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