Tag Archives: peace

twilight tramp (Oct 2010)

18 Nov

There’s two hours of daylight left
and a three hour tramp
there’s a river, a constant sound

to the right telling us
  what staircases sound like
There’s a palace of bush

  with many entrances
and archways
There’s the servants’ quarters –
the laundry room that got boggy

there’s the tea room, with the
  excellent view –
the tea is green and hot

There’s the path covered
in matted mosaics
spiraling off …

The guards dim the lights
no one says closing time
we are ushered on to a board walk
a bridge  a bridge  another bridge

the fountains are many
the sound gives them away
We walk in silence and

see stars in puddles
becoming galaxies
There are no shadows anymore
only dark rooms

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s•anc•tu•ar••y (Oct 2010)

14 Nov

1. a place of safety (n)

like singing in the dark

like tree flowers on the forest floor
signaling, in the chain of life
it’s time
to mate
a safe haven when podocarps
(rimu, kahikatea, miro, mataī, tōtara)
fruit

feeding many birds
and the kakapo wait
until the fruit arrive
and the kaka and the kereru follow
the berries
that follow the flowers
that ripen like blue pollen
fuchsia

2. offering protection (v)

to one who nests close to the ground
for their young to clamber
down –
time
and space needed to find their wings

to one who freezes in the blind spot
of a predator’s eye
but dies on the deathmill
because of their smell

to songs, sung to trees, or to nothing or to no one

3. a discernable quality of peace (n)

amorphous in form
be ing in sects in sun li ght;dinner
and honey-coated

an escapable sigh
this valley is my sanctuary, I come here often

4. to make sacred (v)

to watch perception change
and to make notes like a botanist

to notice birds are louder
than footsteps

to bend
under a single thread of spider
and
to-not-break-the-invisible-lines

to smell
deeply
without words like rich or poor

5. to shine (v)

as natural light

emerging in the dank of life, an ecological
splitting
of fabric when something
dies
like supple-jack stitching the forest together
and simultaneously ripping the
seams
a part
when colossal death falls to the ground, and
new light comes

Else (Oct 2010)

14 Nov

We are silent for a long while.

We haven’t talked yet. It’s not that
this isn’t the right place to bring up awkward
discussions, it’s just that …

 this place; it seems
entirely irreverent to remember
the small details that piss me off.
The forest isn’t tidy.

It’s scrubby underfoot. We see shells of Rata
and skyward Rimu. I move
with my hands out, a blind person
feeling their way forward.

  And then he breathes, a subtle exclamation.
His eyes resting beyond me.
Off to one side is a dead punga trun¬k
and carved into the threads of bark

is a face.

A strong patriarchal guardian of a face.

It’s back to the creek and surveying
us. He’s like a Moai I say.
It looks both intent
and indifferent.
Gazeless eyes
long nose
long chin
a moko transplanting any expression.

Absorbed in duty.

Next to it, an old Rimu; its life shortened
I think, from a lightening strike,
  or something of that magnitude.

A dead wound of its exposed inner self
sliced jaggedly down
the northern rim of its trunk.

Death is arresting.

The bark is peeling back
like sunburnt skin of an old woman –
wrinkles so hardened a thousand stories
must exists within its folds.

Yet there is still life in this tree
in the shape of rata and ferns that grow
from the decay at sun kissed heights.
We look up, and up and up.

  The trunk is stout at the base,
meandering by the middle and at the top
reaches into nothing. It just stops
like an exclamation mark.

How long does it take to die?

I touch the tree and, like a hand
  I can’t let go
I stay, arm outstretched, fingering
rough material, appreciating the portion
that comes off as I lift my hand.

This tree is buoyant in death
it is one of those deaths that takes an eon
to surrender the complete life force.
And we have arrived in its final exhale.

There is no compulsion to move on.
The path is behind us and ahead of us
but off somewhere else. This tree isn’t about else.
It doesn’t venture an alternative to its life or death.

There is no else. There is only this.

the billows of the mind (1 Aug 2010)

27 Aug

the billows of the mind
  and there are many

are a subtle refinement
  of all muscles

poised and holding
  speech, memory, anticipation

and the visualisation
  of this

the billowing of the organ notes
  flutter out in subtle ease

a terrace of trees
  caught in a breeze

Mediterranean washing hanging
  in the courtyard window

a bee coming to check out the pollen
  of a tiny bud, of a tiny bud

dissolving into the eyelids
  far gazing horizons

spaciousness held
  by a wafting tone.

And when has that muscle
  the organ mind and all its notes

relaxed, ever, dropped wind from sail
  dropped cargo of letters and

leftover love, risen skyward
  for the free fall tumble

everything. When has it stopped, if only
  to allow the backstage pass

on the inner most subtle workings
  to view, heels relaxing to the floor

  (finding support there)
and the best view in town

  not in the clock tower, not the cataloguers
tower, nor the ivory tower

it is immediately in front of
  closed eyelids

  the warm air at your nostrils

make up sleep (16 July 2010)

27 Aug

dissipating
  the way a fight does
when your lover rolls over
in his sleep
and places his hand
on your thigh

in that gesture
a nuzzling in to the small
of your back
and breath sleeping
into your neck

all is as it should be
what came before
ceases to be

writing: peace and creativity

24 Jul

Week 1

Friday night; I can hardly sleep. My first class of ‘Writing the Landscape’ up at Victoria University finished this afternoon. My mind is buzzing, excited, this pollen thick in the air and hardly soporific! I grab a pen and write. I check the time, it’s after one in the morning. I daze out in a sleepy stupor, and my pen grabs me again. Part of me thinks I should wait till morning, but does the creative flow work like that? Does it stick round for convenient moments?

Every twenty minutes or so, my mind rouses and I grab my pen again. I am hot, agitated excitement bubbling through to my bed clothes and blankets. I strip what I can back, flushed for such a cold winter night.

My eyes close as I write further into the night, relying on the rim of the page to guide my lines. Does the fire of inspiration at night behold beautiful embers by light? I wonder if I’ll be impressed with my musings by morning.

My energy is draining, I’m pretty exhausted and I want to find a way to turn the tap off. Can we control creative energy? I breathe and my heart flutters. I breathe deep into the earth and I feel myself inflating; levitating.

To be clear; my body is tucked up in bed, but all the cells of … everything are now   a   l o n g  d i s t a n c e  a p a r t .  T h e r e ’ s  a  l o t  o f  s p a c e  and I am a tiny particle having an epileptic fit.

Where do I find peace?

Tomorrow I am going to a sanga session on Equanimity. The equanimity of joy is peace.

But where do I find peace tonight?

In exhaustion perhaps. Truly spent, I trip into sleep.

inner peace (24 Jan 2010)

8 Feb

the falling leaf
of inner peace
is destined to land

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