Wednesday, July 23, 2025

it is not poetry

it is not poetry that climbs
the trees the rocks
it is these fierce hands that grip the elements
in survival lust

it is not poetry that opens the curtains to
the bright new day
it is these joyous hands that
invite the new light in

it is not poetry that cuts the vegetables
and stirs it into soup
it is these nurturing hands that
instinctively feed my hungry body

it is not poetry that opens the piano lid
and practices hours to perfect Rachmaninoff
it is these committed hands that
keep rising and falling in harmony

it is not poetry that caresses
love into your skin
it is these passionate hands that
know how and where to soothe

it is not poetry that lifts the blanket
to cover my night's sleep
it is these loving hands
that guide me to the land of dreams

it is not poetry that deserves the adoration
it is my hands that need that
little bit of love that tells them
it is all right, you have a fine grip on things

it is not poetry that holds this pencil in fiery clasping
it is this single fervent hand
that loyally follows the impulse
of my heart

 - Lara Kirsten

Wednesday, July 16, 2025

No-one

The poor crossing sweeper, Jo,
in Dickens’ Bleak House, sweeps
the pointless street, and knows
the grave of the dead man, Nemo.
I think of Jo, and Nemo, often
when I drive around Salt Lake,
and out the Old Uitenhage Road
where the street sweepers work
with languid brooms and a tin
at the rough roadworks, where cars
slow down, where they dramatize
broom-work, with tins beckoning,
busy at being busy, and making
work where there is none,
sweeping meaninglessly
the pointless road, as I make
my pointless way, and pay
my pointless toll, with futile
kindness, senselessly steering
somewhere to seek my Nemo.

 - Brian Walter
  

Wednesday, July 2, 2025

Meditation 2

Drop of light,
living flame, round-bellied,
reaching, peaking, pointing,
swaying, dipping in
to my awareness, ancestors
flood in by name
as I meditate upon
the tiny fire
of my soul
rocking on the wick
its warmth and beauty.

– Silke Heiss