Walking is wisdom
People go out
Abandoning their
Comfort unstitched
Each step is
pulling the yoke
It is sunrise
What drives them out
And keep them running
Pushing each rock
That hinders their way
I am sure it is an invisible
Spirit that breathes inside
A special gift
Of God to them
Not for women
A message for those
Shouting for equality
Yesterday the rain
Hit hard like strip on the fur
And the man,
with his umbrella
Like a broken sieve,
Staggering fast
Due to his twisted leg
Crossed the road
Where ditches were the rungs
I made a good comeback
Though in the morning
My mind had been
The kettle on the fire
And like him crossed
The subway to reach my point
Coming back is the best harvest
After sowing seeds of going out
And Walking is their water to grow

What tender hands
and lovely finger pads
thumbing cloth and
phone screens:

If tender buttons can
be pushed through
a buttonhole then

a rigid zipper
might also
bend and sigh

Poets love dies
when the last
              syllable dries..

Moving onto their
                     next muse...

the mist of my voice
lays gently on the cold window
the sun is yet to shine
as i leave my comfort behind
still warm and fetal beneath
duck down doona's

i tell the house goodbye
and that i will return, anon.
and step forth into the frozen dew
sparkling on the winter faded lawn

once in the car, I sigh with deep breath
this is something that needs be done
but my heart falters at leaving the nest

for it is away i must go, to find some rest
it is to leave in order to stay, to be my my best
each year i take this small season of me
each year i go... go be alone in order to hone
my mind and shed dark blue barnacles
so upon my return my boat runs smooth
through river and wave, calm and typhoon

i retreat from this world and this world from me
i go find a place full of water and tree
and there i sit and sleep and walk,
very little do I talk, i do not perform
or  teach, i do not quest or overreach

i am but pebble in a river,
the water, washes and reforms me
i am but budding leaf, on tree
the sun energises me

I am snail, content,
within my fragile shell

I am quiescent, within my soul

The creaking of that old chair is all which they could hear,
''take a seat'' he said and move it near,
he would tell a story of which he was very fond;
it included a bike, an old friend, and a huge duck pond;
He spoke these words time and time,
no remembrance of telling it but, once more would be fine,
He chuckled and chuckled at the top of his lungs
telling of his friend and how off his bike he was flung,
With a smile, he glanced at the family around
a sudden moment of silence;
'' Whats your name?'' he frowned
A nervous laughter from his daughter he heard :
But the man? he just stared.
Unsure of these people who once more came to visit,
''story telling is my job, so your problem what is it?!''
His voice he projected, confusion portrayed;
great sadness in his family, but by his side they stayed.

As the day is bled into the river
I watch the coming and going.

Place me in them
each one has a name like me
a home and a family
where their mind work laden
would have a heart to anchor
children to love and care for
a night to stir the fire
to burn all the bitterness
and be reborn the next morn
to shuttle one bank to the other
of the wide river.

I marvel at the chance
of meeting them once
suffering the absurd pain
of never crossing their path again.

...you write the TRUTH
nobody wants to
READ IT.



SøułSurvivør
(C) 8/1/2017

the peace of your inner-self
combines with all peaceful souls

never underestimate the power of this peace
to reach out and touch a broken world.

peacemakers in a world at war with itself
you know the daily return, daily battle, to evoke love.