Stories of Between
There is something
new under the sun
It’s a flashback to a jetlag morning and the darkness
Is
beautiful - promised me - that Laputas blanket
Will be
revealed we bow through
The red
frame of a gold castle
The golden castle lives in the stories told
As we leaf through pages of old Norwegian fairy
tales
Told under the grapefruit tree in our back yard
That sits on hard clay soil
With a path made from bricks
That we got for free on facebook marketplace
In the grey
blanket of a fog
I find a
meditative silence
My home
land glistening in the frost breath
That bites
my finger tips and elbows me
In the
lungs last time I was there
3 spiral
staircases ago
3 crystal
paths ago
3 goddess
pools ago
Aphrodite now
by my side, Sofia, Valkyrie, Goddess of many names
Erin,
my wife, is an admirably unstoppable force
Clearing up the front yard of hoarded clutter
As the peak of our staycation
While I work on the impossible endeavor
Of having some days with no plans
And in the end I join her, because she Is
By My side
now, Goddess,
like divine
geometry is drawn in her eyes
And I am
its reflection that shines through her
under the blanket
of a golden castle in the sky
Our earth, I
mean the ground, covered in figurative snow
Cold and
fresh is her breath this time
A strong
contrast to the high air moisture here
Between ups
and downs
Between home
and residence
New eyes feet
voice
old hollow tree - a place to hide and play
The green beetle - reporepowai – stuck
in the
muddy water trying to eat our manuka sap
we make it out of the pillow fort on the couch
pulling two beetles – my toddlers – out
to safety – again again – they drop into the
muddy water
to be saved by the monster-crane I am
there is something
new under the sun
even though
I am using your well chewed and masticated
pulps of
western words yet these words are of ideas
not
expressed in the four directions of our history
it floats
on the green beetle iridescent corrosion
formed by
erosion into a mosaic mountain peak of ad quadratum architecture
the very hungry caterpillar
calling out
for one last chance to build
inside the
hollow tree of old roots
turned into a cocoon
why is it
that we never learn from all the
mistakes
that we make
the butterfly breaks free
one last
life , one last , one last chance
to remember
how the bark feels on skin, to count its rings and sit inside it
hearing the
whispers of its stories from polar sides of the earth
spun in our
absence as we turned our blind eyes to just live and exist and get by
affected by
the buttefly flaps on the oar of an aotearoan canoe
going down
the whau in tamaki makaurau , dug out from swamp rimu
it’s the
butterfly brainflap that tickles while we sip nectar
that we wonder if we even need as the muscle cramp a little from the chronic tension of standing on concrete ground for too long as the cold of society stings and yet it feels warm here
leaves me to wonder if it is just my
paranoid shadow-land that whispers of thorns and blood and teeth and chronic
grip on our souls
it has loosened up to full circle as a turning point of a spirals path that can’t be seen in our reality
as end points are turning points of a global nomads eternal
winter – now 3 x 3 x 3 years since last I saw a real winter but never has it
warmed me as it does now when i think of it - an anti romantic neoromatic view
what I mean to say is
there is something new
under the sun
the golden castle floating
in the long white cloud
lives in the stories
told
in our backyard where
we find time
for one last, one last
time
to lift the blanket
for new eyes feet voice
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