poems or something
2
Eyes
my
love has two eyes
a
left eye of sadness
and a right eye of knowing
she's asleep now
and I am thinking.
then I am not thinking
as
both pass like clouds before the moon
*
I dreamed that woman
on the hill
gave me a sacred stone
and everything
became clear.
Then I knew
I was dreaming.
*
piers end, nights end
the moonlit waves
offer no comfort.
let's look anyway
*
tiny wings inappropriately
flowered on my face
vain eruptions
of carefully hidden choices.
I watch them grow
mocking dreams of flight.
*
under a huge elm
taking me by surprise
a sigh escapes.
*
Dormas Chilling Bhutia
Chilling Lahmu Bhutia
Dawa Lahmu Bhutia
Dorma Sherpa
four beautiful visitors
laughing
as Jane cuts my hair
*
I didn't feel lonely
till my friends
started talking to me.
*
why is
he grinning at me?
he's
been staring at me for hours
days
what
are you looking at?
What’s
so funny?
Eh?
Does
he know something?
What
does he know?
I’m
angry now,
see !
you’ve made me very angry
going
to smash you now
even
though you’re the
last
mirror in this house.
*
sometimes the sky
sometimes the sky
sometimes the sky
is
just too big
*
I feel
that
I must
have been
almost
everywhere
*
is it a coincidence?
in my dreams
I always face the Hospital
with my back to the
Art
School
*
The
Lacewing’s Litany
Gazing out
from behind your eyes
do you
catch yourself laughing?
and then
feel surprised?
My own
staring seems dark and puzzled
and I
wonder if it might
make you
run or hide ?
I don’t
know, and cannot guess
your mood
or longing but yes,
I’m
curious, nonetheless
In an
orchard stuffed with cherries
on all
fours my body bent
crawling
through the grass,
searching
for one ruby . . . . .
foolish,
clearly
more than crazy.
I pause my
ruby hunting
distracted
by the Lacewing’s flutter
where he
goes flying I go flapping
down the
orchard’s rows and rows and rows
My own
deliberations fidget and bristle
never
dancing or forming patterns.
the mental
machinery struggles,
rubs and
slips, blunted
merging,
slap and jostle,
so I
stumble in direction
slowly
loosing point and passion.
The
Lacewing hovers, flutters, wavers
warm
sunlight glows her iridescence
there
pulsing humming Silence has us
while
cherries fall like rain upon the grass.
At the end
of the day,
I didn’t
grew into a hero after all,
or a
scholar or a thief.
I became my
own Father
*
Doris Smiles
not just temporary but fleeting
fluttering gone like the lacewing
empty hospital corridors and long deserted apartments
trace of life
dust in the sunlight
I
am concerned about her smile and where it goes
where does it go? And all the treasures of love manifesting . . . . .
On
Dale Street, in the spring of 1927, my Mum is
shocked to see her Mum
hide her face behind her handbag. This is the first time my Gran is out
walking
with her new fiancé. My Mum hates him for taking
the place of her dear dead Dad.
Now she sees her Mum,
whom she loves more than any other person, hide from her.
This complexity is added to her smile, joining the thousands and
thousands
of
nuances that throng her love. If I can make my Mum smile
I
think I have achieved something,
to
see the nuances come out to play one more time.
not just temporary but fleeting
fluttering gone like the lacewing
my Mum, aged 10 and 91