July

the monsoon makes a certain habit of me.
like a sunflower that follows the likely daily path of a star,
the rain in july
resounding in the music that crawls into my digital player
around this time of year
is incredibly light,
entirely frail
and when it finds its strength,
beats down a sloshy track to the door of my wood-panelled room
which, in between the pensive prints i've collected over time
and the neat grids of calendar art,
looks like its been through a lot.

I've such relics jammed into the corners of this space
that, swelling in the humid moisture of the month,
they fall out of place
and tumble into a neat file standing on the edge of my softboard,
trying to dry off and dust away the flakes i've let them accumulate
as punishment for giving me so much grief
and so much more silence to anticipate.

july is always like this:
a shaking, twisting, awakening mass of memory
that comes out of hibernation just to remind me
of everyone I used to know
and everything I couldn't be.

Silbador

My dad whistles,
so I whistle.

I whistle when I'm home,
just arrived, freshly exhausted,
spent -
after a day's labour or emotional dive
into the depths of some dark,
awkward place
infected by the shadows of adolescent beings
that have never been my friends.

I whistle as much as to exhale,
as to inhale the scent of an embrace,
of this place called Here
standing on the welcome rug,
in a smile or a kiss or a hug,
in a space without fear.

I whistle
to shout out where I am -
in this corner
or up those stairs.
I whistle
to say I'm alone,
and you've caught me unawares.

I whistle
to say I'm on my drawing mat
so why don't you come in
and we'll have a picture or two to share

roomful of water
bubble-full-of-thought
if i break through the surface,
will you hear me shout?

Fireflies

So then I gave 'em all the finger

An Old Sunday Afternoon

Mi Casa del Mar

Auguries of Innocence

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

...by William Blake

For a morning well spent

Meet your candidate

Keys

I carry the weight of the world in my bag:
the keys to different locks,
rooms, doors, armarios, hearts -
all jangling inside the pockets
of my camel leather satchel
protesting at what I've become:
this shadow of a person who used to be open
before the world decided
that she needed to be put away
for fear of tainting the others,
for giving everything freely anyway.

In memory of a certain lotus who died unecessarily

Across the verandah

pictures of me drawing

Since everyone liked the illustration so much, here's a lomograph of the process :)









appreciate the comments people. Keep 'em comin'

writing scribbling drawing

Babel

Just like funny old times...

Se me olvidó

Se me olvidó tu cara
como las mareas que han borrado mis dibujos de las arenas secas

Se me olvidó tu nombre
en la tormenta que ahogó la melodía de mis campañitas diarias

Si yo no nunca vuelvo a verte,
se me olvidará tu toque también
como una fragancia se le pierde en los aires de un gran desierto,
un gran vació, abierto


(*)
I've forgotten your face
like the tides that erased all my sand drawings

I've forgotten your name
in the storm that drowned the meoldy of my morning bells

If I never see you again
I will forget your touch as well,
like a fragrance loses itself in the open air of a desert,
of a great yawning void

doorways and pathways