Tuesday, April 26, 2011

The Gods of Creation and Destruction

The potter's hands
riven from earthen textures
washing red clays off,
those crinkles laid into her palms
the geometric weatherings of years
of building and creation.
The warm baked ground outside is her model
the hills and river beds her source.
The living heart transplanted into art.

Broken bottles and shattered windows
inset into crumpled car doors
forgotten bylanes by asbestos shacks
and a maze of dead-ends for the child.
This isn't about material poverty,
but about emptiness of mind,
about the lack of blue nectar filling those cracked, chapped minutes
the lack of that soul-enhancing food,
and the child feels this, in his teeth
in the inability to cry.
I feel the violence rise,
like a vengeful sun,
turning its gaze on a world turning away in fear.

I need to switch off soon,
the answer lies in stillness.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Where do I begin?
On this windy night by the shore,
the restless seas insist themselves upon the senses:
the sharpness of the salt on the air
and of the washed-up seaweed that gave up, exhausted, on the sands around me,
the silver fear that dwells at the back of my mouth in awe of the dark raw power,
the noisy conversations of the waves
the blue-black waters topped with whitecaps nearly fluorescent in the moonlight,
and to have this before your feet with the playful stars staring from above
in their childish lack of inhibition
they flit through the entire spectrum, all while gaping open-mouthed
as I stand still on that lonely beach.
How can I describe, within the confines of words, the affirmation of life
That you, Ocean-Mother, offer to me,
the justification of the breath that swells in my chest
and of the beating of my jaded heart?
I've tried to wade through cliches
and into fresh depths,
but I get tangled, and my steps are weighed down in the sands of convention.
And for that I apologize.
I hope my love is sufficient.