Fall

Simon Greyling

Fall

Meet me in the tide - pass the past

pass where the light flickers soft-tames

the lash of leaden night – meet me there

hidden in the abyss of my moonlit lust – my flesh

and yours one wet in the mist -our fall my

holy, hidden, secret - forever drifting

Day 15. November PAD - ritual

Ritually Retired

She yearns for the yawns

of a little one – bath-time

splashes and sugar kisses

story-time and bed snuggles

tucking in and lights off

leaving the door open just

so – she yearns for the yawn

of time to shut its mouth and

hiccup her back to bedtime

now melted into memory –

Je Suis Paris

Je Suis Paris

I have never been to Paris

never felt cobbled streets

beneath my feet – never 

seen the Eiffel tower bright

or flowers tumbling from

wooden boxes in pasteled

painted buildings – I have 

never stood in a crowd 

held in the lilting lyricism of 

French or had a croissant

melt buttered between my

lips but the light – the light

of Paris burns, shines and 

glows within me – I too am 

Paris now and always one 

in solidarity and sensibility -

steadfast siblings forever ...

Day 13 - November PAD - Memory (in the garden)

the garden

in this garden of blossoms crowded
in profusion–grandmother’s velvet
carpet dance – an infant impossibly
soft suckling madly at my breast as
I sit in the glow of sunset and watch
the swallows gently swoop in a post-
card tropical sky – a father flings his
raven hair from his eye squinting at
a smear of cobalt on his canvas and
turns to wink – the last nuzzle from
a grand beast her eye light dimming
disappeared – a tiny boy salutes his
father’s passing coffin – a first kiss
different from all others –a mother's
long legs curled on couch watching
the news explode- passing chocolates
in the silent seriousness- seeing actions'
approach -her foot touches mine- bare
foot on grand-father’s black shine-shoes
hanging on this father-of-only-boy’s
belt as he turns me gently as though
I too am made of the same crystal
shining on all the lemon oiled tables –
family tables – loaded and empty –
laughter and food passed from hand
to hand – faces melting one generation
to another –reconfiguring regenerating
pushed blossoms in the garden-under
each another – diving into aquamarine
sea sun strong on shoulders taut skin
breaking surface with a smiling gasp–
blue skied towers tumble crumbling
into smoke steaming in suddenly sur-
real streets –sea swarming from shore
sweeping all as tinder in her path –two
saplings supported with sticks in earth-
two thick gnarled trunks – tiny chestnut
blossoms float over two nuns walking
through a sunlit arch of dappling trees –
hands folded in crisp habits – ebon on
pure white heads bent to each other –
a cantor swirls a silver threaded tallis
mystic as a magician’s cape and sparkling
sings under the painted ceiling of celestial
sites – sighs- sweet – tiny ball of coal fluff
at the door – kindergarten ordered into
three Stop-Look-Listen chimes in a new
world – falling into thousands of storied
tears, fears, fortitude, learning, love, loss,
laughing out loud on a train in a tunnel lost
in pages, my name on a spine – back in a brace –
dancing in the sand – on hardwood floors snow
falling outside -blossoms bursting in pushed profusion –
only one wispy worrisome almost invisible trace of cloud
on a distant horizon of the gathering someday –
when all will wither – dry as autumn leaves crackle
between page –and this survivorship of self will fly
from the folds – ancient flowers turned powder shall
lift and blow away – in an inevitable gust of innocent
indifferent wind – floating over some other’s garden
sparkling, feeding perhaps a bud or two in another’s
garden crowded with blossoms pushing profusion –

Day 10 - November PAD - Technology/Anti-technology (3 for two-for-Tuesday)

       Techie Trek


         We’re marching off for good

         We’re marching off for glory

         We’re sitting at our screens

         We’re tapping out our story

         No longer feel the sun – no

         need to hear the rain – all

         the world is streaming live

         our flesh-blood tech’s gain

         Hard to leave the access of

         myriad manic possibility

         wrenching to return to a

         tactile linear reality

         so watch the toddler

         in the tide, convene

         with covens of mystic

         friends you now hold

         dear – nothing to be

         lost – nothing here to

         fear – for

         We’re marching off for good

         We’re marching off for glory

         We’re sitting here in shing glare

         We’re screening our life story –


~

                        

an oxymoron

the ubiquitous touchscreen

feeling not a thing

~

         she fashioned a life to

         live in quiet walking in

         her head by the sea in

         glorious lush languid sigh-

         lence – drinking coffee iced

         or steamed as care and cli-

         mate suggested – and so it

         was – though books shone

         through screen light and

         binging watching television

         a new magnetic attraction –

         her words flowed not in liquid

         ink but on bright screens at

         fingertips always clean – she

         sat inhaling ions – under the

         glare and when she inter-

         acted it was all screened

         brightly until her eyes seared

         and stripped burned – until her

         fingers trembled with tremor

         as the all embracing light

         turned magnetically malevo-

         lent and she reached for actual

         aluminum to fashion herself a

         hat to protect herself from the

         terror of too much, too bright,

         too near, too bloodless, scent-

         less ephemerality reality –

         slipping through cracks

         of sunless light

         and in the still

         she sits alone

         tin hat on head

         waiting for life

         to reboot –

Day 12 - November PAD - After (blank)

After the thump 

after that thump of earth hits
the wood and the once worthy
work and wonder of it all left for
others – you shall find me – in the
whisper of the wind, in the rustle
of filigreed light playing shadow games
on your baby’s toes as he grasps in de-
light reaching for all he can still,  with new
eyes see clearly - tickled into gales of giggles
in a clear new day – as you pause and wonder –
shake off a passing chill and smile at the innocence
of infants grasping delighted handfuls of sweet breezes
at what for a time you will only see as nothingness – until
After.

Day 9. November PAD - Mistake

Chewed

she was an earnest child
wide eyed and determined
standing on line waiting
for teacher to look at her
paper and put a red A on
top – she prayed for this
standing on line this first
grade tumbled haired
earnest child chewing
her pink pencil eraser
heart pounding at all
the torn shame-spots
where with flame-faced
fury she'd scrubbed each
mis-take

Day 6. November PAD - We're being watched

We’re being watched

We're 

being watched

from toppled tower top

to crematorium ash

from toddler in the tide

to butterfly wings lifting
less - we’re being watched
as ice caps cap-polar bears roar
in melted muddied-bloodied

water- tsunamis racing over

sunbathers, bombs blasting 

chests of children waiting

for virginal reward in a here-

after seen more clearly than
any present possibility- we’re
being watched as too many
gobble goods in focused greed
clutching frantic as any un-

schooled toddler in a toy shop –

more as they slide side by side

impoverished - we’re being

watched - as even one hand 

stretches for another to grasp -

to lift –to support -to comfort

this world –spun out of sense and

sanity slipping -we’re being watched

as planes burst in the sky and flesh falls

in fields as scraps for survivors to

scrape home - we’re being watched –

as we turn away

we are being

watched

by sight-

seeing

each

and

all