Between grey waters
where heavy matters pass through
Our home on a ledge
Ledge
All posts by fhaedra
Man Without A Face
There is a man without a face
I saw his portrait on a wall today
His hair is black and all in place
Don’t know his name
Don’t know his trade
Don’t know the reasons for his fate
I think a lot about him
Wonder how it feels to vanish with no trace
What it’s like to be a man without a face
Cap Signs
Walking, I sometimes see
Objects sparkle
Objects calling to me
Yes, I know about desire
Danger danger verywhere
Still, conscious of potential
I stoop, I reach
I take a closer look
There are messages in odd places
Walking, I sometimes take
Slip a stone inside my pocket or
Prop a cap up on a bridge
Over this murky brook
For you to find sometime.
Present Hiss
Writer philosophers birth idea volumes
defeat defiance despair existential disparity
Artists brushes soak in toxins
life cycle depiction or candid canvas prediction
Pleased to meet you, reality
Now it’s back to horses and dusty horse riders
Street battles wasting time
Stele entries forgotten or faded
No honoured heros names to add
Inspiration waits for the revival
Sipping tea in the wings
Frame
Photo tilts left
in the room of messy flowers
Light splashes shadows
these old silenced walls
Rest your head
for an evening
Lay it down, you wandering traveler
Everything yearned for lives
out of reach but still in sight
Boots on at dawn
Turning page, young seeker
Toss those maps over the ledge
Step one, you are ready
eyes bright with colour
Black and white was just a crack
drawing you in
Your beginning
Shifts
I am far away now
from everything familiar
It’s after sundown, dark
The air smells of smoke
heavy from bamboo smouldering
Crickets are singing, or katydids
And something else
A woman’s voice rising out of the darkness
Over there near the fields
we rode bicycles past today
She sings
or keens
The melody is in a minor key but
I don’t understand the language
Perhaps it’s a lullaby
I am lying here in this hammock
a young attendant just brought by and hung for me
It’s in that army camouflage pattern
In the courtyard, I saw samples of bombs
grenades and land mines recovered from the landscape here
I am looking at my familiar from a distance
From another angle
This location in the world
I am reading Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale
I read it before, a long time ago
It seemed like brilliant fantasy work then
Science Fiction, a Fantastic Tale
It doesn’t seem like fantasy now, this time
I’ve felt the breath of Possibility.
Have I changed so?
Or has the World changed?
Maybe I have been sleeping
Maybe I’m just waking up.
Then
Look up, you said
sky is changing
Causeway deserted
signal bird calls
This way,
higher.
The Bay
On this cool mystery morning
on a rise after the rain
Might be you’re the last one standing
soundless these moments remain
Forest life force bounty
breathe in take a full step in view
Mother Earth songs calling
let their melody rest within you
Terrace
After long absence I return
to this terrace
Softness drips from last night’s rain
Birdsong rises from cedars and red maples
Wind sings praise to the floating world
I sit again among fat brown spiders
Still afraid
but it is they who knew me first
The Crowd
The crowd is
the crowd
You’re either in
or you’re out
The crowd is
always the crowd.
