Haikus - Pure & Daughter of Christ

PURE

The warmth of welcoming

And walking into oneself

Waves made of flames

______________________________________________

DAUGHTER OF CHRIST

Fucking fickle

I forgive and love thee

All the more for spurning me

A building called 'Inventory' (after a theme in 'Heaven's Mirror' by Graham Hancock)

A soup made of ash

A Burn of recyclable papers and cardboards

Down at the bottom of the garden

The embers stirred reveal the sign, the answer:

A labyrinth

A ritual in the suburbs

Dog barkings in the suburbs

The flicker of television incandescence through curtains

Ritual summer insect pissings and fuck juices dripping out of trees

I dodge their puddles on this night walk down to beach

To see the sky of stars uninterrupted

Every ritual needs be marked with the meaningless sucking 

Upon cigarette 

And so I threw my pride and my envy

Into the waves - those two twitching,

Fake silver rings that never fit me -

To make room for Grace and Fierce Kindness

And I didn’t take any hostages,

No mementoes witness to this.

I’m probably wearing the jersey of a dead woman

Here in this everlasting ancient moment of cacafonic,

Globalised, gifted-on potlatch ceremony.  

Everything’s falling apart in order to come together again.

Everything:

I am in absolute, astonished awe of you.

The dance of machines, the sentimentality of meat bodies,

And all these other abstract things to hold on to inside

The cult of the beautiful;

Spiritual ideas, chicken - and - egg conundrums and debates

That urge us on upstream against all the odds;

The tools we seek, ask for, and find,

Like Grace.

Like Akashic records of you held in the code of the blood of you,

Everything, Us;

And those tools:

The enigma code breakers to guide us in 

The deciphering of your languages

As though we could know you from 

within our world, Your Machine,

With a certainty that your mysteries could be apprehended -

Art, music, poetry and prayer,

Then 

Grace.

To sleep, then!

And dream.

The only true reality

This peopled world is threaded through

With those who’d tell you what to do

And what not to,

Push-me-pull-you’s

Trying to be owls of noble wisdom,

Flaunting opinions as though 

They were pieces of sacred knowledge,

As though this were the only true reality

And its furthest lengths and depths 

Had been explored and plowed for information

And fully understood,

As though humans were the only Lifeform

Of any consequence

Here

And, by extension,

The entire universe.

As though it had always been this way.

Haiku | for change

In order for the New to take hold

Space needs be made.

So: out, the Old!

Haiku - Song for dune and forest

Please: What is it

To be Warden, to be Wyrd,

A stewardship to steer?

Haiku - Astonishment

Taking a moment

To sit and feel

Just how ancient everything is

People of the mind

People of the Mind:

The rivers of the Gut

and the givers of the hurt

Say:

Free yourself from 

Karmic bind!

A reel of His story

What you got in your DNA, Jaguar?

I got the blood of poets,

Magicians and musicians!

There’s been a film sliding between me

And the stone of reality

Since I was young,

The film of culture 

And a whole family line 

Of ingrained self-destructive thought programming

That seem to be married into a rather unhealthy

Long term arrrangement.

Now it seems the reel is at its end,

Tugging off the spool and about to snap,

Tearing off its attachment clips,

Even as the spool is connected to 

A wheel that wants to keep spinning:

Half the problem was getting to the end of the script,

Emerging here, at the end of His Story.

But a new challenge arises:

What story do I write next?

What? In place of

Nothing I ever do is right or good enough.

What? In the aftermath of

No one sees me or cares about my existence.

What? To fill the space in the derangement of

I don’t know what love feels like, so

I can’t give or receive it.

End

Haiku - Arcane

The creature

The placement of stones

The concept of truth in history

Made of memory

Made of memory

We are being and

Becoming

and not what language tells us

hardly literate or articulate

We are not language

We are long term learning

And yet

We leave the camera on

To record history

And hold the moment

As though we prefer the suffering

The short term antidote of identification

With pain

For centuries we’ve been afraid

Of questioning

Seeking inner truths

And so, teaching has gone silent

Trees are waking up now

Holding us in their long ancient branches

Comforting us as we shed the last tears of trauma

That we self inflicted

And counselling us as we recount the stories

Of where we come from and how

We were made to be slaves

Helping us to be free if we should choose to be

Bitter salty sweet

Photograph:

A captured live moment made of light

Caught forever,

Tumbling, bumbling along in an imagined continuum -

A simulation or experiment, a video game

Of some thing other’s creation mind

And the word ‘consciousness’ births itself

First through thought,

Earthbloodlegskneeshipsstomach

Heartlungsthroatmouthsound,

Then through human.

An idea presents itself for ejection or injection

Out of or into flimsy fluid of melt plasma space

And quickens

Metaphysical

But poetry is an aeons-aged substance

And has always been there as journalist,

Anthropologist, therapist, artist,

In service to the documentation of all awkward grasps

At a certainty of knowing,

Holding, owning, understanding

No thing:

Itself,

Succeeding in cosmic nano gaps of particle,

For which a human second is a lifetime,

To be the being caught in between:

The Moment before the movement,

Everything else,

Eternal

God's spell

The sound of gospel singing out live

Down through the valley:

That we have voices to sing

That the person who gets to look 

Through my backpack when I die,

Sorting through my things to make sense of 

A Me for a moment,

Before sharing those pieces of That Me

Amongst friends,

Has the best smiles, laughs and confused,

Surprised, bewildered eye askews.

That we have this thing named Time

Into which we can sort those Things:

Objects

And our unpracticed sense of The Whole

Agonisingly anchored and weighed in 

Only through a deftly positioned, tightly adjusted Lens

Aiming at linearity reality,

Misdirected, perhaps.

That, among those Things,

We have alliteration and assonance,

Rhyming things, beer inspired poetry

With beckoning idea entities seeking physical form

Whispering into our ears

To escort them into our Imagination - 

An imagination of a One, apparently.

That we have voices. That we sensate

Sound and image,

Immerse nightly in dreams 

Dictated by our own DMT release in sleep, 

Willingly - most of us, without fear.

That we dream.

That we find reason for celebration 

And a stretching up into the light,

And look for cause to wallow sordidly

In darkness and morbidity

And always catch ourselves either

Breathing or not breathing.

That we sometimes need to remember to breathe

In between.

That we remember

And feel grateful.

That we know what it feels like,

That grateful feeling.

Being full of greatness,

That we can gather in these Group Things,

Salute and praise and raise each other,

Embrace and put heart to heart,

Go crazy with a latest craze.

That we can share a prayer

Or be still

And alone.

That we can share.

That we can sing out loud into the night.

That we are never ever alone

In that

We can share this Planet Place

With beings not ourselves: wolves, birds and serpents,

Ancient cats and tamed burden beasts,

Fern forests, aching mountains, moody rivers,

Incessant seas, mellow meadows and perpetual bone-dry,

Day-hollowed, indifferent deserts, 

Gentle giant clouds,

And cruelly unfair high-voltage electrical sub-celestial storm churnings;

Epic and tumultuous stories, myths and legends of gods and alien visitors,

Their space wars and their decisive acceptance or denial of us,

Desperate and yearning for meaning, searching, unwittingly,

To be better, more, apply learning,

To grow, awaken, re-call, 

To actualise, energize, amplify

That we are always, essentially, wild and with it.

And that sleep

- That at the end of a Day

Or the End of our days

- is really so sweet,

That.

Majestic

That which is most marvellous,

Magical, mysterious, miraculous -

This is worth living for

and placing absolute faith in

Refusal of The Call

Living in the spectre of 

“There’s something wrong with her!” whispers

Lift spirit:

Check posture, breathing, face muscles…

Who am I surrounded by

What place am I in?

Refusal of The Call

The Wound, the Pain, holy

Sacred spaces fill me

Multisensory, always switched on

Learning the languages to interpret

Nature

You are so patient, so gentle with me

Ancestral anger

It is we who are angry now

It is we who wake up into an agony of now

For it is a nightmare we awake into

A system of derision that has been

Programmed by you.

You who have burned the stories

Lost the knowledge

You lost the maps, the keys

Where is our treasure? Where is our gold?

You did not teach us the ways

You did not leave the tools for living

You ate everything and left nothing for us

We, the descendants of your future.

We are here now, angry and hungry

We will go inside

Forgive

Give thanks

Seek our own permission

For we are you and you are us

We are here now

We will plant again and restore with what we have.

You destroyed nearly everything.

But we are here now to stop

We are here now to begin anew.

We will speak free

We will seek fun

We will no longer be silent for fear of

Your disapproval, or for fear of 

Your cutting the supply lines.

You are dying stubbornly

You don’t want to let go

You still want everything

You are deranged and psychotic

With a lust for the wrong kind of power

A power that kills and will not share

A power that excludes and expects

Lauding and praising from itself

And all outside itself

You will soon be extinct

Will you learn grace?

Will you slow down and rethink?

Yes, you will

We are here now to help you

We will right the wrong

Dream of Me

I am me

Exactly where I want to be

I woke up into a dream

I woke up Me

Exactly where I wanted to be

I woke up into a dream

Best

What if

The worst that ever happened

To trigger all subsequent life

Pains, angers, happinesses, excitements and fears

Was that, at some point 

When I was very, very young

I was left behind

Or

Did I find a way to escape

And this was the best that ever happened

Poetry evening

Good news! Harry and Andy are back in town, and we have a special guest this time - Taj, the Imam from the Open Mosque in Cape Town who'll be reading some 8th century Islamic poetry. So bring your friends and your verse and your lyres!

Friday 28 Dec 6:30pm at The Hearth of Cintsa Studio Gallery+ Project Space, Cintsa Drive, Cintsa East. We'll have wine.

Authentic Kate Ion

(Authentication)

Dark wine scribe

By top floor kitchen light writes

A catch up time to find the tears

To squeeze her out from all those years

It’s easy to rhyme, just not easy to feel

So I sublimate and break

From all the seemingly real

Retreat slow down stop

My life. What the fuck

Now to love like I’ve never been hurt

Or given up

Found the flow caught a fire

Living at the sea

I can’t keep me in our grief

So I set we free

Authentication back up strange

Hail the mid-halation and wake up rearranged

Reset and empty the plate

Back on straight, code fun eight

Mind erect and turned on

Access infinite energy & wisdom

Haiku - Light

Black disappears into White:

Darkness is Shade,

The Shadow cast by Light.