Justice

what gave winter her wild

& summer her dream?

what has now become these small sunken teeth

gashing where the sinew sits laced against the bones?

I watched you give whispers to the willows,

small blooms to the thyme that creeps the dry caked earth,

innocent white buds of the yarrow quivering along this parched path.

I watched as you gave wisps to the clouds & smeared the sunset serenely, with each shade of passion & blush

I watched from here, where everything is nothing. Where whisper & bud is a mere fantasy. Where the land stinks with refuse & the valley never floods with anything but thirst.

I saw the tides that came—people blackened with exhaustion & worry & grief. People. With their tongues dried out & dragging. I saw.

How they gripped onto me, swaying, weighing me down to sit with them, to weep with them. To find some solace in these touchings of a human to a human, a soul to a soul—to feel the vast vagueness of our own selves & of those who die off like flies along this way. Across the desert. Over the salted plains of waters undrinkable. Off to the chainlink homes of hopes unfounded.

I saw. I watched. I cried. I fell.

My knees bled, slow & stinging. The ache came & stayed a while, sipping the tea from my bones & rocking, back & forth.

I could quiet it all with one sweet prayer, splayed wide to my God. I could quiet my insides. He quieted my insides—this inner seething & sadness spilt out upon the ground like a blood sacrifice.

I waited. Oh how I have waited.

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Nucleya

No idea what they’re saying but I heard this on a GoPro video on Instagram and immediately fell in love with it.

Back in the old days I always frequented the ‘World’ section in the music store. I loved hearing music from around the world. Now with iTunes it’s a far easier and cheaper exploration. I only owned a few foreign language cds as a teen. A couple in tribal South American languages, because we had a couple bands locally here, Sisa Picari & Alpa Kalpa, both were so good live. They had traditional Andes instruments and gruff voices similar to how the lead from The Gypsy Kings. I had one cd of Swahili music, like a mix of most popular stuff from various Swahili speaking countries at the time.

I’m sure there were more but those were my favourites. I love where I live because you do hear Arab & Hindi/Punjab music blaring from homes and cars often enough—for just a brief moment you could imagine you are far away from the place of ‘too familiar.’

So this Musical Interlude takes you far far away. I may share a couple more of my International favourites these days.

🌍🌎🌏 love the whole of it. What a wonderful gift we have in cultures and experiencing new things.

The Open Wound

The beauty of rainfall to ease the open wound, to touch back the pain, to where it can be lost and home again.

The beauty of light as it cracks the cloud, firm and bold despite the harsh and loud.

What could be fear is ash and dust; what could be lost is moth and rust.

To fold back page upon page, to remember age upon age.

I could gaze but why the pain—the beauty of this moment, of this rain.

Uncounting

She did not count, so much as, uncount. Spinning back & forth, the jewels of each small petal, pausing, just there, where time had crept in for the kill. Each small second sharpening the blade, balancing back in its haunches, awaiting some moment that kept refusing to come forward. She could glance, neither up, nor down. Not even a moment could she take her eyes from that soft pink whir. Fingers trembling, quiet like a lip, or a chin, or a blade of grass, or a breath, just hovering on the edge of hope. It was not counting, but uncounting hoping to not count even one more.