

You are hard to put into words.

You leave me speechless at times,
but the again, occasionally,
I have the daring urge to scream so loud at you that spittle flies.

More often than not though,
I just want to scream at myself.

The night sky and the stars and the moon question me.
Irresolution creeps to the basement of my soul,
snapping the homemade defenses in two.
Bile and tears climb my throat as shadow and trepidation crawl into my head.

Hidden secrets fester along with the feeling of emptiness.
That void eats positivity like a tiger eats deer:
stalking resolutely,
followed by a pounce,
and then teeth shredding everything to little bits.

The stars cry out for answers,
while the sky demands too much in order to maintain my sanity,
and the moon just gazes inquisitively,
wondering what darkness brought me to my knees.

Bright colors wash out in the moonlight while indecision clouds my perception.
Misunderstanding loops around all of my decisions;
death to all right-doing.

if you place a stethoscope inquisitively on the
beating chest of your life, expect to hear a -
plod, plod, plod.

you'd think it to be the footsteps of a
fumbling toddler; fumbling feet
feeling the flat, alien earth.

or the muffled footsteps of a stranger
stumbling into your path, turning your
tables, stumbling into your life.

you could regret that it wasn't your
feet's soundless plodding on the moon,
that there was no greatness in your silence.

while at times you remember
the footsteps of friends converging
into your life - diverging from it.

and then to cease all speculation -
you recognise the footsteps
of god at your doorstep.

Assembling a bouquet of flowers on my path toward home,
an assortment of Hyacinth and Daffodil, Fern and Cherry Blossom
and some other flowery **** that I managed to conjure;
drunk, levee en masse du la fleur.

I felt pity in the bottom of my stomach
as I strode concrete turbulence across the road and
toward the McDonalds.
If I were a chicken it would have been
no wonder why I had
crossed the road
but
since I was a human being
my reasons, experiences, hair colour, blood alcohol content and steel-stomach absenteeism furled into a tightly wound knot-of-motif.

I stood
and stared
waiting to gain momentum.
Peering at the swaying, sobbing mob waiting impatiently
brazenly and vacantly
for their shot at luke-warm burger patty adorned with onion that looks like little baby teeth and cheese so processed it will never melt, I realized that

we both stood in ecstasy.  

And I stood, swaying in the breeze as all good drunkards do, blankly and inquisitively; I began to wonder what it was that I was
witnessing.
Did I want to participate in mindless habitué? spend my money on
**** food that could
hardly be considered as such?
Stand in line, jaw hanging loose like a gorilla that had voluntarily dislocated his mandible so that he didn’t have to chew? wait for my shot at glory?

This is glory: the bars had all closed, and now there was no haven for the drunk ****** to congregate better than the local gut-fill station.



I took one final look at my squandered comrades, brains scrambled, disgusting.



I hate you *******, ******* it I hate you all.

"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."

I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.

I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.

"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."

My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.

He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!

His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.

But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!

For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,

as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.

I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.

And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!

For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.

I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--

I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,

I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky

like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.

I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.

I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:

"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."

Judge Bristol pronounced his sentence with the following words and said,
"The said William Bonney, alias Kid, alias William Antrim
shall be hanged by the neck until his body be dead, Dead, DEAD!!!"
Shackled Billy left the courthouse smiling, almost as if in glee.
"Why are you smiling?" an interviewer asked him inquisitively.
"What's the point in dwelling on the dreary side of life?" the Kid responded,
"Today the joke is on me."

A true tribute to The Kid's charm, humor and endearing personality.
The above is not legend. The above is true documented history.

Here i am, ripped, open.
Bones bared, muscles scarred and torn for you.
As you inquisitively take your eyes and survey the damage,
like some sort of architect,
of a future grander, design,
you have in mind.
And i must miss every single heartbeat you make,
in me,
i lost it when words came from your mouth,
and ordered me away.
So each beat lost its echo, it lost its twin,
it, lost, me.
And my bloodied chest was pinned back;
my breastplate, no longer a piece of shining armor,
lost its shine,
dull to your touch,
as you peeled it back to get to the very heart of me;
though the plate was in no hurry to leave,
it was stuck down quite hard,
and still words whispered around me,
a thousand different voices telling me what to do.
Yet, all i had, was, you.
It was you, i wanted just you.
You.
You, who is putting fingers into dying flesh,
You, who, is taking the very best of me,
of us.
You were my morning, and my nighttime,
my right hand and my left,
my second ear, my watchful eye;
And this concave chest of indescribable treasure,
is where you, used to lay, with me,
telling me that my heartbeat is too fast,
and i'd tell you 'its for you'.
So now you come to claim it,
for who would have such a thing to play with,
and never use it for fun?
So you said those words, and pulled my heart from my chest,
and as i died,
you said 'don't worry, its not for long'.
So i listen to the last beats of my life's drum,
pulsating in your arms,
you make 'it' into a new plaything,
as i lie dying, bare *****, dying slowly,
wrapped in peoples arms, crying to fill the void,
I can hear myself in the last few contractions,
trying to hold myself within,
and you're stroking my heart like it belongs to you,
and no-one knows why,
you've left me to die,
lost, and lonely,
so you could go out to play.

I look at my friend,
and sadness drops an anchor on that heart,
I'm sure it's hoping to port here,
as tears well in her eyes again,
I ask "are you alright lady?"
an you probably,
know the answer was NO.

( My fur baby,
or as I believe-
a spirit animal,
my familiar -
but not for dark witchcraft,
ha, no,
this is just...a ....story ....yeah, a story,
about my Tanley cat )


Cooking dinner oh boy, meatloaf-
chorizo sausage, pork an beef,
and I am distracted in every way,
I refuse to make something that's not,
delicious an with the right ingredients,
anything is possible,
now exhasted and sipping wine-
why he just climbed right up my leg!
"Ouch guy!" as I pull him off my jeans,
looking over at her,
still emotional,
while trying not to seem rude,
"he's so strange"  I chuckle warmly,
I pat his sweet furry head,
and shake my finger at him-
no no darling kitty,
go wait there in your bed.

She forces some kind of smile,
then I look at his eyes,
and he just looks -confused.

I pat his sweet little head again,
rub his chin and pick him up,
I'm just too busy with nightly chores,
to listen to his heart-
at present,
so I walk over to Melissa,
and rub a feeling hand over her back,
trying any words of reason,
but reasoning with a tumultuous heart,
is sometimes impossible,
I know, from experience sigh
I know little Tanley cat
you want to help and I'm sure we will,
I feel her an his angst.

A half hour later, or so-
as my routine feet amble across,
the old an quite cold hardwood floor,
over to a chair against the wall,
where Melissa and the roommate Tom sits
at the bar still playing cards,
a pleasantly surprising game of rummy
though she still can't see in that tunnel,
I make my way,
over to a chair and sit -
at looooong last,

Ahhhhhh....a very deep breath
as eyes close fractionally,
and I sigh deeply for,
taking a well deserved pause,
as my latest invention bubbles,
eagerly in the oven -
as I have still to feed everyone,
Lil Tanley comes to my feet with an offer,
I look down and nod for him,
to come up
and he gladly obliges.

Now I love animals,
I always have,
but I've had few in my adult life,
mostly as a child or teenager as,
my living pods didn't allow,
for such wonderful critters,
smiles

I have always thought myself,
to be- somewhat at least,
awake to my life maybe,
but I suppose,
awake doesn't always,
equate to being aware,
and awareness is the thing,
that taught my heart to share.

While life being such as it is,
I didn't have many,
opportunities to learn
much worldly wisdom
other than what we knew-  
these little furry spiritual souls
are already enlightened,
gratitude is what I think they hope to earn,
soft and sweet sometimes,
always independent,
little tiny furry sentient beings maybe,
well sounds crazy, I dig,
but I think so anyway-
an here's only part of why.

Tanley had been waiting,
an meanwhile-
we had considered adoption,
somewhat early,
for what we thought,
so shortly after the death of Spanky,
my first really close spirit animal,
the others I hadn't allowed
for time or space,
some touched my heart- but Tantan?
he's the manman,
he knows his special place,
he is a pure heart-
that I know well,
he attached himself with a needle
and thread to mine,
maybe an ancient spell was cast,
not a bad one,
if so- this is all good,
I have a warm relationship with my spirit guides these days-
didn't always understand
that part to well,
I'm not "psychic" -
maybe sensitive and very easily tuned in-
my empathetic antennas going off,

An let me again stress,
this cat is very special,
chosen for us,
I am certain of it,
and he is just so unique-
an I know I know,
like every mom says,
and it's not completely -
understood either,
by anyone -
well he is cute and soft,
but everyone,
an I mean EV-er-Y-OnE,
comments on his "beauty"
- drawn in moth to flame like,
I have seen many adult lost-
totally mesmerized
four at once for over an hour,
all participating in his fun.

He is like a newborn gift,
just weeks young he came-
not now but 5 months old,
infusing all our hearts with simple joy,
he helped us bear the Winter's cold,
from the amazing connection,
we ALL so obviously share,
an Lil Tanley he so wants to care,

Now my Tanley cat looked at me again,
then her, though this time -
persistent like,
in parroted movements,
repeating his message
though I am still resistant, apparently,
until the emergency emotional bulletin,
comes through and BINGO-

Oh, now I get it boy!
Then suddenly I realized,
he wants to comfort and to help her!

Alright go ahead I hearten his request,
as he is hesitating though not wavering,
patiently, and sweetly waiting,
for her soon acknowledgement,
I say to them all-
" He wants to help, just look"
and I pat him again,
"go on now" he looks again,
at all parties, inquisitively,
she looks at him
all her insecurities prominent,
but softly her heart eases -
he stretches from my knee,
to her upper arm,
her comfort means he pleases,
outstretching paw like feelers of hope.

She smiles a teary thanks,
silently in her head,.
I can hear it with my heart,
and **** it all to hell sometimes,
that hearing -
some parts of a heart
you rather not know,
but his I listen to gladly,
and I see him rock,
back and forth like an,
Olympian runner trying to save,
someone and maybe who knows,
perhaps we lived in another life,
together I wonder,

Maybe somewhere in beautiful,
and ancient Greece together,
as he always does this just before,
he jumps, one, two - up we go,
onto her left shoulder and finally,
he finds his warm perch.

Ever since first night we got him,
just 8 new weeks old -
too soon I know -
but my poor heart wanted him,
to be with his family which is us,
he desperately needed to find his home,
still big for his age and not sad,
well adjusted was this furry strange,
and wonderful little misfit,
the one the other lady didn't want
and not suffering his momma's loss,
too awful bad at least.

Tanley cat went straight to his employment,
taking very seriously his task,
with such concerted effort,
it's not as if I ask,
as he willingly and unselfishly performs,
a dazzling balancing act
- a feat of his desperation to stop,
sadness and his ugly friend depression,
as he is purring,  
and trying to groom her lovely hair.

He burrows his head into her hair,
bunting her sweetly,
showing he's in love,
giving it his best effort,
looking at me for approval,
he has every bit of it,
and all of the attention,

A warm smile finally breaks the spell,
my heart feels that anchor weight lift
in all our amusement,
as  he burrows into her neck,
looking for some small reward,
for that solace gifted,
as she gratefully giggles a tiny bit.
and a wee little light seeps in,
through a teenie hopeful crack,
in sweet tired dark sad eyes
I see a glimmer of hope.

Ma Cherie © 2017

A man, about 50, sitting on a street corner,
A change cup sitting in his lap with only a few ***** pennies resting on the bottom, rattling slightly.
A small girl with a blue dress walks along behind her mother, holding her hand.
She stops.
She peers at the man, head tilted to the right inquisitively.
Her mother tugs her hand slightly but the girl stays put,
just staring.
The man stares back at her, watery eyes watching her hesitantly.
Suddenly, the girl steps towards him.
A quick “Hi” escapes her lips.
The ghost of a smile passes over the man's face,
cracking his dark skin which, hasn't stretched this way for a long time.
The girl's mom stands, clicking the heel of her shoe impatiently on the sidewalk.
The girl slowly lowers herself and sits on the cold cement in front of the man.
Her blue eyes look deep into his own faded brown ones.
She slides closer to him and looks into his cup.
She looks quizzically up at him, her face asking why there is so little inside.
Her mother steps forward now and attempts to grab her away.
The girl lunges to the man; she wraps her small pale arms around the mans dark neck.
He raises his arms tentatively, holding them around her small frame.
Her mother pulls her away and carries her down the street,
leaving the man sitting alone on the corner,
no better off than before,
but then again,
much better off...

During the half term break
from school
Janice said
come see my new canary

Gran bought it for me
and so you went with her
through the Square
and across Bath Terrace

and into the block of flats
where she lived
with her gran and bird
and she was excited

and talked and talked
of the new canary
what do you call him?
you asked

Yellow
she said
because its yellow
and the name fits

and when you got
to her flat
her gran opened the door
and Janice said

I've brought Benedict
to see the new bird
her gran said
ok

and let you in
and Janice took you
into the sitting room
and there in a bird cage

was the new bird
sitting there
on a perch
making whistling noises

some say they talk
if you teach them
Janice said
and I'm going to teach it

to say things
and won't that be good?
providing you don't
teach it silly things

her gran said
my cousin had one
and he taught it
all kinds of bad words

which made
his mother mad
what kind of words?
Janice asked

never you mind
what words
her gran said
if I catch you teaching

this bird bad words
I'll tan your backside
I won't Gran
Janice said

just teach it
sensible words
well mind you do
her gran said

now how about
some lemonade and cake?
yes please
you both said

and her gran went off
to get the lemonade
and cake
and Janice put

her finger
through the bars
of the cage
and talked to the bird

but the bird
shuffled away from her
on the perch
and was quiet

still she talked to it
and but her finger in
as far as she could
but it just walked as

far from her
as it could go
staring at her
with it stark eyes

not very friendly is it?
you said
maybe it doesn't like
your red beret

maybe red frightens it?
so she took off
her red beret
and the bird came closer

and began chirping away
and it kind of pecked
at her finger
not roughly

but inquisitively
as if to find out
what it was
then it shuffled off again

and then went
and pecked at some
food from a feeder
at the side

of the cage
maybe I could get it out
sometime
and let it sit

on my finger
like I've seen done
on TV
Janice said

what if it flies away?
you asked
I'll keep the door
and windows closed

she said
and she opened
the cage door
and put her hand in

to get the bird
but the bird
moved away from her
and flapped its wings

what are you doing?
her gran said
entering the room
Janice took her hand out

of the cage
and shut the door
just wanted to let it
sit on my finger

Janice said
her gran put the tray
with lemonade
and pieces of cake

on the table
and came over
to the bird cage
you might have frightened it

then it might die
she peered in
at the canary
which was perched there

staring back at her
now don't you
do that again
do you hear?

yes Gran
Janice said sheepishly
her eyes lowered
nice bird

you said
maybe it's shy
at the moment
I guess after

a little while
it'll get friendly
do you think so?
Janice said

sure it will
you replied
her gran smiled
and walked off

back to the kitchen again
and you and Janice
ate the cake
and drank the lemonade

and you both watched
the canary as it chirped
and walked
along the perch

and there
on the side chair
was Janice's red beret
and she asked

what words
do I teach?
but you said
I couldn't say.

Class Pictures have always been the best

Wherever you go east or west

They really remind you of the good old times

When you were young and your pocket full of dimes

Class pictures ought to be always handy

Seen and enjoyed with a rainbow candy


Sam


Today is Friday, Sept. 27, the 270th day of 2014 with 95 to follow.

The moon is waxing. Morning stars are Jupiter, Uranus and Venus. Evening stars are Mars, Mercury, Neptune and Saturn.

In 1950, U.N. troops took the South Korean capital of Seoul from North Korean forces.

In 1960, the first televised presidential debate aired from a Chicago TV studio. It featured candidates John F. Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon.

A thought for the day:

A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be. -- Wayne Gretzky

QUOTES FOR THE DAY:

A play should give you something to think about. When I see a play and understand it the first time, then I know it can't be much good.

------------------------

An election is coming. Universal peace is declared and the foxes have a sincere interest in prolonging the lives of the poultry.

Thomas Stearnes Eliot


If we can connect in some tiny way with a human that doesn't agree with us, then maybe we won't blow up the planet.

Nancy White


POETRY

THE EPISTEMOLOGY OF CHEERIOS


Geffrey Davis

this the week of our son's first
upright wobble from kitchen

to living-room and he begins planting
tiny Os wherever his fleshy fingers

can reach each first shelf each chair
cushion each pair of shoes he goes

to bury a piece behind the TV
inside the pool of exposed wires

we've been saving him from
since he took to motion and I let him

go for it he survives but why
this risk how costly this whole-

grain crumb back from
the wilderness of worry for whom



About this poem

"This poem is part of a new series on fatherhood tentatively titled 'The Daddy Notebooks.' A recurring tension of the series is the struggle to balance the forces of belief and worry."
-Geffrey Davis

About Geffrey Davis

Geffrey Davis is the author of "Revising the Storm" (BOA Editions, 2014). He teaches at the University of Arkansas and lives in Fayetteville, Ark.

*
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.



(c) 2014 Geffrey Davis.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate


A Tip for WOMEN

Open your eyes

To accentuate your eyes, use a little white eyeshadow just under the brow at each corner of the eye.

JOKES

Siblings

A Sunday school teacher was discussing the Ten Commandments with her five and six year olds.

After explaining the commandment to "honor" thy Father and thy Mother, she asked, "Is there a commandment that teaches us how to treat our brothers and sisters?"

Without missing a beat one little boy (the oldest of a family) answered, "Thou shall not ****."


Getting Gray?

One day a little girl was sitting and watching her mother do the dishes at the kitchen sink. She suddenly noticed that her mother had several strands of white hair sticking out in contrast on her brunette head.

She looked at her mother and inquisitively asked, "Why are some of your hairs white, Mom?"

Her mother replied, "Well, every time that you do something wrong and make me cry or unhappy, one of my hairs turns white."

The little girl thought about this revelation for a while and then said, "Momma, how come ALL of grandma's hairs are white?"


Class Pictures
The children had all been photographed, and the teacher was trying to persuade them each to buy a copy of the group picture.

"Just think how nice it will be to look at it when you are all grown up and say, 'There's Jennifer, she's a lawyer,' or 'That's Michael, He's a doctor.'

A small voice at the back of the room rang out, "And there's the teacher, She's dead."

Science Lesson

A teacher was giving a lesson on the circulation of the blood. Trying to make the matter clearer, she said, "Now, class, if I stood on my head, the blood, as you know, would run into it, and I would turn red in the face.."

"Yes," the class said.

"Then why is it that while I am standing upright in the ordinary position the blood doesn't run into my feet?"

A little fellow shouted, "Cause your feet ain't empty."


Have a super nice Saturday!

He arrived in this world he once knew, much like he came into it the first time: alone.
He searched long and hard, trying to remember where he had been, and what he had done that fateful day.

When he found that which he sought, he was looking into eyes that were once his.
He gazed upon a face not yet hardened by the years he had seen; not yet marred by lines of a wisdom that was obtained through no small amount of difficulties.
The man who stood before him now, had a physique reminiscent of a welterweight prize fighter-it was one that he had not known for quite some time now.
That strapping young man before him, with a full head of hair and a mouth full of white teeth, squinted his eyes at him, inquisitively, through the distance.
The elder of the two men opened his mouth to garner the attention of the younger, and stopped, suddenly.

He remembered how he had gotten the scars on his body; how many years of hard living he had forced himself through.

He wheeled around suddenly, dodging people on the crowded street, as the curious young man who had nearly recognized him tried to fight through the flooded streets to pursue a man whom he could not place as a memory, but still recalled, albeit hauntingly.

As the elder man dashed madly away, losing the man many years his junior, he shook his head in disgust, and scoffed at himself.

“How stupid of me, to think I could change things.”

He turned around one last time, and took a look at the man he once was, and promptly pivoted in the opposite direction.

He knew he would never listen.

I sat there beneath the big Maple tree in the center of Sunkenwater Park. I leaned back onto my hands, peering over the compendium of countless smaller trees that littered the grounds like so many cigarette butts and beer cans. The Sun hung high, looking down at me with a smile you could only see if you were staring directly at it, which I did for a moment until my vision became bleached with Godlike light. I sighed, scanned the grounds again and then slowly descended onto my back. I stared straight up into the spider leg set up of branches above me, hanging there indifferently and silently. I sighed again without even noticing, this time completely unintentionally.

And that's when her head found it's way into my kind of sight. She was standing over me, looking down, eye squinted like she was examining some microscopic and otherworldly specimen.
"Hey," slipped from her pretty pinkish lips.
"Hi," I replied, staring right back.
She smiled slightly and sat down next to me, descending slowly and gracefully into her back just like me, right next to me.
"What's up?" I turned so I was facing her ear as she refused to face me yet.
"Nothing, just thinking."
"Oh. About what?" I narrowed my brow inquisitively.
"Us. Me and you. And why."
I cocked my head slightly. "Why what?"
"Why you love me so much."
I pursed my lips. Turned my head back so I was staring at the spidery branches and breathed slowly out if my nose. Then I pointed up, aiming my finger at the the beams of cut up Sunlight that was finding its way through the branches above our heads and onto us, the source if all life.
"Because you remind me of the Sun."
"The Sun, huh?"
"You give me what I need. You give me my reasons. You give me movement. Physically and emotionally. And you do always fund a way. A way through. A way out. You're a resilient person. And you do it without even trying. I love you because you are who you are. And who you are is pretty **** ridiculous in the sense that I've never net a soul quite like you. For lack of a less cliche term; you are my light. And I wouldn't trade that for anything in the world."
She kept her gaze upward for a long time. I did the same. Soaking up the Sun's rays with a dumb grin like I knew it was the last time is be able to take part in such a miracle. It didnt matter in that moment that she didnt love me. All that mattered was that I loved her. And would continue to do so, unapologetically, until her rays of light stopped finding their way into my heart, which had been growing increasingly dimmer and dimmer until I met her. I was thankful and I felt dumb but I was too proud to care.
She turned to me, but I didn't turn back. She lifted her hand up off of the grass and found mine, interlocking her fingers and turning again to face the sky.

Through tranquil strangeness, I have wandered.
Where have I come to now?
A figure stands before me,
I know their face somehow.
And on this vista of illusion, its the only one I've found.
Please tell me where it is I am,
Or do you even know?
They said, I'm afraid I cannot answer that,
All I know is you may not go.
Inquisitively I called to them,
What on Earth then should I do.
They said, now that's enough of that,
Earth no longer concerns you.
It didn't hurt, but I struggled,
I said, I've left so much undone.
There were lights in that darkness,
Someday they might have shone.
They were quite for one more moment,
Perhaps they had seen what I foresaw.
But their eyes, they were empty,
And their knowing rant begun.
Yes, you could have written all those stories,
And played all those songs.
Found your courage, and got married,
And held your only son.
Stopped living in your head,
And said your thoughts out loud.
Never cared for convention,
Known no one really lives in a crowd.
Taken time to lay naked,
And marveled at the rain.
But as they say, what's done is done now,
And its here you shall remain.

time was talking to me in a bubble of dreams
asked me if i was ready for a new experience
since time doesn't speak to you normally, i stuttered:
ye-yes, i'm ready, bu-but where will it take me?

well, young man, time said, it will take you to
a country that has never been discovered
this country is made of islands, thousands of them
nobody lives there, except orange birds and fish

but forget all the islands, they are lifeless, excluding one:
home to a man who is called golem the violinist
he consists of letters and is mute, he can not speak a word
how will i talk to golem then? i asked inquisitively

time didn't answer my question; it just smiled gently
i blinked and afterwards, i arrived on the island
swarms of orange birds were roaming the air
silver waves were surging against my naked feet

was i really dreaming? i pinched myself and it hurt
i was not dreaming because i could feel the pain
suddenly, i could hear a violin, slowly played
i turned around and saw golem, his eyes closed

golem was huge, athletic and coated in tattoos
the entire body was covered with the alphabet
golem's head was nodding to the melody of the music
puzzled, i asked him which song he was performing

he didn't answer; i had forgotten that he was mute
i asked again, he put the violin aside, devoted mien
golem raised his index finger and placed it on a letter
it was an "s", curiously, i followed his finger, as he continued

i finally read the words "sunshine adagio in d minor"
but at this stage of my life, i was just listening, passively
today, i depend on music to write, on orchestral sounds
"sunshine adagio in d minor" was played by the golem

he presented me the grace and strength of the violin
i could never visit this island again; never in my life
golem enchanted me so heavily, my memory is erased
i can't remember the way to his island anymore

it is not on any map, nowhere, but i kept something:
golem introduced me to breathtaking music, heaven yeah!
and the violin has been inspiring me since then
sunshine, adagio in d minor: i do admire you, song

i thank you golem for your gift and for your time
maybe you'll read this one day and tell me the way back
back to your island, back to the birthplace of muse
i love you brother, you are like kin, all yours, mikey

and you'd come up again
in our conversation,
a bit flustered
wandering through haystacks in June
what else did you want from me?
it's either this or that...
words shared yet lost
meaningless and obsolete
a hazy afternoon for two

i knew a child who built houses
out of pebbles and twigs
he glued them together with honeycombs
and called it love.
those inhibitions
he tore up and sealed
for another day

then one day the wind thought
to come around to tumble
the bees harpooning above him
hypnotizing stings,
the cries within him
undulated to the frequencies,
of bright peonies in the spring.

and I saw this,
twist I did,
to bend the story wayward
like the rivers without moons
peering inquisitively at me.

But they were only fictions
carved by ancestors and
ancestors past,
whichever way to get their point across
to hold my head in their arms.
it was
folklore I'd forgotten to let go
the impossible book held deep in my chest
the anomaly I'd refused to relent
the searching for paradise.

Along a tenacious cliffside,
Peers a lone sailor.
Spectacting the silent war,
The unyielding assault of waves.

Patches of grass, green with hope,
Litter the gritty sand.
Each shell sweeped upon the shore,
Entrance the young man with glee.

For he studies the horizon,
Searching for whom he's found.
A half scaled belle,
Of which he's called his own.

She swims the calloused tides,
In search of his arms called home.
Upon the beach she lay,
Covered in the sea's salty foam.

The sailor found her,
As the sand blends between his feet.
Next to her he rests,
Next to her he is complete.

The maiden turns to him,
"Jimmy Gray" she whispers.
The sailor replys inquisitively.
"I love you"

            ~

Who sits amongst the tree tops,
peering down, inquisitively poking his nose?
Ah, yes! The little Nature boy.
The forgotten child whom nature has reclaimed.

Why it was years ago now, but yes, still
I remember. Eerie foggy mornings,
the quiet groan of the forests, and the distant
rustle of the foliage, above and around them.

Then, as if by some cruel plot,
a ravenous pack of animals wild,
bore down upon them,
one, two, three to a person,
weapons fired, weapons dropped,
useless, now they lay lifeless.

Yet, by some strange miracle
the boy survived. He grew and grew
eating of the plants and fruits
which the forest gave.
And, until this day he is a mystery
but a mystery people long to see.

I watch the way he walks past me down the narrow hallway, pretending not to notice my existence.
I watch the way he looks at me suddenly with his large, dark, brown eyes, but quickly looks away, so that I will not see.
I watch when he laughs, and his smile slowly fades back to a serious, more reposeful look.
I watch when he is struggling to focus on his work, and clearly has something else consuming his mind.
I watch the way he listens thoroughly and inquisitively when someone talks about something he loves.
I watch the way he pretends not to care, when he most certainly cares a whole lot more than most would think.
I watch the way he fools everyone-that is, everyone except me.

-m.a.

There is truth to be found in all things
The old man cleaning ******* from train platforms
Steam rising from ice cold ponds at sunrise
Frost clasping the tall grasses
The orange, pink and blue of morning skies
Glittering sea channels weaving through mud flats
A father and daughter walking to the bus stop hand in hand
Magpies flying overhead, dancing and swooping
Concentric circles appearing as moorhens paddle
A brave jogger running eastwards
My daughter, sleepy, resting in bed
My wife looking at me inquisitively
My own reflection in the glass
I notice such things
And I ponder their beauty
As I try to deeply understand
The nature of things

./*because thinking about money is always a "near-miss"... this hierarchy of transvaluation... money and the philosopher's stone... compound the paradox... toying with nouns and adjective to imply almost anything... to compose an artifact that could turn a stone into gold... put money: which is now a f.i.a.t. *****-wonka... that money isn't even paper anymore... some major ****** blues... what's the point of thinking about money seriously... when... clearly... there's such a defire to not spend it... let alone earn it... to subsequently spend it... for a contest of "life" outside the realm of "existence" as defined by auxiliary strategy of: because the theatre allowed me to pass the time... mere mortal man... a month's worth of time: with pressing interludes... i dedicate to a juggling act between a charles dickens' novel and a milan kundera essay... "somehow" i listen to the adverts and i am inclined to be immune to them... since... if i only have enough for a bowl of rice... real or hypothetical scenario... or: i only want a bowl of rice... the advert is like a t.v.: a 20th century pièce de résistance... how can you make adverts for people: who are unable / unwilling to spend "money"... mough-knee... mow-mow? last time i heard my student loan is written off after... 15 years? and i am not supposed to pay a pound of it... if i... do not earn... over 15 thousand pounds a year... such the pleasures of thought: after a while.... you can almost forget a pleasure of spending money... let alone earning it... otherwise... such a fluidity goo section of life: when earning also implies: spending... on non-essentials... a concept of money akin to something essential like wielding a spear... or throwing a stone... but... tipping a waiter... because... it's somehow socially "convenient": the aesthetic of having to over-price a cooked meal in a public event... *

   by no extension of the "claim"...
it's impossible to claim a cognitive coherence:
a narrative... these days...
there's still barrage of lukewarm giggling
events though...

ad hoc: hammer / nail...

        and... a priori / a posteriori?

or rather: that there is an an hoc
hammer / nail...

             most certainly there's an a priori
hammer / nail...
          
the a posteriori hammer? a ******
tool...

       the a priori hammer:
                       is clearly defined by...
   the action of hammering something...
most probably to break it open...
rather than also stumble upon
nails... and subsequently
worked on planks of wood...

            the a priori hammer is:
           a "hammer"...
                it's only a stone...
  there is no handle there's only the head...
or that the head is flat...
which would pre-supposed nails...

then again... the a posteriori hammer:
can be the ad hoc hammer
but it can also be the a priori hammer
should such murderous thoughts
of hypotheticals tangle...

          lazily inhibited or otherwise making
a leisure of a coherence...
once upon a time there was the existential
thorough-through-and-through
of "concern"...
                 now this burdening:
  
cope via bearing -
             it is exhaustive to merely cope...
to fit the shoes of mediocre pretences...
the burden of coping is
somehow... not a concern:
along the way so many ad hoc propositions
lie inquisitively numbed...
a skull envy of brain mushroom juice...
a wholly adjective project
of...             "detail"...
      something a question of an ottoman romance...
at the height of their imperialism...
there was the victorian novel and a london:
ad hoc: for the purpose of the mythos
of jack the ripper...
an elder hyde... a dorian gray..

  jack the ripper is unlike a clear cut
media celebrity of the h'american way of:
beside thinking...
      the credentials of making a...
profiling spectacle...
    jack / jacob was never...
sentenced... alluded to... made into
a certainty...
      rummaging in victorian detail London...
a height of an empire...
readying for the decay...
               there's a scent of...
a trust in ottoman hair / bear oils...
then the stink of mastering
the unfathomable foe of one's own hair
using nothing but rain water...

this romance of history: as with all history:
a look toward a past is
always a look toward:
yes, there i was... rich and grievous with pride
akin to a Cicero...
the past... when one had the money...
is always a prized concern for staging
nostalgia coup d'etats...
                and such....

                        nothing in the currency
of... to have invested in a currency of a surname...
one must have been born with...
a concern to bereave an upstanding
via lady mort...
       it's not like i was...
the ******* son of... the Merovingian...
loiter further to loot...

             if i were the born satire of Mr. Kalashnikoff...
a hybrid non-essential sour...
and sorrow of a son...
the cooker oyster...
the... hardly pickled cucumber...

bunny-bon-weaver...
    come the tail like cotton candy and
the forever missing 1960s
nostalgia that: once upon a time...
a spacing... mirroring nostalgia for...
a past...

        no            no            no
this part... of "disappearing" into the sunset...
my hardly best exercise in
the use of language...
such an objective detail of "concerning"
grammar...
           it's beginning to last...
having this language... not as an indigenous
lifeline and rehab...
             to speak only one
language in this... globalist choir-practice
of inferno...
             it'z alzmozt amasing...
                     it was bound to reach
fever-pitch of: a "happeningz"...

                          i would like to veto...
but no... it's not a philosophy of an exercise of vote..
i simply... default...
                 to barricade fudge-packaging
factory dynamic of stealing: stool.

- the sanctity of the most tyrannical...
echo-whimpering...
       that it's forever the night...
                         that there's a shadow-body replica
to invest in... could a dream-world
architecture come into play...
a *** a wine a ***** cocktail...
alcohol is not a perfume base
or a piña colada "after-party"...

  repentant drunks and people:
who dwell on alcohol having some...
ulterior purpose...
beside... a numbing altruism...
teasing at a solipsism...
    
as of: forever "passing" as  "pass grade"...
this lobotomy encompass
this harvest of:
there's a cat sleeping in
a place where my head
should align itself to the purpose
of quickening lacklustre:

that there's greenwich and that that there's
a loon'don..
somehow there was "someone"
sensible dragging my carcass
to the foundation of salt...
for the possibility of:
that there's water too...
but a stone!
                      i want to find
a crease... and sand too!

Discussions are stunning

Whizzing past with fast cars
Country side in my eyes
The smells hit inside

We listen to bieber,
We dance
And sing
Then little one
A believer...

She is embraced

Look at the sky
Behind the grey
I say

The sunset so beautiful
Orange and grey
She says

I ask
What is your favourite part

She replies
Sunset

Inquisitively I reply
Why

She sits for a while
Considers
Sighs
And
Replies

Its pretty, orange, shining
Purple and pink some times
She stops, considers her response

Then sighs and replies, with arms and a beautiful smile

Its just too beautiful to describe.

Took the words right out of my mouth
The animated child.

Enchantingly nonchalantly unfurling before
blind eyes merely able to gape in awe
ephemeral smithereens of expanding plenum,
the abyssal pervasive womb encompassing all

that exists, was is and will be, nurturing
emptiness with energy for nothingness not
to be. Swirling particles coalescing to breed
unfathomable incandescent spheres

radiating blistering lights in waves, hurtling
everywhither as beacons celebrating glory
of omnific productions till mirific explosions
scatter pieces crisping to bond, under laws

of attraction relentlessly spinning, rotating
an elliptic orbit at a distance, showered in eons
by debris enclosing drops of lymph, finely
elegantly tuned through evanescent time, to allow

the esoteric birthing of rare creatures gazing,
curious and inquisitively reflecting, recognising
mother does not contemplate repetition nor
perfection, as she haphazardly reveals inestimable

varieties, offspring of sweeping sublime
creativity with which she munificently shares
a comprehensive consciousness inspired,
suggesting the child indeed could grasp

the extent of infinity
despite blind eyes.

"Oh no, he's down here again" said the little ant to the other little ant.

"Why does he come down so low?" responded one of the little ants inquisitively.

"He just gets like that sometimes, that's all" chimed in the caterpillar, who was baking in the sun.

From atop came a wise old butterfly, it took its seat next to the ants and the caterpillar.

"He's looking for answers, he's looking for meaning" said the caterpillar.

"Don't worry it's ok, he'll get there in the end, we all do" replied the butterfly as it took off and soldiered on.

I'm just waiting for the day you tell me you love her.
The loss will creep in slowly but surely like an overdose
All the words will swell in my throat
An emotional ER where there is no hope.
Every mouth confessing "I told you so"

I'm just waiting for the day you tell me you've loved her for a while.
The picture I've been staring at starts to shift and breathe
Hanging artwork I once knew intricately I now I observe inquisitively
Watching the imagine slip to an empty frame in front of me

I'm just waiting for the day where you have stolen smiles and glances exchanged.
Oh sunflower, you are but a stalk without your sun,
Removed from you by the shade of autumn leaves
A withered sprout cut with the glass wielded by intimacy
Now dirt at the bottom of a ravine.

I'm just waiting for the giggles and the glee and the not thinking straight
A vast expansion of stars before my eyes, the itch of the grass on my spine and your hand conversing for hours with mine.
The pavement and the passenger seat
The songs that mean something and all their beats
The fruit that falls always tastes more sweet.

I'm just waiting for the loss, the change, the taking away.
A TV channel I can't skip or look away
In a darkened room the glow of chaotic static fills my brain
Numb and paralyzed, never in your sights,
Yet I think I hear that famous Shakespeare tale playing from behind.

I'm just waiting for the replacing, my heart aching and accepting it's too late.
Does a spiders legs get stuck in the dew of a rose?
and does it's poison change the fragrance of the petals that grow?
And once the dew melts does anybody know
If the spider leaves, or if the rose lets it go?

I'm just waiting, anticipating, the outside dot I am to be
For in the waiting, in the silence, I chose not to speak.