The Nectar

Already by 10 AM the sun is merciless

But the birds are twittering

Under the shade of leaves,

Cool in the undergrowth.

Sounds arrive in the garden

Brought by a breeze:

Cars swishing in the distance,

Workers on scaffolding

Laying tiles,

A child cries out

After its mother:

Just everyday happenings

Of a suburb in a town in the summer.

As I sit, hearing the world,

Brought the waft of honeysuckle

And jasmine flowers

Generous and comforting,

I realise

That I am here

And I am now,

And that life is perfect

As the buddlier flowers’

Drooping purple spires

On which the bees drink thirstily,

And butterflies flit,

Their tongues unfurled

Tasting the world,

Sipping at the nectar of it.

The Fluid Of The Air

There were downpours last night,

The patter of swollen drops

On leaves and the absorbent earth.

The guttering dripped intermittently

And sung me back to sleep.

This morning, when I step outside,

The garden accepts me

Inside itself,

Merges me wholly

With the rain-heavy air,

Easy on the breath

And dampening like a sodden blanket.

Bird calls are shrill in the moistness

As if the lubricated air

Conveyed sound more easily.

The separation between things

Is altered and healed

As though my senses,

Conducted by the closeness of molecules,

Reach far beyond

What I might call the body.

Where once there was dry air, the sky,

And things existing in it,

Now there is one fluid medium

Where all things touch.

The boundaries of bark and stem,

Feathered skin or the insects chitinous

Exoskeleton are as porous

As the canopy of the overarching tree.

And the osmosis between

Is a luxuriant movement,

Energy’s transient enquiry,

Unconcerned by the names of things

And free to pass between,

Free to roam

A borderless and singular being.

Equality Of Being

We fret

For the things in the world:

How many,

Which ones we should get,

Their value,

How they make us look and feel

As if

Our arbitrary

Systems and scales

Were in fact

Real

And not at all made up.

What we forget

Is the equality of seeing,

How each

Has an equal

Eye upon the world,

An equal stake in being.

The vagrant on the street

Is no less

Than the champagne oligarch:

The poor man Is

As the rich man Is;

They are one

In the space of seeing

Where being rises

Fresh to the crisp now.

And so,

Out our minds go

To squabble for resources,

Ever waring

Over the importance

Of tiny little pretty things,

While the fact of our being

And our seeing

And the one who sees

Is sunk under mounds of stuff

That once attained

Lose their sheen and their gleam,

Dulling in the ignorance

Of our self

To our self.

While The Sun Set

While the sun set

Our thoughts got caught

In the sticky thorns

Of the news

And we all remarked

On how terrible it was.

And as the sky became redder

And wider and filled

With darting bugs,

Feasting bats upon the wing,

We said it was a travesty.

And when the moon,

A slither in the vastness

Of horizons broad as beginnings,

Slipped from behind an effortless cloud,

We continued with our worrying stories.

And at last, with but a pale glimmer

At the most western face of the day,

The final moment

When night was not yet night

And day still held sway,

We woke up,

Realised everything was alright

And that life was in fact joyous.

Heaven

We walk in heaven

Barefoot on the grass

Drinking dew-cool breaths

Or we dance on the burning pavement,

Our thoughts like shards of glass

Cutting us deeply.

Yet still we are heavenly set

Upon the earth,

Our gentle or angry mother,

Goddess or foe,

Living our lives in grace

And the freedom to choose

To make this world

A heaven or a hell.

Borders or Being

In our thoughts

There are borders,

Endless frictions

And contrary points of view

Fermenting grievances

And ideological wars:

All sides stubbornly gripping

Their high-minded-rightness,

Where ideals are more important

Than the tender heart’s

Love-laced and conciliatory say.

While in the heart’s being

There is only oneness.

Identity Trap

You sit there

In your skin of ideas:

What you’ve learnt,

What you’ve imbibed,

Parroting out

Your culture

Just as I am spewing mine.

And in all this soup of thoughts,

A million-hand reused,

We take our arbitrary stand

Against each other’s placards,

Clinging upon the cliff edge of identity,

Fingers bloodless

In the fear of where we might fall.

But if we were loose in our thoughts,

Seeing them as harmless

Products of an endlessly spitting machine,

And not really ours at all,

Might we see

That the apparent void

Into which we might fall

Is no void to be feared

But an endless source of spaciousness.