They fall slowly, old folks,
on cold days
when holding-on hurts,
hurts their limbs too much.
One is fat, another boney,
all have mottled skin
and some wave as they go
ta-ra, flopping their
bumps on the ground
soon to be buried or burned.
All familiar. All follow
cyclical earth, gravity’s law,
heading for stones.
Some drop in sunlight,
some nighttime
and some fall gracefully; never
in rampage,
anger fear or sadness
because they release,
float,
and leave behind potential;
in
buds.
In the conservatory, watch plum jam slide
onto breakfast toast as we chatter
private thoughts, take-in rainy woods.
We talk of painting. How sometimes water and paint
run haphazardly and produce a miracle
– call it an image randomly created.
“It’s the Tao.” you say and grab a red
mouthful “Not human. Not water,
More than human and water together:
a form of magic we can’t understand.”
I chew bread and look out into a tangle
of trees that gesture, drip. I turn to you.
Something and nothing wells, wets, softens,
melts our eyes
and runs.
Deprived of passion we play chess
intertwining black and white men
not fearing death, the ancient bond,
when wooden statues feel no pain.
Forgetting, when I take a piece,
that hearts are battling, human blood
is pounding for connection here
but, miss the move, misunderstood.
A king falls and our hands embrace
across this board where chessmen stood;
we look each other in the eyes
of childhood, boyhood, brotherhood.
Inside my brain - planets circle round a star
- words I never said;
caged by electricity
lacking courage, sleeping in a bed.
No leverage, no spluttering
associations in my head;
lonely, aging, damned, archaic;
dormant, Yellowstone, dead.
Detail, detail! Yes, but sound matters
and words are never sterile, hungry, sleepy or unfed:
defy gravity, unlock a feeling force because
at least these lines, I say, are fully said.
