In the woods
Fish dance and bear folly,
In the woods where we live,
The animals play at eating each other,
And flowers sing in rich colour.
Yellow is never sickly,
And green never looses to fatigue,
White is the gift of art, cold and ready,
And black invites our eyes upwards.
Two men as two children,
Heavy coated and light hearted,
Throwing into water and air,
Without worry or care.
Falling face
My face fell off,
And hit the desk,
Like a mask,
Like a jigsaw without its corners.
I tried to put it back together,
And putting it on,
Before giving up,
And applying the plasticine.
Red bottle
Red bottle in the sea,
Green sky between you and me,
Blue bubbles in the story,
White claims the children’s glee,
Black forever in history.
The man with big blue eyes
The man with big blue eyes,
Saw what the birds could see,
Past the horizon and inside clouds,
He knew north by starlight,
And felt the changing colours of the sun,
As it dipped and rose over landscapes.
His blue eyes took in oceans,
Their extremities and quirky sea life,
Throwing them out in tears,
Brought on by gales and beach breezes,
Until the land understood his appreciation,
Of the value of water from the beyond.
Raising his blues to the grey,
The moon would suddenly appear,
With stars pinning his eyesight to the skies,
Looking into the future,
He would not say a word,
Letting his eyes talk of everything he knew.
A Season Breaks
Branches break the sky,
Like frozen cracks,
Spilling leaves,
As Autumn cries.
The signs
Crows crawl across the grey clouds,
Dragging trees behind them,
On the broken horse of a horizon,
Like a western dream lost to the eastern mind.
The southern winds crash the cold north rain,
At the centre the people like the animals howl in terror,
Knowing what is to come,
The folding in of weather then reality.
Everything lifts to the sky,
And turns rapidly still,
Without shadow to lay on land,
White planes surrender into the hills.
Little men are eaten by bigger forces than their fellow man,
Earth collapses to send,
Fire, being the only friend,
To welcome in the end.
The Fool
The fool, who didn’t know, couldn’t face the world. His axis was spun by others with advice and opinions that left him disorientated and confused.
Swinging, he knew nothing and, balanced between uncertainty and fear, he questioned the depth and duration of the next drop.
Standing in the middle of the sea he tied string around a stone and lowered it slowly to the bottom. Pinching at the wet length, he measured and tugged it up to the surface.
On a chilly and deserted day his retrieval was unsuccessful, his string came back empty. The fool was left with a question.
He tried to blame the fishes that he’d never seen; the crabs that must clutter the sea bed; or even a mischievous mermaid.
Where was his stone? He didn’t know, and was certain no one else did either. The fool was no longer alone, he was one of many. He realised that the advice and opinions of others were substantial to themselves and were like the invisible hands that populated the depths of the sea – too many to shake, and at best the maker of pretty waves to throw stones into.
The Boy who Ran Away with Himself
The boy who ran away with himself was tired of making lists. He knew as he grew older he’d pass them off as great works of art. Being quiet, shy and inconspicuous, he knew that the overheard conversations and colour combinations would eventually masquerade into stories with no story, narratives for the appetite of those listing themselves as well.
So he decided for life to catch him instead of him catching life. To let slip the information around him and let his thoughts wander. To see and hear what happened, to let go of the seductiveness of noticing everything. That things are what they are in the continuousness of a lifetime, and not everything is asking to be recorded.
For how much could he say or write, from making lists where the equality of each notion, phrase and gesture was undoubted, he wished to learn the importance of discernment. That if two was two, it didn’t need to become four, and the sum would have no purpose in the bath or in front of the T.V.
The Creative Being
The creative being fell like a landscape and moulded itself around the room, fitting over the table and chairs, tucking itself neatly under legs and pens.
Its spell made every movement one of magic, and moments sparked off each other turning objects into opportunities and touch into a glorious instrument.
Asking nothing in return, except to be present, the boy accepted its gift and began to make art. He revelled in unforeseen relationships, the beauty of the everyday, and a new – found appreciation of his world.
However as time went on he began to become secretive and place value on his creations. Aware of the being’s eyes, this consciousness began to stifle the boy and he began to see his processes thwarted by mistakes. Seeing him struggle, the being reassured that these were vital parts of his creations and it was no – one’s fault. The boy didn’t believe him, feeling there was no room for both of them in the activities he wished to pursue. He dismissed the creative being who graciously rose as he had fallen, leaving the debris he had blessed with his presence.
Truly alone the boy sometimes remembers the creative being with fondness, tempted to invite it back into his life.
