I would like to recreate the earth so

 

we may throw snowballs beneath showers of cherry blossoms;

put speakers by the pond to waltz across the water-lily pads;

strip off and swim in a field brilliant with poppies;

stand thigh-deep in the crook of a river collecting scintillations,

bring them home gleaming magnificent in a jam-jar;

walk that trail of moonlight all the way to the opposite shore;

climb the clouds towering Himalayan above the horizon;

run on feet of wheels when our heads are light with happiness;

live in the landscape that appears in the rear-view mirror.

Wanting

 

We sit here

running

open-mouth aggression;

rolls of flesh ugly,

back alley

tongue-out desiring;

dung-drain

fingering,

cornered, boxed;

deformed

into ourselves,

gut-red;

blood-curved,

womb homed, cartilaginous

wanting.

I think love infinite

 

I think love infinite:

stretching back to no beginning

onward to no end.

Having the most complete happiness

life can offer

makes the present limitless;

that completeness of oneself

through loving

makes an infinity of each moment.

The Pleasure

 

                    You                                                          video

                                                     green

                                                                                            faded

                                                                                                                              water

                                                               slide                                               peregrine

                                                                                  lisp

the waterfall has been full

                         white

and loud

                          reminding me of long hair

                                                      and

                                                   city-park                           face-down

                                                                                   carefree chat

 forgetfulness                                                                      pleasure of being us

Songlines

 

We sing the landscape, ourselves in it as we are, have been and will.

We sing in every language since no race owns it

and we sing of all times since landscape and time are wedded.

We sing its wellness and our singing makes it well;

we sing of the stars for they are the bright eyes of our ancestors

and we will return to them.

We sing the songs of stones and water, of deserts and fields;

of ascending and descending, of hardship and achievement, dreams

and wishes.

We sing the songs that are the floating contours of the planet, the northern

lights of the heavens; we send our songs across the world like universal fly-fishers;

we send them lightly and ask you to find them for there are no hooks

and when you do, sing for they all make the one map.

Cannon Fodder

 

Mired in the contradictory propaganda of enemies,

the stultified masses become the pawns of presidents

and governments, who, like medieval overlords, claim

jurisdiction over their lives and send them to war for

no imparted benefit but the political capital of those who, 

directing the course of annihilation from the rear, without care,

 send them to their deaths and the subsequent reparation 

of  wrapping their remains in the flags of their dreaming.

Becoming

 

Carving, relentlessly carving; the days sculpting,

long past physical peak, my most essential self

from the imposed, simulated, protocol-conscious

construct of employment years. Shaping the truer me,

daily experiences building my Alexandrian Library,

shelf after shelf filling as I would have them filled

so Goya, Hopper, Bacon, Bach, Pink Floyd and Myles

flow by my stones into my torrent; Du Fu, Kavanagh,

Whitman harmonious with Donegal’s shoreline and skies

and I may finally settle to my own frequency of life,

resonating with my own pleasures and designs.