Jane Eliza's dot com

Who I Am

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Everyday Suite
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Live and Local

I pour roses through my hair,
near dreadlocked, since
my brushes and combs found
that same black hole where
                         now resides
my timepieces

and my moneyboxes.
My music-starved heart yearns
live and local
and so I begin
the trek to town

by pouring roses
through my hair.

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Some May Understand

Three weeks thrice a year
this inward turning calls me.
Mercury Retro.

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Mrs Arachnea

She sits above me
in her silken home
woven inside the unlined roof
of mine,
catching all who would venture
into her parlour, flies
that have escaped
my green plastic flyswat thingie,
and moths looking for the light.
She is tidier than I, Mrs Arachnea,
removing the scraps from her feeding
    wings too thin for sustenance
    eyes too tough to bite through
by throwing them down
from her web
and onto my keyboard
when they find all the little
crevices between the keys
making them stick
and giving much exercise
to my <backspace>.

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Pandora's Hope

I opened a pot of gold today
to see what I could find
Pandora's Hope shone out at me
colours banded intertwined.
They moved, they twirled
till they were set to take a journey
'round the world.

I watched them soar up in the sky
raindrops falling through their light
o'er the ocean into the night
I'm riding colours what a flight

the earth is curving down below
the colours arch into a bow
of glistening  promise. I follow too,
this pot of gold leads straight to you.

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Southern Sun

There is a wrongness
in the tingling burning feel
of the morning springtime sun
upon my skin.

In all my childhood days
of lying on the full sun grass
never once did I feel this sensation
so soon.

We talked of ozone layers,
and SlipSlopSlap
became the catchcry of the day
for our nation of sunworshippers.

Now as I walk around in our
southern sunshine
I fear for the coming summers
and know that suncreen
just won't cut it any more.

There is a wrongness here:
a burning deep beneath my skin
wrongness.

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Sitting at the Masters' Feet

Some people like to raise
towers to the sky
and place atop them
their cherished
and treasured heroes.

I have no love of ivory towers,
and pedestals are things
I use to lay out feed
for visiting birdlife.

Those who come into my  life
and touch my heart
and mind and soul,
I like to keep real.

And so I sit
crosslegged at their feet
so that I may catch
their words as they drop
into my upturned hands

like manna,
precious nourishment
for my inner mind.
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I'm So Sorry.

We were in a hurry that afternoon.
I saw the unavoidable shadow
felt the thump: someone's cat
we thought.
You hugged me through our tears,
quickly, because
trains don't wait for stragglers.

Had you been a cat
I would have gone
searching the street for your home
to break the news
of your broken body.

You were not a cat
but a possom:
wild and beautiful
strong and vibrant,
life stripped from you in a
shadowed glimpse of time,
your fur-soft body still warm
to the touch:
Life spilt upon the road.

I'm so sorry.

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Sworn First to Do No Harm  ≈≈≈  Fallen Men & Night Creatures  ≈≈≈  Meditation & Contemplations

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Who I Am   Where I Come From   What I Do   How I Feel   Where I Am   Where I'm Going  Where I've Been

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