Zaha

she blew in on a hurricane
a designing whirling dervish
she carved curves in concrete
bent buildings with her will
tore men from podiums
broke steadfast barriers and rules
she threw our cities into space
and dragged us headlong into the wilds
of her kaleidescopic mind
where it flew, our future as a flag

Rest in peace, Zaha Hadid

swapping six

you can have your six parties
you can have your six business lunches
you can have your six makeup lessons
you can have your six tech fests
and when you’re done
you’ll find me
outside on the grass
tending to a beetle that
lost his way
in the urban crush and
you can tell me all about what
you’ve seen and done
and i’ll tell you about the beetle
and his six legs

These Autumn Days

This year, fall roared in and set the blueberry ablaze. It reminded me of a poem I originally posted a few autumns back, so here’s a re-post of it.

These autumn days
have lost their social graces.
One minute, flamboyant,
splashed out in amber light,
the next, they’re curled
under a quilt of somber grey;
they can’t bear to face themselves
or drag their bones
through the week.

Grasses fluff themselves up
as best they can,
under the weight of
heavy Mondays,
denser Tuesdays,
and mountainous Wednesdays
from late September to
past Remembrance.
Maples and poplars
burdened by longing,
send their leaves
in search of brighter times.
Dressed like butterflies,
in yellow, orange and brown
they launch into flight
but drift helpless to the ground.

Yet, these wistful days
dare to lay themselves out before you
face up, arms open,
backs crackling and pained against
a bed of fallen leaves
as their pigment
gently drains away.
Resigned, they
offer up their best funeral smile,
make it stretch a weekend
if they’re lucky,
before they heave a collective sigh
that you mistake for the wind.

But come, say the few
optimistic October hours,
look what we’ve dragged out for you;
these soggy sheets
and layers of rot
may seem
more endings than beginnings,
but kneel with us,
crouch and peer into
the gravel bottoms
of fast flowing streams
where sliver salmon
prepare for their afterlife
and you will have the answers
we’ve saved for you.

Travel Light

Just for once I’d like to be the calm, cool traveler who gets a complimentary upgrade to first class, instead of the disheveled maniac whose luggage rips apart in the terminal and everyone hopes they’re not seated beside.

When my bag broke and the rock tumbled out, a fellow traveler rushed to point out that if I hadn’t carry rocks around in my luggage, it might not have torn apart. I had no defense, & since the rock was potentially pilfered plunder from an abandoned gold mine, it was best to keep quiet. Don’t draw attention to looted gold whilst passing through security is my motto. I didn’t bother telling him that it might have been the set of weights, bottle of wine and pound of paper on the first leg of the journey that may have contributed to the bag disintegrating like a hasty marriage in Vegas.

Renting

Upstairs neighbour
throws another verb fit;
Stomping,
chomping up the silence,
pounding her
grandma’s chair
through my ceiling.
We turn up the heat
to roast her out
but there she goes
snap, crackle
popping
against the
rice paper walls.
She’s a fire cracker
a peace hijacker
who dictates
the house
with her rat-a-tat-tat
and her bang bang bang;
Stucco on the outside
staccato on the inside
and a mouth like a war-zone.
We really gotta move.

Swallowed by the Stars

when we’re swallowed
by the countless stars
will our names twinkle
in a velvety sky
for a lifetime of nighttimes

will we suspend there
penumbra
neither shadow nor light
the ring of a sunspot
but not quite the sun

not us, we we’ll break free
and rain down
on the morning grass
petrichor wafting
across a parched field

we’ll glint from the dew
we’ll quench thirst
We’ll be the tender renew
of countless springs
and birds will drink from us

we’ll straddle a wide sky
bluer than cobalt
we’ll skate on the wind
and skim our way across
sheer mountainsides

when the barreling winter
drives its horses home
we’ll freeze and thaw
and stretch our fingers to
warm them under a faraway sun

we’ll be fire and rain
in the charcoal sky
we’ll be flame then ash
and waft down upon
the redolent earth again

when we’re swallowed
by the countless stars
our names will twinkle
in a velvety sky
for a lifetime of nighttimes

Fire by the Buddleia

It’s the heavy heat
The ripening of summer
That lays even hyper cats
To languish in the shrubbery
And pulls the purple petals
Of Digitalis to blush
It’s then
That I am urged
By an ardent need
So primal I drop my trowel
And stand there
In the dappled sun
I coax the heat
And sultry scent
Like a winding vine
Let it creep up my legs
And down my spine
Let it seep
From the inside out
I slip off a glove
And picture your eyes

There’s a fire burning
In the garden
By the Buddleia