We gathered our water
and packs at daybreak
to hike hand in hand
toward the distant ruin—
a tall stone chimney planted
on otherwise empty acreage,
a kudzu-covered tower,
the ghost of a farmhouse
now a home to field mice,
black beetles and bats,
with bricks the color
of weathered blood,
vertebrae stacked
a century and a half ago
by a stonemason’s craft,
still solid and bonded
despite the slow decay
of arthritic mortar.

How long have we
walked together?

The morning
is all we have
left to ponder.
We walk for hours;
the chimney grows
larger at our approach.
I want to ask you
a question about
the night we met,
what you said
just before I held
you for the first time,
but then I catch sight
of my hand and realize
I am walking alone,
moving inexorably
toward a ruination
of my own making.
How could I have been
so careless? Unable
to stop, every step
strips something away:
my hair thins and falls,
as white and weak
as sickled wiregrass;
another step and my
body atomizes into
the stuff of stars,
pollen scattered
on a rising wind.

So this is what it
feels like to decay.

By the time I reach
the ruin I am mostly
cinder and ash,
a sorry vestige
sown in a quiet field,
a forgotten landmark
that strangers will visit,
if only to contemplate
how the evening fog
spindles like smoke
along the enduring
column of my spine.

Simple how the clouds collapse
When tangents merge with metaphors,
How tracks of reason tread the path
Then pass through open doors.
When threads of inspiration sing
As blackbirds in the dew of dawn,
Where crystal light of opulence
Then innocence and fun..…is borne.
A purity of  purpose, suffused in simplicity,
Swaddled and encapsulated, worn with a smile.
Embracing the instant of beautiful freedom
To breathe this sweet air of loveliness, awhile.

M.
The hallowed green of a Taranaki dawn @ Foxglove
9th February 2017

When the moon is full
A shiny silver disc
I'd steal it and roll it along
Like a hoop with a stick
All the way to your door
And give it you as a gift

Then I'd reach up to the sky
And grab the brightest stars
I'd gather them together
And place them in a jar
So you could let them loose
When the night is dark

And when the weather's bad
And the sky is dark with rain
I'd fill my lungs with air
And blow those clouds away
Then I'd push the sun over you
So you'd come out to play

I'd knock on your front door
And greet you with grace and style
Then I'd sing and dance foolishly
Just to make you smile
In fact, I would do anything
To make you happy for a while

                                                By Phil Roberts

Please,
Forgive
This counterpoint.

For
loving you now
Is off the point.

Now that the wild
Lilies
Halt in the cities

And build their nests
In the asphalt.

LazharBouazzi, February 1, 2017

dark storms rising
as electricity
crackles up my spine
in ascent of moonspell
as I trip through
            my own wires
                 my inner sense
                     of flesh
      reverberating  
in waves of
magnetic fireworks
      and suddenly
I am spinning
     my fibers
all splayed out                
for you to see
a cartographer
of emotion
mapping your veins
               and arteries
and we hold citizenship
of a private inner land
a country              
    that we share
as we into light expand
my inner goddess in tune
with your
molecules and carbon
your cells rushing like
                a river
into my estuary
in landscapes of longing
blissfully unaware
but for our souls'
secret language of
pumping blood and fire
from here, it's uncharted
but for the rhythms
                   of desire

invisible to the naked eye,
we exquisitely penetrate
the surface
descend into the
depths of bones
the most primal core
where lava licks
push spirit's will
            straight up to the fore
and I am the spark in
your most opaque rage
ready
to give it up
in dust and magic
as pulmonary exhale
flows the blood
and we dissipate , slowly
into uninhibited flood

Take me apart,
dark love
pulverize my limits
fly with me
to the opposite
of loneliness
where
    every
        millisecond
  breathes

The smoke from the lantern was the misty grey of an uncertain sky.
Brother, sister and I were gathered around the dim light attempting to play a secret game of cards, because mother had told us it was bad for our eyes. Moore was losing as usual, he was barely five, then we heard the all too familiar voice of thunder "What did I tell you children about playing cards in the dark?"
This, this was the recipe for all my favourite memories as a child.
Outdoor mattresses and hand made fans were all we needed to spill the secrets of the day. Falling asleep, one child after another but mother stayed up to chase the mosquitoes from our skins and the nightmares from our dreams. This, this was our language of love.
This was where we found God.
Yesterday I tried to count how many hours we've spent together in the last seven years. I stopped at zero in the last fourteen months, I couldn't go any further. I'm forgetting what lantern smoke smells like. I'm forgetting what your smiles look like. I've tried and failed a thousand times to wipe your tears over the phone. Distance doesn't take kindly to sympathetic lovers.
So I miss you like fingertips miss palms when uncurling a fist to embrace the cold, knowing it's for the best. We tell ourselves it's for the best, that roots like me have to branch out to break ground. That apples don't fall far from the tree but must roll away from the shade to see the sun.
My mother is the settling dust that brings the best out of all of us. So I know what she means when she says "don't come back."
She means be the best you can be, the world deserves you as much as we do.
Wear your name as tight as your skin and if they say it wrong correct them.
Today I found an old lantern in a store on a street somewhere too far from home. The smoke doesn't smell like I remember.

Right now
in your kitchen
on the bottom rack of the dishwasher
resides a secret;
a dark spot on your soul –
a malignant little horror
that threatens to destroy
your sense of self worth.

Maybe it’s a butter knife
with an in-congruent rust spot
on one side of the blade…
Maybe it’s a random salad fork,
the final piece remaining
from a long forgotten flatware set,
with a fossilized chunk of radicchio
lodged between the third and fourth tines.

Probably it’s the fork.

There it has sat
without being moved;
without being touched;
just existing as the metaphor that it is
for 8 straight wash cycles.
The result has never varied.
The dirt remains.

Soon will come a ninth wash cycle.
You hope that things will change.
You know that they will not.
Despite this unwavering conviction
that the fork will always be *****,
the next time you run the cycle,
open the dishwasher door,
peer through the gauzy veil
of lemon scented fog
and see the small bit of filth
you will still feel disappointed.
You will grow a little bitterer.
You will be a little more contemptuous.
The world will be a deeper shade of gray.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

You can go
right now
into the kitchen
to the bottom rack of the dishwasher and
reach down
with a trembling hand
to grasp destiny.

You are bigger than this fork.
You are bigger than this fork.

You
are bigger
than this fork.

With a sense of control firmly clasped between your fingers
take that 15 uncomfortable seconds
to scrape away the debris with your thumbnail
and then be free.

BE FREE

Deep and resounding will be
the sigh of relief;
the utter completion;
the contentment absolute
that you experience
when you place that clean salad fork
back in the drawer.

It will never match
the new silver
that your In-Laws gave you last Christmas, but
at least it will be clean and
in its home
safely ensconced
in that wire organizer.

Right now
in your kitchen
on the bottom rack of the dishwasher
is a chance for redemption.