Monday 19 November 2007

He falls in love, briefly

Music was her soul.

And there was I like a strutting peacock promoting mine while she hummed the innocent lyrics of a song she never knew – didn’t need to – effortless form holding a tune which probably came from her in the first place.

My girlfriend had been out of town for four days before this heaven of a woman arrived in our flat – friend of a flatmate – exuding a rhythm the rest of us had been trying to remember for quite some time.

Things between my girlfriend and I had been good for as long as I could remember – but her absence had created a space I thought it only too natural for a 24 year-old to explore.

It would give me some time to rediscover what a man in a three year mostly monogamous relationship had long considered dead in himself. And whatever you say about the deepening bliss of lengthy communion, there is no nectar to the ego quite like attentions of an energetic 22 year old dancer with overflowing spirit and a propensity to laugh at the poorest of my jokes. Eyes glittering a curious green-amber – probably at the whole of existence; but I was stupid enough to grasp at the possibility they could be glittering a little more for me.

Now you must understand – if you hadn’t already guessed – I am a succour for infatuation. From a sincerely protestant family, devoted worship had been drilled into me from an early age and I had yet to find a higher alter, an icon so worthy of my prayers than the golden presence of an unknowingly and unashamedly beautiful woman.

And just as with God, the further they were from my reach, the more intense my religion.

…So sat this Hellenic beauty, the sun of a November morning on her shoulder, being so sickenly and effortlessly artistic.

“I only started drawing three months ago” as she copied a Rembrandt onto a postcard.

And again I was meditating on futility – futility of this fussy, chattering strategic planning as I plotted a way to make her path dovetail with mine.

And for what point? To distract her with mindless talk; to take her from her graceful course onto mine, meld her with my ugliness, all the while pretending that this was some kind of victory?

Or to keep alive the possibility that I could taste for one eternal second those olive arms, hands pressed into my back, hear music’s breath close past my ear…

My distractions continue – so knowingly futile but this is futility not from fear but pure desire – and I’m convincing myself there’s a difference between the two as I spin her this absurdly spiritual anecdote – designed to show my depth – and conclude with “…so the Universe is just love realising itself” – delivered quite naturally I assure you, with a perfectly weighted flourish to cushion it from tackiness.

“Yeah” she responded curtly.

Curt – not because she didn’t see that it was true. It was a truth her DNA found it impossible to hide. And not because she wasn’t interested – like I said those eyes could confer on the as much in a glance as the observer desired or required.

It was because this was a truth that seemed as obvious to her as the masterpiece of a pencil drawing she spun out unconcernedly between sips of some herbaceous tea.

It was also the kind of yeah that would forever make me feel like a pan uninvited guest at the spiritual tea party, when I so desperately wanted to be the main event.

That no matter how many yoga sessions I attended, however many wildly meditative dances I threw myself into, however many books I read that amounted to little more than comic strips with a little God thrown in – I could never capture that glow that those who have come to these things as if by accident exude so naturally.

And, as if you needed telling, she had it…

I resolved to take a steadier approach, one that would preserve my dignity and if delivered right could also prove devastatingly effective.

I decided to ignore her completely.

Pretend not to notice as she didn’t turn her head to mine as I prepared breakfast or failed to gain her attention as I emphatically hummed along to Sun Kil Moon in the hope that my deep appreciation of the music – so displayed – would let her know of my disarming and unfathomable sensitivity.

This was good – I was holding strong – and it stayed that way as I sat across from her and began to write.

Her interest piqued.

I noticed her glance over as I could do nothing other than appear completely absorbed in my work.

“What are you writing?” she asked. My ears praying that her tone betrayed a nonchalance broken at last.

“Oh just…” “Expressing” I might have added.

She rose to leave.
So my day was happily a flurry of activity and dampened expectations as I enjoyed a day off of blissful mundanity. The kind when even underwear seems like a petty luxury, oats and coffee the richest satisfaction.

(Turns out I’m a working man, albeit a lazy one)

Thoughts only turned once or twice to her.

Until I arrived home at 9.30 to my flat. It’s inhabitants glowing after a contented dinner, chatting to my flatmate, when fresh from the shower – Thank God! – in she strode.

My flatmate, inexplicably, made an excuse and left.

And she, just as inexplicably sat beside me in her towel, drops on her skin giving off the scent of some sweet detergent..

We spoke easily and leafed through a book of photographic nudes lying on the floor.

Then, just as easily, she lay her head on my shoulder.

And we kissed.

And it was a devoted kiss. One designed to last for eternity.

Which was good, because I left for work the next morning and never saw her again.

He falls in love, briefly

Music was her soul.

And there was I like a strutting peacock promoting mine while she hummed the innocent lyrics of a song she never knew – didn’t need to – effortless form holding a tune which probably came from her in the first place.

My girlfriend had been out of town for four days before this heaven of a woman arrived in our flat – friend of a flatmate – exuding a rhythm the rest of us had been trying to remember for quite some time.

Things between my girlfriend and I had been good for as long as I could remember – but her absence had created a space I thought it only too natural for a 24 year-old to explore.

It would give me some time to rediscover what a man in a three year mostly monogamous relationship had long considered dead in himself. And whatever you say about the deepening bliss of lengthy communion, there is no nectar to the ego quite like attentions of an energetic 22 year old dancer with overflowing spirit and a propensity to laugh at the poorest of my jokes. Eyes glittering a curious green-amber – probably at the whole of existence; but I was stupid enough to grasp at the possibility they could be glittering a little more for me.

Now you must understand – if you hadn’t already guessed – I am a succour for infatuation. From a sincerely protestant family, devoted worship had been drilled into me from an early age and I had yet to find a higher alter, an icon so worthy of my prayers than the golden presence of an unknowingly and unashamedly beautiful woman.

And just as with God, the further they were from my reach, the more intense my religion.

…So sat this Hellenic beauty, the sun of a November morning on her shoulder, being so sickenly and effortlessly artistic.

“I only started drawing three months ago” as she copied a Rembrandt onto a postcard.

And again I was meditating on futility – futility of this fussy, chattering strategic planning as I plotted a way to make her path dovetail with mine.

And for what point? To distract her with mindless talk; to take her from her graceful course onto mine, meld her with my ugliness, all the while pretending that this was some kind of victory?

Or to keep alive the possibility that I could taste for one eternal second those olive arms, hands pressed into my back, hear music’s breath close past my ear…

My distractions continue – so knowingly futile but this is futility not from fear but pure desire – and I’m convincing myself there’s a difference between the two as I spin her this absurdly spiritual anecdote – designed to show my depth – and conclude with “…so the Universe is just love realising itself” – delivered quite naturally I assure you, with a perfectly weighted flourish to cushion it from tackiness.

“Yeah” she responded curtly.

Curt – not because she didn’t see that it was true. It was a truth her DNA found it impossible to hide. And not because she wasn’t interested – like I said those eyes could confer on the as much in a glance as the observer desired or required.

It was because this was a truth that seemed as obvious to her as the masterpiece of a pencil drawing she spun out unconcernedly between sips of some herbaceous tea.

It was also the kind of yeah that would forever make me feel like a pan uninvited guest at the spiritual tea party, when I so desperately wanted to be the main event.

That no matter how many yoga sessions I attended, however many wildly meditative dances I threw myself into, however many books I read that amounted to little more than comic strips with a little God thrown in – I could never capture that glow that those who have come to these things as if by accident exude so naturally.

And, as if you needed telling, she had it…

I resolved to take a steadier approach, one that would preserve my dignity and if delivered right could also prove devastatingly effective.

I decided to ignore her completely.

Pretend not to notice as she didn’t turn her head to mine as I prepared breakfast or failed to gain her attention as I emphatically hummed along to Sun Kil Moon in the hope that my deep appreciation of the music – so displayed – would let her know of my disarming and unfathomable sensitivity.

This was good – I was holding strong – and it stayed that way as I sat across from her and began to write.

Her interest piqued.

I noticed her glance over as I could do nothing other than appear completely absorbed in my work.

“What are you writing?” she asked. My ears praying that her tone betrayed a nonchalance broken at last.

“Oh just…” “Expressing” I might have added.

She rose to leave.
So my day was happily a flurry of activity and dampened expectations as I enjoyed a day off of blissful mundanity. The kind when even underwear seems like a petty luxury, oats and coffee the richest satisfaction.

(Turns out I’m a working man, albeit a lazy one)

Thoughts only turned once or twice to her.

Until I arrived home at 9.30 to my flat. It’s inhabitants glowing after a contented dinner, chatting to my flatmate, when fresh from the shower – Thank God! – in she strode.

My flatmate, inexplicably, made an excuse and left.

And she, just as inexplicably sat beside me in her towel, drops on her skin giving off the scent of some sweet detergent..

We spoke easily and leafed through a book of photographic nudes lying on the floor.

Then, just as easily, she lay her head on my shoulder.

And we kissed.

And it was a devoted kiss. One designed to last for eternity.

Which was good, because I left for work the next morning and never saw her again.

Sung to your own song

[Peace and love to Ras Babi]

We’re crying for peace – brothers!
We’re crying for peace – sinners!
Dead faces pretend
Nothing goes wrong
You just soldier on
Remote control army
Singing X-factor song

We’re crying for peace – sisters!
We’re crying for peace – soldiers!
Guns in hand
Fighting wars to be bland
Living dead all the time
You raise your right hand [click]

War is gone – soldiers!
No more going on – mothers!
But you’re too far gone
Forget to sing your own song
Eyes can’t pass
The dead full mass
Better stay at home
Keep fillin’ your glass.

Mother we’re gone
Can’t hear you calling us home
We’re too far along
Dead to your song
We never even know
Where we come from

Father is dead
On last night’s news
No more self help book
Can give us the clue

Love. Freedom. Happiness.
Nowehere outside
But with IN

No you won't fool the Children of the Revolution!
No you won't fool the Children of the Revolution!
No you won't fool the Children of the Revolution!

Sung to your own song

[Peace and love to Ras Babi]

We’re crying for peace – brothers!
We’re crying for peace – sinners!
Dead faces pretend
Nothing goes wrong
You just soldier on
Remote control army
Singing X-factor song

We’re crying for peace – sisters!
We’re crying for peace – soldiers!
Guns in hand
Fighting wars to be bland
Living dead all the time
You raise your right hand [click]

War is gone – soldiers!
No more going on – mothers!
But you’re too far gone
Forget to sing your own song
Eyes can’t pass
The dead full mass
Better stay at home
Keep fillin’ your glass.

Mother we’re gone
Can’t hear you calling us home
We’re too far along
Dead to your song
We never even know
Where we come from

Father is dead
On last night’s news
No more self help book
Can give us the clue

Love. Freedom. Happiness.
Nowehere outside
But with IN

No you won't fool the Children of the Revolution!
No you won't fool the Children of the Revolution!
No you won't fool the Children of the Revolution!

Friday 7 September 2007

My perfect garden

Bees nimble along the rows of idle flowers

Blowing needlessly

Your hair tousled in a tulip – a daringly close shade of red.

Trees bow to an unkempt lawn but kempt enough for a tumble

or the sight of a cat's tail radio masting along its white-green fringe.

Breakfasts and barbecues happen under the warm gaze of an apple tree, blossom-tipped, ripe or stark as the season dictates.

We relate – here

We break – here


And in your absence I'm consoled

that whatever pictures pass

On this storied patch of grass

- That speaks of us

makes the air reak of us -

That it remains perfect whether we fade or blush

or move away

It will stay.

And breathe.

Streaming pregnancy.

Plump with the ultimate expectation

That nothing very much is going to happen which it hasn't seen before

Or hasn't been before


Or isn't being now in it's dynamic, floating, growing, grounded

Stillness

It wills us to do the same

To love the rain,


Be blessed by sun

To be at one

Not apart yet true to each of our parts

To make every leaving a greeting

An endless flow

Of teary hellos

complementing and abiding

Receiving and reviving

Your cat can take my mouse but I've got a little burr

to nestle in its fur

that'll be planted deep by autumn

By which time I'll be back in the orchard

Quietly forgetting as rotten apples smear my hands

That it was you who brought me here

Who gave me to the land.

My perfect garden

Bees nimble along the rows of idle flowers

Blowing needlessly

Your hair tousled in a tulip – a daringly close shade of red.

Trees bow to an unkempt lawn but kempt enough for a tumble

or the sight of a cat's tail radio masting along its white-green fringe.

Breakfasts and barbecues happen under the warm gaze of an apple tree, blossom-tipped, ripe or stark as the season dictates.

We relate – here

We break – here


And in your absence I'm consoled

that whatever pictures pass

On this storied patch of grass

- That speaks of us

makes the air reak of us -

That it remains perfect whether we fade or blush

or move away

It will stay.

And breathe.

Streaming pregnancy.

Plump with the ultimate expectation

That nothing very much is going to happen which it hasn't seen before

Or hasn't been before


Or isn't being now in it's dynamic, floating, growing, grounded

Stillness

It wills us to do the same

To love the rain,


Be blessed by sun

To be at one

Not apart yet true to each of our parts

To make every leaving a greeting

An endless flow

Of teary hellos

complementing and abiding

Receiving and reviving

Your cat can take my mouse but I've got a little burr

to nestle in its fur

that'll be planted deep by autumn

By which time I'll be back in the orchard

Quietly forgetting as rotten apples smear my hands

That it was you who brought me here

Who gave me to the land.

Saturday 28 July 2007

The role of the artist I now understand as that of revealing through the world-surfaces the implicit forms of the soul…

~ Joseph Campbell

(found here)

The role of the artist I now understand as that of revealing through the world-surfaces the implicit forms of the soul…

~ Joseph Campbell

(found here)

Wednesday 25 July 2007

Be ready

Be ready. Be available. You are available when you understand that there is nothing that you can do on your own to get to the King. When you acknowledge your total powerlessness, you become an empty room. As soon as you become an empty room, you are a sanctuary. So the King can enter, take the throne and grace you with immortal presence.


~ Francis Lucille (link)

Be ready

Be ready. Be available. You are available when you understand that there is nothing that you can do on your own to get to the King. When you acknowledge your total powerlessness, you become an empty room. As soon as you become an empty room, you are a sanctuary. So the King can enter, take the throne and grace you with immortal presence.


~ Francis Lucille (link)

Wednesday 27 June 2007

A scrawl before bedtime

A perfect part of silence
That we're trying to find
Together
As we ride
Sorting from the muddle
A silence
Deep
Unshakeable

What noise to take us there?

Which noise to choose amongst
All the others
To make us whole, happy, complete
Unbreakable
Unfathomable
Yet understood
Shared
A mystery to spend
Unquenchably
For all
With all
Yet complete without

Which noise to follow?

That break to fix
To mend all the others
Oh, that would be so easy!
That would be so great!
What ease in mystery so easily solved?
Play time for us all
That matters so much
The worthy path playfully trod
The cure, the method
To lift these clouds
So we may be free of all methods
And blend into this
silence
Around us
Within us

Are we really trying to find it?
Or just kidding
Seeking an easy way
For the hardest answer
That is no answer
Just a path
A way
A silence we so well to
hide from ourselves
Only our selves
Between ourselves
And the others we wish to share
So silently
The journey
In silence
To silence
The end within us all

And we're getting there aren't we?
Aren't we?
Tell me we're getting there
Somewhere
From here
This silence
We noisily protect
To never find

Cannot be found!
Only relaxed in
Lived in
Silence
Indecipherable
The only home we'll ever know
Through truth

So we shake
We crumble
To rebuild this holy temple
For ourselves
For others
The intrinsic good
Or joy
Or truth
In all the flimsy shacks
That litter us around
Within us
Within others
A mountains reach
But no summit to reach
A rocky road we've found
But not found

...but with you
this lost will be
for a few moments
that much easier

A scrawl before bedtime

A perfect part of silence
That we're trying to find
Together
As we ride
Sorting from the muddle
A silence
Deep
Unshakeable

What noise to take us there?

Which noise to choose amongst
All the others
To make us whole, happy, complete
Unbreakable
Unfathomable
Yet understood
Shared
A mystery to spend
Unquenchably
For all
With all
Yet complete without

Which noise to follow?

That break to fix
To mend all the others
Oh, that would be so easy!
That would be so great!
What ease in mystery so easily solved?
Play time for us all
That matters so much
The worthy path playfully trod
The cure, the method
To lift these clouds
So we may be free of all methods
And blend into this
silence
Around us
Within us

Are we really trying to find it?
Or just kidding
Seeking an easy way
For the hardest answer
That is no answer
Just a path
A way
A silence we so well to
hide from ourselves
Only our selves
Between ourselves
And the others we wish to share
So silently
The journey
In silence
To silence
The end within us all

And we're getting there aren't we?
Aren't we?
Tell me we're getting there
Somewhere
From here
This silence
We noisily protect
To never find

Cannot be found!
Only relaxed in
Lived in
Silence
Indecipherable
The only home we'll ever know
Through truth

So we shake
We crumble
To rebuild this holy temple
For ourselves
For others
The intrinsic good
Or joy
Or truth
In all the flimsy shacks
That litter us around
Within us
Within others
A mountains reach
But no summit to reach
A rocky road we've found
But not found

...but with you
this lost will be
for a few moments
that much easier

Tyninghame 2

Feast your joys
Take off my clothes
Swim in the sand
and draw faces with sticks
Running up dunes
To get a better view
Posing rhodedendrons
And the green -lush!-
Picked out in your eyes
Regina Spektor hair
And love for every pouting moment
Shining from your lips

Dream of me, honey,
When you're lost in Winnipeg
Counting snows, laughing
At Scottish beaches, fires
And songs about dairy
Flowing with your poems,
Lullabies for a stranger
Sleeping, shivering, close

Chocolate milk for breakfast
And Hendrix to take us home
Dream girl you're going
And it'll be as if you were never here
A dash of inspiration in this
summer that wil never end
in your heart and mine
Over an ocean
But coasting together
We'll fly we'll speak or email
But we'll never stop dancing.

Tyninghame 2

Feast your joys
Take off my clothes
Swim in the sand
and draw faces with sticks
Running up dunes
To get a better view
Posing rhodedendrons
And the green -lush!-
Picked out in your eyes
Regina Spektor hair
And love for every pouting moment
Shining from your lips

Dream of me, honey,
When you're lost in Winnipeg
Counting snows, laughing
At Scottish beaches, fires
And songs about dairy
Flowing with your poems,
Lullabies for a stranger
Sleeping, shivering, close

Chocolate milk for breakfast
And Hendrix to take us home
Dream girl you're going
And it'll be as if you were never here
A dash of inspiration in this
summer that wil never end
in your heart and mine
Over an ocean
But coasting together
We'll fly we'll speak or email
But we'll never stop dancing.

Tuesday 20 March 2007

Tyninghame

The track suggested mud and deep green beneath the night
Fields basking in a moon that was not so full
Like a cheek of God grinning
At a joke we travelled to understand
Puddles wept back at her
Two torches, hug greetings, yellow waistcoasts
Beyond: a beach accelerating

Dancing droves beat limbs and earth
Bones shake to new beats
Flow as ancient as Earth
Never smelling sweeter (sweatier?)
Colour lips, whirwind hair
Eyes booming alive
Man stands
World at his feet
Ocean at his head
Faded faded moon wishing red upon the shore
We swing, fly
Find further arms to fall into
Take another sip of joy
In case it is our last
Beach is thinning
Moon reappearing
Another draw on this happiness
So rightfully ours
Uh wow this dream!
This beauty!
Another dab to beautify it more

Calm underneath

There is no calm underneath it all
Collisions so out of our control
pretend to whirl and understand

A purer form of fury
From somewhere we can't deny
But would despise
If it wasn't
For the surer form of knowing
We're sure beyond it lies

A madness to meet God's madness
So we can look her in the eye

Tyninghame

The track suggested mud and deep green beneath the night
Fields basking in a moon that was not so full
Like a cheek of God grinning
At a joke we travelled to understand
Puddles wept back at her
Two torches, hug greetings, yellow waistcoasts
Beyond: a beach accelerating

Dancing droves beat limbs and earth
Bones shake to new beats
Flow as ancient as Earth
Never smelling sweeter (sweatier?)
Colour lips, whirwind hair
Eyes booming alive
Man stands
World at his feet
Ocean at his head
Faded faded moon wishing red upon the shore
We swing, fly
Find further arms to fall into
Take another sip of joy
In case it is our last
Beach is thinning
Moon reappearing
Another draw on this happiness
So rightfully ours
Uh wow this dream!
This beauty!
Another dab to beautify it more

Calm underneath

There is no calm underneath it all
Collisions so out of our control
pretend to whirl and understand

A purer form of fury
From somewhere we can't deny
But would despise
If it wasn't
For the surer form of knowing
We're sure beyond it lies

A madness to meet God's madness
So we can look her in the eye

Friday 2 February 2007

Twenty million people built a raft
Thirty floated it
For one million nine hundred and ninety-nine people to enjoy
Some of them wore sandals
Twenty million people built a raft
Thirty floated it
For one million nine hundred and ninety-nine people to enjoy
Some of them wore sandals

Monday 29 January 2007

I saw seven beautiful things today
That's three fewer than yesterday and some way off my personal best of 22
Edinburgh is a beautiful city but it is not as beautiful as Cape Town
And when I was in Cape Town a woman on the bus told me that it was not as beautiful as Nelson, New Zealand
I used to tell my girlfriend that she was he most beautiful woman in the world
But I have said that to other women since
And I think Nicole Kidman would look different in person
I once stood, looking at Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies
I asked a woman - who was not the same woman as in Cape Town - if
She had ever seen anything more beautiful
She replied that she had, somewhere in Switzerland
I have a friend called Nim and she's always calling me beautiful
But she says that to everyone so I'm not sure where I stand on her list

So, you want to know those seven things?
  • Yellow ducks on my shower curtain
  • A photograph of my old flatmate Rich grinning on N. Berwick beach
  • Lamposts outside William McEwan Hall
  • A pair of old fashioned scales on the kitchen shelf
  • Ras Babi
  • A girl hitting herself on the head with her glow-in-the-dark poi
  • A really nicely weighted wok
I saw seven beautiful things today
That's three fewer than yesterday and some way off my personal best of 22
Edinburgh is a beautiful city but it is not as beautiful as Cape Town
And when I was in Cape Town a woman on the bus told me that it was not as beautiful as Nelson, New Zealand
I used to tell my girlfriend that she was he most beautiful woman in the world
But I have said that to other women since
And I think Nicole Kidman would look different in person
I once stood, looking at Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies
I asked a woman - who was not the same woman as in Cape Town - if
She had ever seen anything more beautiful
She replied that she had, somewhere in Switzerland
I have a friend called Nim and she's always calling me beautiful
But she says that to everyone so I'm not sure where I stand on her list

So, you want to know those seven things?
  • Yellow ducks on my shower curtain
  • A photograph of my old flatmate Rich grinning on N. Berwick beach
  • Lamposts outside William McEwan Hall
  • A pair of old fashioned scales on the kitchen shelf
  • Ras Babi
  • A girl hitting herself on the head with her glow-in-the-dark poi
  • A really nicely weighted wok

Babylon & Beauty

It's hard to have thoughts on beauty, since beauty seems to be that thing which keeps us from thinking altogether,
Or rather, it captures,devours and exploits us in our thoughtlessness
And this is Babylon
She is dancing and parading, and you welcome her intrusions,
Flattered by her confidence that you're becoming freer of confusion
You have striven for your sunsets and she has traced your every step,
Only to alter to more convincing desires and concepts when the horizon looks alarmingly out of grip
But now you're getting wise to her cajoling and frustrating,
You see how her dance falters when you start to stop you're thinking,
Now over the night she is walking without speaking
By the midnight pool where she will lay you without loving,
You're left nake,d disappointed and undone
And you'll reflect that she was just an idea,
And it was your idea all along.

Babylon & Beauty

It's hard to have thoughts on beauty, since beauty seems to be that thing which keeps us from thinking altogether,
Or rather, it captures,devours and exploits us in our thoughtlessness
And this is Babylon
She is dancing and parading, and you welcome her intrusions,
Flattered by her confidence that you're becoming freer of confusion
You have striven for your sunsets and she has traced your every step,
Only to alter to more convincing desires and concepts when the horizon looks alarmingly out of grip
But now you're getting wise to her cajoling and frustrating,
You see how her dance falters when you start to stop you're thinking,
Now over the night she is walking without speaking
By the midnight pool where she will lay you without loving,
You're left nake,d disappointed and undone
And you'll reflect that she was just an idea,
And it was your idea all along.

It's all falling into place

A man wondered into Friday evening's expectation
It had the feeling of a night he would never forget
It was to be a night of seven teachers
The first took on a studious role
She listened to what he had to say
- Words of wisdom you could hardly imagine! -
But politely placed each pearl aside - her frustrations were beyond such talk at this time
"Come back when I'm ready" she seemed to say

The second was attentive, as she is to all things
But least of all to her self
She oozes power and gentleness
But she cannot see the beauty around her is all of her own making
She beats around the bush

On Cockburn St the third stopped him - huge hug, jangling smile
"I've been thinking about you" she said
Pointing at her eyes then laughing at herself
"But not seeing, thinking."
She giggled down the hill

The fourth was a dustbin bag that tripped him
As he followed a sudden whim to walk backwards to look at the lights, the shops,
The sky settling into night

Outside a South Bridge takeaway sat the fifth
- comatose, curry and chips down her front -
Breathing, silent
"She'll be fine," he said "It's not puke and she's just sleeping"
Inwardly: guesing how he could be so sure

The sixth ignored him then, upon recognition, backed away giggling
"You're very powerful today" she said
"I saw you half way down the Royal Mile.
You were wearing a white woolen jumper with brown on the sleeves."
They kissed, four times, through the conversation.
"You're becoming the man in the Forest." she said "With a river, a wife and two children."
He wondered if the wife might be her and smiled at how unsurprising she had become to him

The seventh sat -reflecting on the short stroll of these lessons
Who had been seen?
Who had been thought of?
Once he had scratched and clawed for this kind of attention
But now he could not be sure that there was a him that this was happening to
Or if there was, he would not be around much longer for him to enjoy

But still there was wisdom in all of it
So why should he not speak it?
And so he began:
"There is not one perfect path our perfect selves are walking
There is only you, NOW,
Perfect and wonderful.
See! there is no catching up to be done
Enjoy your truth
Love ALL your teachers
And make sure you see me for a dance later."

It's all falling into place

A man wondered into Friday evening's expectation
It had the feeling of a night he would never forget
It was to be a night of seven teachers
The first took on a studious role
She listened to what he had to say
- Words of wisdom you could hardly imagine! -
But politely placed each pearl aside - her frustrations were beyond such talk at this time
"Come back when I'm ready" she seemed to say

The second was attentive, as she is to all things
But least of all to her self
She oozes power and gentleness
But she cannot see the beauty around her is all of her own making
She beats around the bush

On Cockburn St the third stopped him - huge hug, jangling smile
"I've been thinking about you" she said
Pointing at her eyes then laughing at herself
"But not seeing, thinking."
She giggled down the hill

The fourth was a dustbin bag that tripped him
As he followed a sudden whim to walk backwards to look at the lights, the shops,
The sky settling into night

Outside a South Bridge takeaway sat the fifth
- comatose, curry and chips down her front -
Breathing, silent
"She'll be fine," he said "It's not puke and she's just sleeping"
Inwardly: guesing how he could be so sure

The sixth ignored him then, upon recognition, backed away giggling
"You're very powerful today" she said
"I saw you half way down the Royal Mile.
You were wearing a white woolen jumper with brown on the sleeves."
They kissed, four times, through the conversation.
"You're becoming the man in the Forest." she said "With a river, a wife and two children."
He wondered if the wife might be her and smiled at how unsurprising she had become to him

The seventh sat -reflecting on the short stroll of these lessons
Who had been seen?
Who had been thought of?
Once he had scratched and clawed for this kind of attention
But now he could not be sure that there was a him that this was happening to
Or if there was, he would not be around much longer for him to enjoy

But still there was wisdom in all of it
So why should he not speak it?
And so he began:
"There is not one perfect path our perfect selves are walking
There is only you, NOW,
Perfect and wonderful.
See! there is no catching up to be done
Enjoy your truth
Love ALL your teachers
And make sure you see me for a dance later."