Seven Days of Poetry

Seven: Unfamiliar Rooting
Whenever I return to our nest when I have been away; I feel a tug, a tug in my solar plexus pulling downwards.

This tug isn’t unpalatable but it is potent. At first I felt repelled, was this downward feeling depressions apex? No it was new, and I know depression well. Was this some strange new geographical vertigo? No I felt no dizziness, no discombobulation. I felt comfort, loyalty and gratitude, a feeling I’ve only felt one place before geographically; and it’s a dusty hot place and certainly not in Victoria. What is it? This warm, safe, feeling, excitement and contentment all in one?

It something I can’t remember ever feeling; not since I was a child, perhaps not even then.

Within the safety of the support beams my love is building: what I feel is the sensation of roots. Rooting a downward grounding, an anchor to a world I in the past had felt aversion to; because rooting equals vulnerability; weakness, soft animal robbed of her weaponry. Only now do I understand the absolute strength that comes with being vulnerable, accepting smallness, and letting go, living in a world without my bags half packed and my shoes untied; always ready to run.

There is no running anymore.

I am in absolute adoration, as frightening as that is; in absolute allegiance to my world; my universe, and a time I feel disengaged from; yet a community I feel devotion and to. I want to create, nourish, and protect. That is why I am here. Why I feel so much pain and so much elation.

With my head in the clouds, and my feet anchored with care; I step forward -not alone- side by side; ying and yang trailing in my wake. Darkness and light met within the great grey in between- I am jointed, united; en masse within a collective kinship of whom it has become far too painful to remain in the bud, then it would be to blossom.

We are ready and willing. Let’s go.
VI

Weary of being the teacher, the embodiment of a lesson.

exhausted with exemplifying extremities.

In the otherwise prosaic

Cassandra of Troy, on her knees; pleading her prophecy
Yet once more the city falls, and an old lesson is learned anew

Leaving our oracle isolated again, with nothing but her pariahic truth.

V

“Within the constrains
Japanese torture in prose
Fuck these syllables ”
quattuor 

Palimpsest, I compose through a symphony of impertinence

Once priceless, now but recycled medium

I remember

Perfection, comatose and broken;
frozen for a moment, only if forever isn’t busy

stillness

I watch, and watch and watch;
until a landslide washes through me; on the front lines
I fall

Evanescent

quench and rest; their ridicule
like fuel, my pyre searing inward

chard to dust, we rise: purified by flame.
fearless and archaic we are children of the fire

burn burn burn
3

Awoken by stories, slumber held hostage by imagination. A war between two battlegrounds, time and prose lay sacrifice across the terrain, their bodies laying fruitation to the virile soils of thought.

The Second

Tick tock – He taps, reminding us: eventually we will be his. Humming as we remember that we all submit to an age, an era, a moment. A lush- bit by bit as he slowly drinks us all. In reality time has all the world; a father we created to end our days- then rejected when fear set in to place.

Tempus Edax Rerum


Drip drop – biting your lip, the blood rushes swift and potent; flush within your mouth; the sensuous and epicurean taste of rust and pennies. I could -and do- make your blood boil, frustrating non conventionalist, broken little wing. I could also make you light headed….. when the flow….follows quickly…somewhere far from….your brain.

Nunquam oporta inculpatus cruento effundo


Tip tap – Impatient we growl, waiting for our new revolutionary; waiting for a man on a crucifix or a woman on a stake to tell us we’re safe; and that things have changed. All the while the fires burn from beneath us, and our stigmata begins to fester. A unified “We” is all that’s left- the change, and our messiah comes now within us all; as a community we can flourish, or die alone -together- wallowing in our piteous tragedy.

E Pluribus Unum
The First
My body coming in with the tide, like driftwood upon the shores surrounding the heart.

These waves; they caress and cradle me, kissing me goodbye, before laying me to rest.

Marooned ashore, these fertile lands remind me of a home I once envisioned; a place I recall from a time before I was within this flesh.

My lips, like the current: they lap at each other with lunar guidance and instinctual memory. digging up the past, creating foundations for the future.

Little sandcastles scattered like cities in my wake.

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