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.

Walls

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No scenery

out this window

No inspiration

planned for me

No green

No blue

No sunrise or stars

No midnight moon view

No windsong gently swaying

between leaves of tall trees

Ah but I can still find beauty

in the quiet lay of these red bricks

I can imagine

careful hands that set them here

I can count them

I can find marks unique in each one

I can watch shadows for hours

as days and seasons pass

And I can find light

shining back from my Wall

clear through my window

straight into me.

 

 

 

Pencil on paper. Images arise. Message received.

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