27 Aug 2016

From my blog Phantom Road… join the conversation.

Phantom Road

Happiness should be a constant, Marcus. Everyone gets the exact same amount. You have the choice to knock it back all at once or sip it slowly like fine wine.

With a neon blue usage indicator?

It can’t have been the original plan, that some creatures have it laid out for them while others have no chance at finding it at all. Where did it start to go wrong?

Some would call it karma.

That complicates the mechanics and oversight by its sheer size. And random selection is almost cruel.

All that telemetry we generate must be getting processed somewhere.

Unless, happiness itself is in our imagination, just an opiate that our hyperactive senses conjure at will.

And grief, my dear, is its real counterpoint.

hand shadows-
see the darkness
bring meaning to light

View original post

Filled with Silver Wind

break a chunk of tanzanite sky,
and hold it to the falling sun,
the purple precipitate of dusk
dances within the crystal blue;

sift sunlight through your fingers,
let golden pearls gently drop
around the lava painted throat
of the throbbing valley floor;

gather the jewels if you can,
seal them shut behind your eyes,
look, the ivory gleams pale
against the velvet lips of night;

that lilac breasted roller mocks,
with a flash of silken sapphire wing,
even the river laughs in ruby swirls,
at your thirsty supplication;

for you stand, but a naked monk,
clad in an unseen topaz gaze,
your empty begging bowl
filling slowly with the silver wind;

feed the riches to your soul,
ornament your shrivelled dreams,
gather the jewels if you can
and seal them shut behind your eyes;

propitiate the obsidian dark,
surrender to that opal moon,
gather the jewels in your eyes,
and pray there will be no morning.

 

#NotesFromTheMasaiMara

23 Aug 2016

From my blog ‘Phantom Road’.

Phantom Road

Why they were born?

You think that’s what people want to know about the most?

Nothing else could be more important or less understood.

I think, Marcus, all that people want to know about, for sure, is the future. Their greatest hope. Their greatest fear.

That could be an interesting way to count down the days. No sudden thunderstorm, no impromptu walk in the rain…

A pre-configured timeline exorcised of hope and fear. Where tomorrow is just another act of a play you’ve already read. Under an umbrella.

When you know how it ends, you might enjoy the scenes even more, knowing it’s the only shot you have at them.

With the script safe and dry in your raincoat pocket.

no beginning, no end,
the spiderweb
just lies in wait

View original post

Between Mirror and Dream

the sky is rife
with rumour,
with the brazen revelation of dusk,
with the pale orange of disbelief;

the marabou storks
fastened to tree tops,
carrion still on their putrid breath,
are whispering wildly;

fickle cirrus
snakes around a half bitten moon,
stars tumble down the placid hills,
skimming over yellow grass,
vaulting into purple spotted dreams;

the gaze of the gazelle,
the leer of the leopard,
it is truth, it is mirage,
a moment, an eternity,
a macabre hall of mirrors,
where all that reflects
is your own imagination,
your own reality,
stretched and shrunk,
drenched and wrung;

this was the beginning,
this was the end,
everything alive only in my eye,
afraid to close,
afraid to look
into the hollow yawn
of the still born night;

the Mara folds into
a single bird,
the broken moon bit for its eye,
an elephant’s trunk
bending into
a sombre question mark;

somewhere in the emptiness,
between perception and vein striped skin,
between star and sky,
between mirror and dream,
between cause and consequence,
is the silhouette of the flightless wing
that blinds the vanishing sun.

the sky is rife
with rumour.

 

#NotesFromTheMasaiMara

Here it is still Morning

here the bush consumes the sun,
its colour, its warmth, its coppery light,
the ruminant grassland
breathing it slowly
into its scattered bones;

here vultures hover
over carrion fields,
the air smells of brutal death,
of the dry mouth of hunger,
of the pulsing heft of life;

here it is still morning,
elements swirl with the infinite,
one hand holding up the sky,
the other earthed as the first truth
separates from the night;

here you and I, like voyeurs,
peering through the keyhole of time,
cast free when life emptied its pockets,
things that collect without asking,
an uncried tear, an unformed smile;

here lying with the red dust,
with yesterday’s trampled grass,
with the silence raising its bloodied mouth,
with the darkness swallowing the roar,
with minds caught in the swirl, arms still flailing;

here it is still morning.

 

#NotesFromTheMasaiMara

Bougainvillea Secrets

shall we dig up this new asphalt
poured over scurrying footprints,
tear up the leaves
that variegate those old shadows,
stir the strange air that blows over
our long ago dreams?

I measured it once,
eighteen steps from my gate to yours,
secrets still buried safe
where they were spilt,
behind the bougainvillea,
orange in the flickering neon light;

an inverted memory box,
this street filled with sunset shavings,
with eyes brighter than Venus
or Mercury, we never could tell,
with ribbons of longing
undone in its long plaited hair;

how many colours
can a word contain?
how much angst did a whisper hold?
how many promises
punctuated the years
until half past childhood?

01 Aug 2016

From my new blog- Phantom Road.

Phantom Road

You can only hear them before the city stirs, when it is still tucked in bed denying the dawn, the greying night pulled over its ears, its skies still empty of its contradictions. You can hear them speak the words that you swallowed, the words that wouldn’t come, the words that lingered in the air long after the storm was gone.

They’re not really singing, you know, Marcus. Probably whinging about the rain or plotting vengeance over broken eggs. Or simply swearing at the wind.

But the inability to comprehend something automatically elevates it to a level of profundity or mysticism or power. Or thoughtless beauty. Why let it hold a mirror to your ignorance, when you can incapacitate judgement.

But listen, maybe it is an primal shamanic song that every bird knows, about a secret lake far away in the mountains where the fish come out to dance on full…

View original post 27 more words