On a motionless train,
the landscape changes-

a trick of the eye.

We have eighty years,
more or less, to ponder

The vortex of life
gathers un-natural forces,

yet, stands still

at the core...

the soul
is a child clinging

to the merry -go-round.

The Blood Flows

We make too much of prayer.

In the evenings,
the nightbird sings

and we say "it is beautiful".

The rose
of a young girl's face
passes by us
like a ghost

and we know
it will not last.

Kneel down
to dream.

Rise up
to pursue it.

Our hands
were not made
to be folded...

our eyes
are not glazed
and blind.

The blood

it does not falter.

The Dirty White

I gave back
the blue stone,

gave up
the grapes.

Counted every leaf
that fell during the storms-

their grasp.

my scars

as if they
could sing.


the grey horse
is never coming back

from the low plains.

All About Wings

Waiting to be born,
the bird thrust wings
against its glass-less window.

On such an occasion,
everything,everywhere is bone.

The idea of air, a sky
without ceiling,

the body unraveling
out of its skin,

the wall-less room
of eternity somehow
never completely
defines us.

Wings. It is all about wings.

And space.

The narrow space
between the bones,
between the heart,

the unfinished song,
the unwritten word,
the unchartered flight-

that small hole

in the fabric of night.

The City, The Rain, A Window, A Woman (Metaphoric Experimentation)

... and they haunched down
at four corners of city.

One with hair, a river bend,
another, the sweet voice of bird,
the third, an eye
as large as moon...

the last,

whose flesh
bright silver shone,

held two small stones.

Night is a circle.

City is captive
in tresses of river.

Nightingales sweetly,
softly, the rain.

In a large-paned window,
the body of woman,

breasts aglow.

For Whom the Sun Sets

The foremost important discovery
is the initial reflection of light
in the newborn eye.

At dawn, the lilies
open their mouths.

I have grown older.
Not one of us
thought we would.

Once more,
a bruised purple sky
climbs the path
of grey mountains.

Each day,
we clothe ourselves
as if it matters.

have no need for trinkets-
must we?

The soul is transparent
as dew.The moon shines
through a far darker fabric.

My eyes remember, rejoice
for what has been captured.

The sun sets down
on the living...

as well as the dead.

posted by Rachel Phillips @ 26.10.05


Relative Revelations

No one is watching the rain.
I am prone to visions
at times of lightening.

My father is thunder.
My mother is sky
which he stains.

My brothers
are like winds

in opposing directions...

I am caught
between them.

The storm
is our heritage.

Our dark nights
huddled beneath

the roof
or our leaking

sins exposed

by flashes of sudden,
intermittent light...

somehow seem
glorious, natural

and forgiven.

My Own Ghost

Allow me to touch
your courage, the crest

of forgetting.

Every window
has a blank side...

I never said
you could see

through it.

When you look
away, this darkness

becomes human-

the ceiling
of passage.

I will leave
my body

to space...

to whom,
to where?

Our moment
ripens, discovers

the part
that falls away,

the quiet,
the rhythm,
the deep sleep,

the silent cradle
of sacrifice-

within it
I am filled

with my own


Broken Bones

I was born
in a house

that was worth
no more than
my name. Isn't it

strange how

easy it is
to grieve for walls?

There are
no judgements

that burn
as strong

as blood.

The architecture
of my damaged moon


on a bleached building-

a monument
of fractured bones.