Darcy

no clock here

minutes passed to hours
moments became ours
 
where yours and mine
released 
into us.
 
[breathe]
 
we
made light fill our minds
moved through space
and time
and 
found sacred spaces
 
secret places
 
hiding in plain view.
 
[breathe]
 
all the while in this
we
made long lines
of life and limb
reaching to imagined skies
 
fingertips blazing
in animal pantomimes,
we offered our best
 
and worst
 
to our adopted spirits.
 
[breathe]
 
drawing fingers opened wide
reaching for that hanging
sweet breath.
and breathe we did.
 
[breathe]
 
finding harmony within us
and between us
 
where namaste waited for us
to accept the offering
that felt so new
and yet so familiar.
 
flowing,
 
greeted,
and grateful
 
[breathe]
 
head bowed down
in awe
and
in honour
 
heels planted like
oak roots and
ass to the sky.
 
such a strange salute
to the universe
but damn
it feels good.
 
now we accept
we are fractured
and fictional
and factioned
 
yet 
still
we find focus,
in the breathing.
 
on this emotion
in the breathing.
 
on that sick relative.
in the breathing.
 
on that random guy over there.
in. the. breathing.
 
[breathe]
 
my gods.
what time is it?
 
a prescient metaphor
but cruelly imprecise.
 
I know what time it is.
 
we know
the time has come.
 
we leave in slow motion
caught in the gravity of memory
 
so keep breathing
keep seeing
 
and
 
as the door opens
and light speed life
taunts us
disses us,
I offer this,
 
there is no clock here.
 
wonder expands
and expects
a willing child
to follow
 
so we do
because
we will
 
and 
 
we are
 
all
wonder full.
 
[breathe]

podcast with sylvia duckworth [convo notes]

particles [rough draft]

particles

I wait.

Held by time.

As if this weight was matter.

And
I listen like empty halls might
Without response or repose.

Cemented, silent,
And storykeeping.

You lay,
I watch.

Anything could happen right now,
But it doesn’t.

So,
I’m coaching
to my mirror.

And I feel like iou and you and you;
Kaleidescopic intent
Is too intense.

Two tents just you and me.

A hill between us.

Growing.

This page is
In language foreign to me.

Last page,
smoke and mist.

Next page
is blank.

And I realize,
That I father like my mother,

I brother like a mentor.

Teach,
Like life is a skinned knee.

Walked it off, stretched it out, kept moving.

But we are not moving.

Except for my sharp pencil.

That keeps breaking.

The son in me
Hopes that this time
I can keep the point.

But the paper
Steals my confidence.

Blanks on white space,
Remind me that you
And I share the same air
But see the sky differently.

You cloud gazing.

Me watching shadows.

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podcast with derrick schellenberg http://ift.tt/2u2gRGZ

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