24
Hours
The tweed was a tad too faded
The cut a blunt parody of a country manor
Yet the way he didn't smoke
The way he didn't carry a gun or flinch
When his heart was challenged
This made him
Refreshingly
Approachable
So the day he knocked on Ms Mist's door
And she opened the door
And their eyes ran up and down each other
A dress rehearsal for a part that neither was sure
They wanted
That day was to be a long one
Even though all days have 24 hours
And all hours have their assigned volume of minutes
Seconds between them were stretched
A handful of lifetime's watersheds
A story telling a thousand pictures
She still had her hand on the edge of the door
A red painted peeling sort of door
As his hand went up to his mouth
The involuntary ex smoker's cough
And she felt concern
He felt distracted
And he turned on a worn down heel
Knowing it wasn't the right time
Feeling her eyes undress his soul
Saying
"
"
He muttered a muted apology
Which she silently accepted
As her hand bearing a broken wedding ring
Scratched the red paint
And closed the door
But didn't lock it
Curling
Trunk
My best advice is always
the one where I tell them:
“You are your own worst
obstacle.”
Their eyes sprout shoots of anger
the way joining the ‘wrong’ queue
turns patience into regret.
My trunk curls as I rub in a lost set
of keys, a misplaced note and
a blue screen digital nightmare.
They know their choices
as much through loss as through
discovery. I help them lose things:
Friends, lovers, remote
controls and the best of all,
themselves.
I give them words to fill up
silence, silence to efface sentences
and surprise to conquer disappointment.
My commitment to hindering and
assisting is only as limited
as the scope of a desire to change;
and change is my favourite lubricant.
Change is the river I gave Heraclitus,
the polar caps I gave planet earth.
Change is both the hurdle and landing
on the other side, the wrinkles and
the mellow feel of experience.
Call me whatever name you will but remember
one thing: Wisdom is a word for the presence of silence
articulated by thought.
The
Metaphysics of Ice Cream
My son asks me
where the waves come from.
The logic of wind and water
well up in my mind.
I ignore this.
I tell him the waves are God,
showing us endlessness.
The surf reminds me
of nothing, and this is good.
There is no mediation
of simile, no translation
through metaphor.
This is a direct nothing,
like when I succeed
in not thinking too little,
and not thinking too much;
when waves of spirit
wash onto the shores
of my experience.
Words in my thoughts
and thoughts in my words
disappear.
If I were to compare surf and waves
to anything,
it would be to the state of not knowing
if a dream is real or not,
if reality is a dream
or not.
It is this condition of oscillation,
this ebb and flow of knowing,
and not knowing,
that tightens the knot
and unties it.
My son drops
beneath the white froth.
He didn’t need an answer,
But he enjoyed asking.
It’s good to ask questions
and not need answers,
to give answers
and not need logic.
He resurfaces
and we go for an ice cream.
This is the metaphysics
I am comfortable with.
Forthcoming in Tiferet
(print issue), February 2011
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