Make sure everyday is a finding by Geraldine Green

 fr ‘Losing’ Myra Schneider)

..

Finding of socks in drawers

finding of hares and badgers

finding of lost keys

slipped-away memories

finding of rocks on beaches

forgotten Latin phrases

and blue-mooned evenings.

..

Finding of memories in your

……….lost and found mind.

 

Finding…….bus tickets

………………cinema slips

………………betting stubbs

………………tallys

………………keys

………………buckets, spades

..

years of sand in lost and found sandals

………and ‘here’s mud in your eye!’

as you slide down

……………………..the gulleys of childhood

finding your mind in hidden places

………behind sliding panels

………………velour curtains.

..

Finding the magician

………you can be

………………configuring swallows

………………wheeling, darting, around your head.

..

Become Blodeuwedd

becomes a stranger to yourself

become a stag of seven tines

a swallowed acorn, the salmon of knowledge

………bird with no name.

..

Become crying heads to fill

become a black Monday, or

torn away rhino horn.

..

Make sure each day is a finding

..

New moon

slivering sky, a

child’s fingernail.

..

Super moon red, harvested

harvest of squash, seeds and

pumpkins, harvest of thoughts

once hidden

………now emerging.

..

Time to harvest it all.

..

Time to unlock the key

that you are

Robin’s body

that turns the lock

into mornings

of autumn

………its low call,

………calling

………you home.

..

 

Footnote: crying heads to fill fr Migratory, Les Murray

Listen by Geraldine Green

I’m listening to my age.

It is humming of fear and fascination.

The bees inside my head sting me into waking.

..

I want to take the 59 bees –

wild, unswarmed – and place them

in the lift.

..

………The lift will take them down

to the basement.

..

………I hear them,

………………the bees.

They are angry inside their steel

………………grey coffin.

Their humming diminishes.

..

Now all I can hear is my breathing.

..

It is coming from behind

the ochre door.

The ochre door that sounds like spices

and Christmas.

..

..

One door is painted yellow

………………It sounds like madness.

I place my palm against its madness

………lean closer,

……………………..Listen.

..

The bees are back; they’re swollen with pollen.

..

Their brownblack furred back legs

………articulate their fury.

..

If I hold my breath

………they may not hear me.

If I take off my shoes

………………slip them

inside my pocket

……………..tiptoe along

………this hall to another door

I may find myself looking.

..

Perhaps this door, door of

cool cerulean,

………crustaceaned sky

may heal me.

..

Can you Tell me the Full Moon Names? by Geraldine Green

Wolf moon, Snow moon, Worm and Pink.

And can you tell me again

the names of the moon at its full,

now I mean this December?

Pink, Flower, Strawberry and Buck

and when is the Sturgeon, Harvest

and Hunter? August, September

and October, when fields have been reaped

and harvest has is over.

 

November, the Beaver

before swamps freeze land and water,

frosty and cold before December

when long nights set in,

the moon before Yule

and always an extra moon

is needed.

 

the blue moon,

the fourth moon.

 

My moon is red-grained and Green Corn.

Yours is the Worm moon when ice is melting

and the cawing of crows calls spring to its table

when time is ripe for tapping the maple.

 

Now is December the cold moon, the blue

but light will soon lengthen,

when the Wolf moon is howling

Harvest by Geraldine Green

at the harvesting of the moon, pumpkins

at the harvesting of the moon, seeds

at the harvesting of the moon full & red

at the harvesting of the moon, hunters

at the harvesting of the moon

..

this moon, now, full and yellow, harvested and fecund

food for the lonely, this moon of squash and honey,

this moon full and hardy, at the harvesting of the moon,

gather up the lonely, at the harvesting of the moon

gather up those awash in grief, gather them up

at the harvesting of the moon, the gathering

of the poor, the homeless, the young and the old

at the gathering, at this full moon, i mean, this

harvest moon aligned and full, this swelling of seeds

..

this goodness, the holding out of alms, of arms, & cups

& need, dispel at this full moon, the greedy, dispel, the fear

dispel the arrogant, dispel, dispel the sheerness & the shame

of power, the awful greed of desperation, in spell the lovely

in spell the glory, in spell us our human family, our daily need

or bread of love yeasted at the harvesting of the moon.

..

this moon i mean.

i mean, now, red and holy.

this moon of glory.

Ode 1 by David Pollard

It is all dross and leeward of a sigh

and half-light of our half drawn blind

against the more than east wind and the dry

dust in the always promise of mankind.

Still, let us recall what the trouvères

could only half remember, what Loris

knew he could not set to rhyme.

Those days held boisterous suns along the air;

they were a garden walled with promise,

a trinity of love and loss and time.

Ode 2 by David Pollard

My Lord, my Lord, what games we play with these

almighty colours of the drowned

that follow us with pains that never ease,

hearing only the faintest echoes sound.

And we, my lord, among your city of branches

catch at its lights cradled within a tear

as it will drop, seemingly to death.

Thus the wood blows its candles as it blanches,

brief as it is on its broad wings of air,

falls just as simple as a final breath.

it is it is by David Pollard

it is
.it is
the white wall plays with light
..as does the final day itself

……………you know the way snow etches
……………itself around dark places
……………the edge a solid blurred
..
as if it might           – just –
……………be
and say a word or two about
..his few asides
….on all of it………...etched on the side of it
..
an utterance of
..the word
..
(I think) someone near the ledge was
..tall and thinning to almost
…..a shadow
…….carrying himself against
a shifting cobalt grey
..
..
and then above it all shone…….(I think
……………for a moment)
..a pale light
……………(just as it closes)
….like a cold angel
………………falling

transurban hydepark by Aad de Gids

sans couplettes we have the consistency of cheese,cheesuses

with fibrilles and microbreezes infranasal sturdier still,by

the sea becoming the spritz of seawater corpuscules in the air,

breathe breathe the muses sing and this silted air is like tea

an,adstringent barely there substance coconspiracing on our

moods and all with what accidental meteorology the day or early

morning has to offer: cold rain in the face from down to up

due to gusts of wind and contrary wind when biking towards the

elastic duties of work arriving in the dark to see it inside

working,as working,lifting this darkness towards some clearness

first then novemberist gloom of grey and closed skies out of

which opaqueness rain falls the temperature of ice and snow.

hyde park not to hide in the entire park as it is composite of

patches of grass,etablissements,the “universal hydepark” for

angelic walks athletic runs atlantic subconsciousness azalea

infusions of vegetation in our physiques,our fotos,memories

lust for life and perhaps a quietude towards death as such,so

it seems global catastrophes redirect out infravisceral spans

of molecules dandieèsque basque venerable longing for standing

staying alive and some images that won’t part nevermore luckily

a hyperbollywould meal in the dreamhouses by Aad de Gid

a hyperbollywould meal in the dreamhouses

with the carrots to peel and beets to make ale

a real texan-vegan restaurant experience with margarites

animatrons helping,serving and the fish cofilosofising

the love sunk in our stardust materiality which

we schlepp around featherlite……

wonderful the words as counters the counters as isles and islets.

archipelago of the wal*mart of poetry

J and L the nightpeople the nitecats

i am just a morningperson

catpeople was the film,right

yes. thee cats peoploids

faring the rubycon towards the emerald archipelago

salesassistents of wal*mart

stand in a distancing off-duty stance to help us over the rapids

bromeliads bloom and toucans rustle

onward to the mythical aztec gold

thee countressess’ special stash !

the vietnameses wal*mart special offer: eggrolls

and ketan-rice sticky and glueey and sweet,aromicided

with vanillapods and overwhelmed by a lady swathed in

giorgio beverly hills

all in all the hypnotic asphyxiating experience one finds

oneself suddenly embroiled

embroiled bromeliads got hund [sic] on to his clambering underlegs,

feet already soft,white,wet,jungly

got hung on to his clambering

the linen shoes disintegrating slowly until we walked

with swathes of the idea of shoes

prada in the vietnamese-panamese jungle

foam the artgallery in canada,churchill,worldcapital of polar bears

holland awakening slowly the carolinas gradually

enveloped in an autumnal night with still the faintest whiff

of scented northernmost microbromeliads in the appalachians

the non-reading not an emptying but a mere filledness

overfilledness still in the internetted coif the waves

of uninternetting drawing holes like in a pair

of taupe stockings disintegrating what nevertheless

stayed loyal to some empty idea of form

Salt Barn by Andrew Taylor

Shelter

……essentialness

..

When spray coats

it is indicative

..

In the middle

…..best view

..

Clear of coast

…..frequency

switch transmission

..

New music

Monday

..

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