Wednesday, October 4, 2017

KitKelen #641 - the workers are the miracle


641
the workers are the miracle

how each about the making goes
if ever rote, none of them sees
it’s orange blossom brings the bees
who brings the blossom?
you tell me

imagination catches
somewhere
stuttering thing

in the blade-loud glade
where engines roar
the birds come all the same

and there are sunny days outdoors
we write the book inside the place
there is a call to us
an us to call –
is there?

and coming, ready or not
life’s a kind of treasure hunt
the traps are set all through it
in an elegant retirement

more and more we need the clothes
God, we’re ugly underneath
though you will want a mirror for that
(I speak for myself of course)

always impatient
needing to rest up

in the old verandah armchair
by the scent of spotty gums
with the pumpkin soup awaiting
those satisfied-soon tums

and then – because there’s next, you know
I walk around the garden doing nothing
I decline from thought, forego

if I think better of it
who’ll think worse of me?

they come
they make a garden
it’s because of that
deliberation

it’s off the branches what birds say
they’re watching and they’re wise
neither by ones nor all together

each moment is an arc of flight

magic’s mine if I say
does it all require explaining?

how can we get the birds to stay?
and teach us a few songs?

snake in the wall be welcome too
and even when the mice are gone
please please don’t go away

all selves we see
yellow breast at the window wants in
the heart in that as ours

and in the mulberry
you’re the channel billed cuckoo
are you not?
I have your portrait
but you won’t sit still
not even ripe

we’re here to write the parts to play

tickle the wall
and you’re tickled too

have not to gulp
not to pick at the thing

there is a natural order for doing
and this is the object of life

the great ones make the aphorism
we live to trick with
never abiding

you have to inhabit
wherever you are

many of us catch the breath
it’s all about trust

watch seasons
all the pages fill –
days that were and never

where the insects flit and flourish
tiny minds upon the game

we’re high on branches
and we dig the earth

we separate clanned and each to each
like little corporations

no ‘we’ at all but words insisted
there was nowhere else to be

concrete is encouraging
I like to see it grow
it stretches through the garden
where lovely things will go

everyone slept to here
(no waking but the dream dissolves)

and all the while the heart was under
never a tick or tock

and so we come as destined
to parts of the year we’d forgot
because it was all elsewhere before
as we were

is there something was written nowhere?
then it cannot be

do they infest the tree?

the concrete leads us to them
when we get there we will know

I come with the miracles
so I go
here until it all goes up
goes out
blows over

these are the kind you must believe

do you decide to survive?
all the dead did

I offer pumpkin seed to chookshit
ever hopeful as I am

it could be over any time
so happy here to be

embrace the what-it-is
that my friends is yes, you guessed it

we’ve more than anyone could live
just in the moments we are
you, me
not two of them, of us, the same

not my time yet
but I circle the prize

you can make time sacred
just by living there

2 comments:


  1. On a heath
    something like the Shakespeherian rag
    not my time yet either
    meet you in the pub

    ReplyDelete
  2. where Kit Marlowe sticks it to you
    and gives the thing a half turn

    ReplyDelete

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