She had decided
that it was futile
to count the days
since she last held someone
to try to remember
the last hand she squeezed in comfort

It was no more productive
than counting leaves
as they fell from the trees
or trace  the wind
as it snaked through the plains

Being alone in a world
where “none is a number”
you must still bear witness
inscribe your name in sand
as it shifts beneath your feet

To say it matters in the face of nothing
is the spark of defiance

The painter took a lifetime to draw like a child
the poet longing for the time he trailed clouds of glory
the singer was so much older than but he’s younger than that now

All lamented the loss of childhood
for years she thought it a cliche
old men clamoring for an innocence they killed a long time ago

But as she reached her later years she knew what they meant
What we call wonder was nothing more than potential
a mind of infinite capacity
an ocean bed waiting to be filled a drop at a time 

Crouching by a rock
lifting it to see the ants busy consider their ways
to them the planet is a galaxy
a sidewalk a continent
seeing the world without sign or signifier
as big as life

It was her grandmother’s Bible
big as a briefcase all stately brown leather
pictures aburst with colour leaking off the edges of the page

She always turned to the last moments on Golgotha
looking not at Him but at the man by His side
the thief and bandit
the murderer who comforted Him

It struck her that the man never asked for forgiveness
nor even mercy just

“Remember me.”

To think of someone
let them know you see them
was the purest act of love

The thunder outside doesn’t roll or crack
it cries out
as if the atmosphere itself cannot bear any more      sky breaks under pressure
a sky of glass shattered into shimmering rain
gently seeking the ground

A person who had been
unable to see was given sight
she asked why no one had told her
you could see rain
she had only felt it before
what shape was the rain to her?

 
Rain as a cycle
water sustains all life
a rhythm we feel in our deepest molecules
we are born in water
our whole lives
a conference of the elements
fire of energy
water to flow
air to inspire
earth to walk

Electricity
lightning
overwhelming the sky
aflame with bright energy
the sky awakes!

No, the Chinese never cursed anyone with “interesting times”
it was the West that feared change
the rivulets of fate
making kings of fools
and fools of kings

We live in domino times
where all you need is a little push
to collapse empires
even if they don’t notice they’re falling

When circumstance makes the world a canvas
everyone is an artist
grab a brush
a pen
charcoal made from the vines of long-juiced grapes
anything to make your mark

They will learn to never forget
that when you take everything away from people
the last thing to go is hope

When the scale of Themis is denied
the smile of Eris fills the void

They always used a mugshot if they could find one
failing that a photo with a menacing sneer or brandishing a gun
(“Brandishing” always sounded scarier than “playing”)

Never ever a smile
a proud graduation photo
hugging their mother
anything to show that this was a human being cut down by bullets or a baton

What was so difficult about acknowledging the humanity lost?

Why was saying a life mattered  a revolutionary act?

Memories of other June days
rainy washed up days waiting for exams to end
sun fried Saturdays riding with friends
searching the radio for soul energy
Motown exploding on cheap speakers
enjoying Def Leppard a bit more than you wanted to admit
baseball still early enough to hope for the best
street fairs and street food
never being able to find that exact sandwich again
June the pivot month
when the anxious anticipation of spring
gave way to luscious summer

It was a time when you never knew what jacket to wear

FOLLOW
YOUR
DREAMS

It was a poster with a photo of clouds in the sky
the kind usually showing a cat jumping or a sunrise

Looking at it she cursed the inadequacies of her first language
A bastard tongue compiled from a hodgepodge of empires

In  another language she could speak of
o ideal or  o sonho
der fantasie or der traum
Mènghuàn or Mèngxiǎng

Walking streets built only in her mind
singing unheard songs with strangers made familiar
How could a word like “dream” suffice?
A word shared with goals on bar graphs
Insipid sentiments tacked to cubicle
Her dream country had cities and rivers
water she could walk upon
souls beyond gender

One a fantasy of a life she could never have
the other a magick world she could visit every night

All poems are prayers
because all poetry petitions
a god half believed
the muse real or imagined
nature itself

Most of all poetry cries out
to words themselves
a plea that they can somehow combine
to possibly convey
The shadowed contents of the mind

The warmth of sun on fabric
the taste of cooked tomato
smell of sandalwood
the oooh of the rising wind
all conjured
from the alchemy of letters on a page

Not knowing if there would be silence
or light encompassing
flame or cold space
atoms scattering.
she was comfortable with the mystery
hold on
and the devils rend you
let go
and the angels rescue

All life a process
bone to dust
dust to dirt
dirt to flower