The Weight of Being

If you ignore
the unequal parts
of weight...

for years
eternity traced
with hoary fingers

the form
of dying,

the fading color
of the hills,

measured
survival

against the jawbone of God...

and came up
empty handed.

How do you assume
dreams are made of

air

when they fall
as heavily

as dying?

In a single instance
of unmatched awe,

the hours recede,
the tide abates,
the ground consumes

its roses.

In the end,

the only difference
between light and dark

is a man
who remembered

"being".

Destinations

On a motionless train,
the landscape changes-

a trick of the eye.

We have eighty years,
more or less, to ponder
destinations.

The vortex of life
gathers un-natural forces,

yet, stands still

at the core...

the soul
is a child clinging
upside-down

to the merry -go-round.

The Blood Flows

The Dirty White

I gave back
the blue stone,

gave up
the grapes.

Counted every leaf
that fell during the storms-

released
their grasp.

Examined
my scars

as if they
could sing.

Realized...

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.

Stones
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

ghost.

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

shines

on a bleached building-

a monument
of fractured bones.

Spills Dream

Out of the palm of my hands,
from the creases of my skin
my story unfolds...

it is not unique

but speaks

a strange language.

In the mind, it takes
but minutes for death
to overcome the ripened flower...

the sweetness of fruit
sleeping in the sun,

the odor of life
disintegrating.

In my bed, the sun sets...
my shoulders- earth,
my mouth- the song of wind

in the breast of trees,

my body a vessel of Spring

spills dream.

In Ancient Beds

I am not deaf, I hear
what you do not speak

the widening silence
between thought and extremes.

You move in a world
of stone.

My feet are wings...

the reason birds
have hollow bones

while rocks sleep
in ancient beds

without the joy
of dreams.

The Purpose of Rooms

At the end of the day,
worry is not a question.

No one asks the dead-

"why?"

At the threshold of the door,
there are two concerns-

leave or live.

Rooms and the purpose
of rooms becomes a riddle-

inside of all of us,
an unfamiliar puzzle.

The night, the city,
my stretched skin

my captured soul,
my unended beginning...

becomes a room.

I dreamt I was born
in the hollow
of a wooden shell-

somehow, at the end
of the day, (incomplete)

Half of the Beginning

Not long ago,
a child knelt down
at the knee of her father

not with reverence,
something more...

like a moth settling
upon un-natural light

or the way
the moon clings
to divinity more tightly

than the rafters
of its sky.

What is a father?

Half of the beginning,
a guiding bell, the sound
of which leads us

to higher grounds,
a tree whose leaves

remind us of ourselves.

Dragonfly(incomplete draft)

The hidden is often revealed,
but not just for honesty's sake-

the center takes the mystery
out of life's design

and makes it tangible.

We also, should be less obvious,
like dragonflies occasionally flit in-

then unseen exit through a window,

or sacrifice ourselves to beauty
like the golden subtle rose.

The Aging Sky

We have recovered
what was lost-
the aging sky

We were born
to remember.
It's in our blood.

The night
weaves a garment
for our bones.

How lovely
its threads gleam
across our chests.

I am convinced
of the purpose
of stars and stones...

even as we sleep
their meaning
survives us.

This world
is burning. Everyday,
the aging skies...

the ashen heavens
of our flames-
ignite.

The Density of Delight

Of my delight, the world
finds meaning... early morning
rain, a beard of clouds
obscuring the rising sun,
the sweet breathe of a newborn sky.

Beneath my window,
flower peddler of silver-wet streets-
first steps of dawn in a city

that unfolds
like orchid blossoms,
a blank blue page.

Here, we'll write today
of gardens, of twirling leaves,
dew-green trinkets-

a necklace for the wind.

Of my delight, we'll write
how grateful are the eyes
emerged from darkness
held proudly on their stems,

alive, alive. And all we know
alive, alive. Things could be

different, we tell ourselves,

knowing is far heavier
than sleep or waking...

far more dense
than early morning rain.

draft (White Lily)

And so, white lily,
the darkness comes
to drink your shining light-

a woman's body glows
through silk, then softly

burns out.

Your folded skin
unwrapped again,

a borrowed gift, delight

Stained-Glass

Your large body filled
with beautiful things-
some un-framed and simple,
others resting on the floor

to be admired from above...

I walk your temple
with wakened eyes, slow

like a desperate lover.

See there! How color
becomes the sea,
the floor of sky,
the arching wing of bird,

your creatures
are not confined
to cloth or wood.

Art is your mouth,
your delicate hands,
the way your body
moves like light, like color

through a stained-glass window.

A Question

It's not like us to distinguish
the difference between yearning
and the universe, the seamless

space that separates the heart.

Our story is a question.

Who wields the guiding light?

Why does the moon remind us
of the glowing end of life?

etc. etc. etc. (to be continued)

The Calm

"Yes" they told us, "this
is how it happens."

First, bones are revealed-
a sunken ship

white and rotted.

Next, strings grow lax.
Often completely torn away

from a rusted anchor,

followed by air
loosened from shafts.

Broken, billowing sails.

Waves grow gnarled,
returning to self.

At last, the calm.
The sea lies down-

a resting gull.

The Sound of Music (draft/incomplete)

That crazy mexican is playing
tijuana circus music again.

His son is small with a face
the color of vanilla beans.

I think of emaciated foxes
hiding in their darkened dens.

My grandfather listens
to Chopin, his teeth

aglow in the dusk-
piano keys in moonlight.

When he hums, the walls
close in like curtains.

Someone upstairs is holding
a cello, a soft embrace...

I can hear them making love-

the bow of thunder drawn
against across thighs of night.

Wolves with mouths, gracefully
shaped - astonished "o"s

sing of trees, meadows, rivers.

Wild angels in large fur coats
compose- the sound of music.

Practice Verses

There, when darkness rises,

when we hold
light between our ribs,

our bodies deceived,
our shadows reclined

against grey mountains
like sleeping gods,

the silvered flame
of day dampened,

stillness, a holy anthem,
garment of the dead,

Pearls of Thunder

i
Thunder,
in the shape of man
entered the tunnel
through a small door.

ii
Unseen corners
of mouth
inherit discovery-
collapse and vanish.

iii
Sprout branches,
leaves of star.
Each one trembling-
wings of light.

iv
Vibration of hills
inside walls of valley.
Night beads sweat
on tender blades of grass.

v
Pearls
the color of the moon
erupt. The dream
of flowers, fire.

The Grand Delusion (draft)

It is a different light
in the same sky
that moves me,

the alphabet of life
on every leaf, every tree.

The forest keeps
its secrets sacred.

I still hear ancient names

from recessed ives
of the very woods

that haunt me
as a child.

This veil, this mist,
these webs of spider

cast across the hollowed crescents

like whispered spells-

undisturbed, deserted,

wasted. The same night
in a different sky...

the exactness of the heart
pulsed through unfamiliar eyes-

the grand delusion.