Unpacking

A breath of untouched air 

travelled long with me

sealed in a secret corner

stowed away in an unopened package

forgotten under my bed

Unknowingly released

in hurried pursuit of the misplaced

untethered from its confines

In a sudden fresh whisper of unremembered scent

recollected in a burst of memory

with the air of an unexpected kinsman arriving 

energetic and enthusiastic even after an inter-continental flight,

before brushing by swiftly and dissolving cheerfully

assimilated freely into the foreign,

heartlessly departing to new lands

Leaving me 

the task at hand momentarily neglected,

holding my breath

and thinking of home.

To

You, Poet
Who
Once broke bonds of reality
to briefly touch perfection with the tip of a finger
and experience that so crudely confined to fiction
Discovered a quietly awaiting moated glade, its path unfrequented
its name corrupted by long amnesia and collective deception
and left behind no footsteps to follow
From there, spoke to me in your verse, of color beyond perception
in a secret language more valuable than comprehension
planted in an inconceivable dimension
beyond the best reach of my mine

For an instant I was in love
or saw what love could be
And with every word the wind swept away
I hoped to someday love like you.

Before

The blank page stared unrelentingly back
a primordial being, inhuman and indestructible.

Snow

Awoken by atmospheric water vapour frozen into ice crystals
and falling from the upper atmosphere in light white flakes against my window,
One of many of weather inspired humans, I now write of snow

Winds drive the hours by, and it snows with the same ardour it began with,
[long after fickle mortals have changed their facebook status's to things entirely unconnected to the clime]
the white sky wholeheartedly working to paint its image on the land below.

And I wait, watching by the window,
as the earth and the heavens, apparently unconcerned with dignity
enthusiastically sling snow stuff at each other on the wings of icy winds,
swirling turbulently over frosted trees, lampposts and less comfortable bipeds, swollen and ungainly with immunity,
For inspiration,
my mind as poetically blank as the untouched plains outside.

Dec 2008

Poet

Seeing a fraction of this world
living an instant of its time
conceiving a morsel of its ideas
writing an inch of its verse.

12 Dec 2008