AMBIGRAM VIII

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































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AMBIGRAM
­
Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































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­
































































­
































































­































































A­MBIGRAM

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­



























































AMBIG­RAM

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.

There was an Old Person of Tring,
Who embellished his nose with a ring;
Ha gazed at the moon
Every evening in June,
That ecstatic Old Person in Tring.

Tring tring
My phone rings
Me: Hello, who is on the line.
Nature: Hello, this is Nature.
Me: tell me what can I do for you?
Nature: I am nature. I want my life.
Me: what you want?
Nature: I am losing my property. With which I lived so far.
Me: what are your properties?
Nature: My trees my plants and they are my life
Now I understood it's a "Nature Call" real Nature. Not a guy with a name "Nature".
The way we are cutting down trees
Made me think
And this lead to Global warming

Tiare Tahiti

MAMUA, when our laughter ends,
And hearts and bodies, brown as white,
Are dust about the doors of friends,
Or scent ablowing down the night,
Then, oh! then, the wise agree,
Comes our immortality.
Mamua, there waits a land
Hard for us to understand.
Out of time, beyond the sun,
All are one in Paradise,
You and Pupure are one,
And Tau, and the ungainly wise.
There the Eternals are, and there
The Good, the Lovely, and the True,
And Types, whose earthly copies were
The foolish broken things we knew;
There is the Face, whose ghosts we are;
The real, the never-setting Star;
And the Flower, of which we love
Faint and fading shadows here;
Never a tear, but only Grief;
Dance, but not the limbs that move;
Songs in Song shall disappear;
Instead of lovers, Love shall be;
For hearts, Immutability;
And there, on the Ideal Reef,
Thunders the Everlasting Sea!
And my laughter, and my pain,
Shall home to the Eternal Brain.
And all lovely things, they say,
Meet in Loveliness again;
Miri's laugh, Teipo's feet,
And the hands of Matua,
Stars and sunlight there shall meet,
Coral's hues and rainbows there,
And Teura's braided hair;
And with the starred 'tiare's' white,
And white birds in the dark ravine,
And 'flamboyants' ablaze at night,
And jewels, and evening's after-green,
And dawns of pearl and gold and red,
Mamua, your lovelier head!
And there'll no more be one who dreams
Under the ferns, of crumbling stuff,
Eyes of illusion, mouth that seems,
All time-entangled human love.
And you'll no longer swing and sway
Divinely down the scented shade,
Where feet to Ambulation fade,
And moons are lost in endless Day.
How shall we wind these wreaths of ours,
Where there are neither heads nor flowers?
Oh, Heaven's Heaven! -- - but we'll be missing
The palms, and sunlight, and the south;
And there's an end, I think, of kissing,
When our mouths are one with Mouth. . . .
'Tau here', Mamua,
Crown the hair, and come away!
Hear the calling of the moon,
And the whispering scents that stray
About the idle warm lagoon.
Hasten, hand in human hand,
Down the dark, the flowered way,
Along the whiteness of the sand,
And in the water's soft caress,
Wash the mind of foolishness,
Mamua, until the day.
Spend the glittering moonlight there
Pursuing down the soundless deep
Limbs that gleam and shadowy hair,
Or floating lazy, half-asleep.
Dive and double and follow after,
Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,
With lips that fade, and human laughter
And faces individual,
Well this side of Paradise! . . .
There's little comfort in the wise.

Rupert Brooke, Papeete, February 1914


. The Great Lover

I HAVE been so great a lover: filled my days
So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,
The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and still content,
And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife
Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,
My night shall be remembered for a star
That outshone all the suns of all men's days.
Shall I not crown them with immortal praise
Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me
High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see
The inenarrable godhead of delight?
Love is a flame; -- - we have beaconed the world's night.
A city: -- - and we have built it, these and I.
An emperor: -- - we have taught the world to die.
So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
And the high cause of Love's magnificence,
And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names
Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,
And set them as a banner, that men may know,
To dare the generations, burn, and blow
Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming. . . .
These I have loved:
                            White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, færy dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such -- -
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . . .
                            Dear names,
And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;
Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass; -- -
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass,
Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust
And sacramented covenant to the dust.
---- Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
And give what's left of love again, and make
New friends, now strangers. . . .
                            But the best I've known,
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
Of living men, and dies.
                            Nothing remains.
O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
This one last gift I give: that after men
Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,
Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."

Rupert Brooke, Mataiea, 1914


. Heaven

FISH (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud! -- - Death eddies near -- -
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time.
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.


. There's Wisdom in Women

"OH LOVE is fair, and love is rare;" my dear one she said,
"But love goes lightly over." I bowed her foolish head,
And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she;
So new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly.
But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known,
And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own,
Or how should my dear one, being ignorant and young,
Have cried on love so bitterly, with so true a tongue?


. A Memory (From a sonnet-sequence)

SOMEWHILE before the dawn I rose, and stept
Softly along the dim way to your room,
And found you sleeping in the quiet gloom,
And holiness about you as you slept.
I knelt there; till your waking fingers crept
About my head, and held it. I had rest
Unhoped this side of Heaven, beneath your breast.
I knelt a long time, still; nor even wept.
It was great wrong you did me; and for gain
Of that poor moment's kindliness, and ease,
And sleepy mother-comfort!
                            Child, you know
How easily love leaps out to dreams like these,
Who has seen them true. And love that's wakened so
Takes all too long to lay asleep again.

Rupert Brooke, Waikiki, October 1913


. One Day

TODAY I have been happy. All the day
I held the memory of you, and wove
Its laughter with the dancing light o' the spray,
And sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love,
And sent you following the white waves of sea,
And crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth,
Stray buds from that old dust of misery,
Being glad with a new foolish quiet mirth.
So lightly I played with those dark memories,
Just as a child, beneath the summer skies,
Plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone,
For which (he knows not) towns were fire of old,
And love has been betrayed, and ****** done,
And great kings turned to a little bitter mould.

Rupert Brooke, The Pacific, October 1913


. Waikiki

WARM perfumes like a breath from vine and tree
      Drift down the darkness. Plangent, hidden from eyes
      Somewhere an 'eukaleli' thrills and cries
And stabs with pain the night's brown savagery.
And dark scents whisper; and dim waves creep to me,
      Gleam like a woman's hair, stretch out, and rise;
      And new stars burn into the ancient skies,
Over the murmurous soft Hawaian sea.
And I recall, lose, grasp, forget again,
      And still remember, a tale I have heard, or known,
An empty tale, of idleness and pain,
      Of two that loved -- - or did not love -- - and one
Whose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly,
A long while since, and by some other sea.

Rupert Brooke, Waikiki, 1913



OTHER POEMS

The Busy Heart

NOW that we've done our best and worst, and parted,
      I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.
(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)
      I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;
Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;
      And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;
And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;
      And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;
And evening hush, broken by homing wings;
      And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,
That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,
      Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly,
One after one, like tasting a sweet food.
I have need to busy my heart with quietude.


. Love

LOVE is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
      Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.
      They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
      And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven -- - such are but taking
      Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
      Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
      Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.


. Unfortunate

HEART, you are restless as a paper scrap
      That's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind;
      Saying, "She is most wise, patient and kind.
Between the small hands folded in her lap
Surely a shamed head may bow down at length,
      And find forgiveness where the shadows stir
About her lips, and wisdom in her strength,
      Peace in her peace. Come to her, come to her!" . . .
She will not care. She'll smile to see me come,
      So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.
      She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me,
           And open wide upon that holy air
The gates of peace, and take my tiredness home,
           Kinder than God. But, heart, she will not care.


. The Chilterns

YOUR hands, my dear, adorable,
      Your lips of tenderness
-- Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,
      Three years, or a bit less.
      It wasn't a success.
Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road,
      Quit of my youth and you,
The Roman road to Wendover
      By Tring and Lilley Hoo,
      As a free man may do.
For youth goes over, the joys that fly,
      The tears that follow fast;
And the dirtiest things we do must lie
      Forgotten at the last;
      Even Love goes past.
What's left behind I shall not find,
      The splendour and the pain;
The splash of sun, the shouting wind,
      And the brave sting of rain,
      I may not meet again.
But the years, that take the best away,
      Give something in the end;
And a better friend than love have they,
      For none to mar or mend,
      That have themselves to friend.
I shall desire and I shall find
      The best of my desires;
The autumn road, the mellow wind
      That soothes the darkening shires.
      And laughter, and inn-fires.
White mist about the black hedgerows,
      The slumbering Midland plain,
The silence where the clover grows,
      And the dead leaves in the lane,
      Certainly, these remain.
And I shall find some girl perhaps,
      And a better one than you,
With eyes as wise, but kindlier,
      And lips as soft, but true.
      And I daresay she will do.


. Home

I CAME back late and tired last night
      Into my little room,
To the long chair and the firelight
      And comfortable gloom.
But as I entered softly in
      I saw a woman there,
The line of neck and cheek and chin,
      The darkness of her hair,
The form of one I did not know
      Sitting in my chair.
I stood a moment fierce and still,
      Watching her neck and hair.
I made a step to her; and saw
      That there was no one there.
It was some trick of the firelight
      That made me see her there.
It was a chance of shade and light
      And the cushion in the chair.
Oh, all you happy over the earth,
      That night, how could I sleep?
I lay and watched the lonely gloom;
      And watched the moonlight creep
From wall to basin, round the room,
      All night I could not sleep.



. Beauty and Beauty

WHEN Beauty and Beauty meet
      All naked, fair to fair,
The earth is crying-sweet,
      And scattering-bright the air,
Eddying, dizzying, closing round,
      With soft and drunken laughter;
Veiling all that may befall
      After -- - after -- -
Where Beauty and Beauty met,
      Earth's still a-tremble there,
And winds are scented yet,
      And memory-soft the air,
Bosoming, folding glints of light,
      And shreds of shadowy laughter;
Not the tears that fill the years
      After -- - after -- -


. The Way That Lovers Use

THE way that lovers use is this;
      They bow, catch hands, with never a word,
And their lips meet, and they do kiss,
      -- - So I have heard.
They queerly find some healing so,
      And strange attainment in the touch;
There is a secret lovers know,
      -- - I have read as much.
And theirs no longer joy nor smart,
      Changing or ending, night or day;
But mouth to mouth, and heart on heart,
      -- - So lovers say.


1908 - 1911

Sonnet: "Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire"

OH! DEATH will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly
Into the shade and loneliness and mire
Of the last land! There, waiting patiently,
One day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing,
See a slow light across the Stygian tide,
And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing,
And tremble. And I shall know that you have died,
And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream,
Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host,
Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam -- -
Most individual and bewildering ghost! -- -
And turn, and toss your brown delightful head
Amusedly, among the ancient Dead.


. Sonnet: "I said I splendidly loved you; it's not true"

I SAID I splendidly loved you; it's not true.
Such long swift tides stir not a land-locked sea.
On gods or fools the high risk falls -- - on you -- -
The clean clear bitter-sweet that's not for me.
Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist.
Love is flung Lucifer-like from Heaven to Hell.
But -- - there are wanderers in the middle mist,
Who cry for sh

Inhale and hold it in.
You don't want to be called a *****
Even by your closest friend.

Exhale and let everything around you disolve.
There are no worries at this point.
There is nothing to think about.
Only the thoughts of what you have just done.
They start to sink in
And your thoughts come at you like never before.

The walls around you have only disolved, as the walls of your thoughts build up 10x as strong.
Tring to break through them only acts as a self distruct.
So you hit the button,
Once
Twice
More times than you thought was possible.
Especially after saying you wouldn't hit it after the first.

Running away is hopeless, as you end up where you left
Like many others.
You are not like them.
The ones who are lost in thier own loop.
Learn from thier mistakes.


Gulp, gulp, gulp...
Onto something new we see.
A different country, a different coulture.

Swallow and discover the opposite.
There are no worries.
There are no thoughts.
There is nothing at all.
The only thing that sinks is the liquid inside your empty stomach.

The walls are blured
And your perception on reality is fuzzed.
Like a kid in a bouncy castle,
you don't want to leave.

The echoing sound of your parents escorts you out though.
You follow them home
And before you lay into slumber
They remind you of school in the morning.

Her fingers are velvet
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They want me to subscribe
seek to prescribe
me Their prognosis of capitalism
content only when
I approve Their content

Her prophetess grace
unravels unlaces
Their societal disgraces
chastises the beasts
of Babylon with a wrist flick

I hear freedom ring
as Her fingers sing
cajole the oppressed
voices before drowned, now
staccato into stiletto
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NM
5/17/18

My parents often ask me, why are you so stressed, why are you so depressed, . . . . . why are you so . . . crazy?
Here and now I am going to answer that question.

1. stress

The main reason I stress is from responsibility.
RESPONSIBILITY
The word makes me go insane
All of it causes pain.

Sibilings, five younger sibilings,
they all have their things.
they each have someting that either causes me a responsibilty or stress, because its a constant worry, love.

School, all eight classes,
you expect aces.
I can't be perfect, but you want me to be, and that is a huge responsibility.

Home, all of it,
every single bit.
A home requires everybody to have a responsibility.

2. deppresed

The main reason i am often sad, mad, or a mixture of both is that you wouldn't accept me.
NO ACCEPTENCE
To know that you would hate me,
stops me from being free.

Gender, i hate it,
why do we label ourselfs why dont we quit.
I just want to be free and ya'll dont like that, so i can't.

Sexuality, mine is different,
and you would accept it.
The world is different why cant you see that, why is different bad?

Religon, the worst of all,
the lectures make me feel so small.
You force and force and it makes me wat t be farther and farther away.

3. crazy

I am crazy because you dont care.
OBLIVION
You can't see me trying so hard,
the only things you see tears me apart.

I am trying, cant you see,
being perect for you is always who i've been tring to be.
Don't you see me working, all the time, trying to please all of ya'll.

Perfection, its impossible,
nothing can be perfectly aligned on the table.
Why do I have to be your perfect christain daughter who does so well in school while I am unhappy? Why can't I be your unperfect person that follows their dreams and is happy?

- Your unperfect human, Zan.

Oh where oh where has my little bell gone?
The one that I had on my bike
It used to help me go about the place
And do the sort of things that I like

I could warn others of my approach
Or greet them with a cheerful “Tring!”
Now when a bell sound seems appropriate
I have nothing with which one might ring.

So where oh where has my little bell gone?
Cycling just isn’t the same
If I find the blighter who took that bell
I’ll give him or her lots of blame.

One day I’ll find another such bell
Then I’ll be more full of zeal,
For what is the good of riding about
Without something upon which to peal?

To peal and ring, ****** and toll
And generally let the world know
That one is going places and fast!
(Hoping not to receive another such blow)

you talk
like lions roar
and shrug
like there's nothing
in the earth below
your heavy lisp
rings through the room
even as aproned women
scrape their brooms
you talk of recovery
you talk of gain
you talk like
you have never been pained
you talk of casinos
the tring of money
you talk of wealth
like it were milk and honey
you talk the talk
and then talk the walk
we make through the woods
you talk again
this time of stolen goods
we cross the river
you talk
we feel the night shiver
you talk
we dream of sleep
you talk
we avoid counting sheep
you talk

you talk
until we see
the sun come up
it is a crisp morning
ready to fill the cup
i wait to hear
from a world
i don't live in
but i am met
with a silence
that is
most enlivening
and that is
when i see you
for the first time
for what you are
your eyes
grey much dull
hiding the
ancient sadness
of giving up

The string puppet hanging from the peg in the niche is creating an illusion, or did it really bend the right knee forward! I move closer and watch it minutely. This times it is his partner, the pink faced women with deep red lipstick and khol lined eyes, she certianly swung her hip... up, up it went in jerky moves... there, there her skrit twitched revealing her bare leg - the silver anklet girdling her foot reflected a fraction of light playing yet another trick.

My eyes move up towards the strings. I can almost sense a fading quiver as if someone was plucking them through the alcove above. I stand still locking my eyes on the two waiting for their next move. Pigeons flutter behind the skylight and the spell breaks for a few seconds.

I turn around and rest my back against the cold basement wall. All around there are books lined in shelves, artworks clutched in frames, photos jacketed behind glass, curios in various states of animated movement. The eyes gradually get used to the dim light beaming on the floor through a ventilator and scan the floor finally resting on my own feet. Who is this? Where are the legs and the rest of the body? I give up. The neck refuses to bend and the eyes can't seem to find another object. Every thing is still, there is no motion, no movement - even the light beam seems frozen, there are no dust specks playing in it.

Among them, for twelve days, I too have become an object. Lifeless, not dead. Confined, distanced, trapped, isolated in a place that tells me it is my home. At times other objects around me whisper, I can't catch what they say. It seems I am one of them, only that I have suddenly developed feeble sensory abilities.

I have possibly jumped out of that shelf, that one on the far right, and, am now taking inventory of my companions, my fellow beings in a museum closed for a long break. They - like me, I - like them. Objects. Each having a label, a business card to be exchanged in mutual muteness. Each explained as "Title; Year; Origin; Size; Material". Where is mine? Just like the mask on the wall, the bronze sculpture, the centre table and hundreds of others that have been confined within the walls for years. In a few days, I assume, I would be a curio, a large one, occupying one corner. Not entombed though.

From time to time when conscious mind fleetingly nudges me I feel some of these objects have been moved or shifted from one place to another, like a chair or a cushion. I too have become like them or forced to. Tired of reading on a chair I shift or move, like dust, to the sofa and from there to the couch. Like the trumpet on the shelf I am quiet, not disturbing the solitude. Unlike the colourful painting, I merge with the pale wall. But I ain't hung as yet.

Like the Buddha figurine my eyes have drooped, my hair matted and curled. I would soon be like the illegible spine of an old tome, stacked one next to the other. Lying on the floor, I take Shavasana, like the carpet holding its breath.

In another week, I suspect, I would be like the uplighter which doesn't respond to the switch on another wall. Filaments alone dont light a bulb.
* April 6, 2020 - Covid times - 7

2/11/2012

pistachio shells
bailing
unceremoniously
out of
my front
pockets.

tangerine
slices lie
peeled '
on the
couch.

fat golden
retriever
lies tangled
between
my legs.

my seven year
old son Noah
home
sick from
school.

crazy 8 cards
thrown across
the living
room floor
like bread crumbs
hoping that
someone might
follow.

tennis moms
calling all day
tring
to make
sure their
kids can
still get
into holiday
camps
next week.

my guitar
leans off tune
in the corner
of the room,

begging to
be played.


my son
joseph
comes
home from
college on
wedesday.

my wife
calls me  
from work
just to
say I love
you,

and I think
for a moment,
how simple and
how true
these are,

the captions
of my life,

and at this
moment
there

no place
else
or no one else

in the
universe
I would

rather be.pistacio shells
bailing
unceremoniously
out of
my front
pockets.

tangerine
slices lie
peeled '
on the
couch.

fat golden
retriever
lies tangled
between
my legs.

my seven year
old son Noah
home
sick from
school.

crazy 8 cards
thrown across
the living
room floor
like bread crumbs
hoping that
someone might
follow.

tennis moms
calling all day
tring
to make
sure their
kids can
still get
into holiday
camps
next week.

my guitar
leans off tune
in the corner
of the room,

begging to
be played.


my son
joseph
comes
home from
college on
Wednesday.

my wife
calls me  
from work
just to
say I love
you,

and I think
for a moment,
how simple and
how true
these are,

the captions
of my life,

and at this
moment
there

no place
else
or no one else

in the
universe
I would

rather be.

Tring Tring ding ding ping
my cycle is speeding through
get out of the way.
3/5/2024

Do it, just ******* do it
Is something holding you back
Your here just the once, unless religious turmoil is on track
Ingenuity was never going to get you the sack

You clever beast, never regret that time you did
Thoughts of woe and wondering why you never got rid
So many things to do in life, that final last bid
Go on, jump, bungee from the Clifton Suspension Bridge

Time is short, that bucket list will never grow again
One hundred moral sins listed, do them all and put down that curious pen
They'll give you a mark on that audacious headstone once dead, 10 out of 10
You'll have a gathering, whats he going to do next, everyone wanting to be your friend

Its a roller coaster ride, a thousand bumps on course
A name to be made of songs they will no doubt sing
Travelled the world from Auckland, New Zealand to Hertfordshire, Tring
For you are a soul, a man not left head scratching, for you,

Wont Die Wondering

JJB

A light that shines when all others are out
That midnight treat, an escape, a desperation technique
Conversations with an immigrant whose stories are bone chillingly scary
Now keeping tabs on a fridge full of Solero's just wondering if his daughter escaped the screams, the gunfire and if she's now unknowingly buried
The drunk arrives, ***** now gone, gawping at the top shelf
Tried it on, alone tonight, 2 minutes with page 7 just might help
Dome roundabout, A41, a place to stop, from Harrow to Tring
Filling up on a Wednesday, hoping the same man isn't now serving
Air in the sky now 50p to fill the tyres that let us travel
If it wasn't for these rubber soles our lives would be stuck in gravel
But you're hungry and are willing to pay the price for a Ginsters roll
No change for the bridge named after our Queen, how dare they give it a toll
It stands out bright that expensive castle on the hill
Ten pence a litre more to fill the car but hey, you just want to get home and your willing to foot the bill

JJB

my fingers fly
tring to catch my thoughts
crap i wrote that wrong
but now its gone
i'm left with half a word
new sentence

but there goes that one too

it's garbled
like talking underwater
but going much faster
like a foreign language
i don't even get it

Being here but not really able to help
Only if I could hold you
Comfort you
MORE
Hold your hand
Rub your feet
Pet your arm
Wish I didn't feel helpless
Tring not to feel frusturatred
Knowing that if I could help more
You would let me know for sure
My Love for you is stronger today then ever