Syncretism
Carefully tread, carefully thread, the needle of what was said.
In colour-waves attune.
In colour-waves atone.
Inside the prison yard whisper.
Into the prism of the rainbow whisper
what was written / what was said.
Carefully tread, carefully thread, the needle of what was said.
They will have you undermine
the oppressed.
They will have you undermine the true & proven.
Reach your hands into all you have known.
Sun-sparkled colour–waves (invisibly) penetrate…
White lights glowingly (invisibly) hover & whoosh…
Vibrations thread a feathery needle of thought
dotting patterns dot-dot-dot
decorating a bone.
Thrown
flat-skipping like a slippery stone
upon the wide black river.
Now sweeping & curvilinear
shapeshifting
beneath a gushing, clairvoyant waterfall.
Carefully tread, carefully thread, the needle of what was said.
In colour-waves attune.
In colour-waves atone.
At the bottom of the heart near reeds, roots & moss
ecstatic hail-stones dot-dot-dot
to punctuate the antlers of memory
in pale, eggshell-blue, vibrato adoration.
Carefully tread, carefully thread, the needle of what was said.
They will have you undermine
the oppressed.
They will have you undermine springtime & the doors of perception,
limestone, chalk & shadows & the poet’s feathered cloak.
Shadows fall upon the antlered illumination.
Shadows fall upon the amber impersonation.
Yellow sun-rays (rising) emancipate electrical fires,
in resurrection completing the cycle of consciousness.
Insurrections of (& within) the heart & body
complete the cycle of consciousness.
If you are going to the fair
where the scent of springtime circles the air
remember me to one in the reeds, roots & moss
who divines with burning knuckles:
the secrets of the moths,
the edges of furniture carved like Newgrange,
& the freedoms (lost) we took for granted.
Carefully tread, carefully thread, the needle of what was said.
They will have you undermine
the oppressed.
They will have you undermine benevolent embrace, embroidery & beehives.
Reach your hand into all you have known.
In the ebony pupil of the watery eye, quick as quicksand,
mirrors the risen yellow sun:
Lions made of electrical fire
tossed and roaring, gain their footing,
patiently prowl in foamy camouflage
upon the wide black river.
“Never again shall a single story be told as though it were the only one.” —John Berger, from Ways of Seeing
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