If it should happen you wake up and Armageddon has come, lie still.
― William Edgar Stafford
Last night I
saw the
moon
slip
in
and out
of golden light.
A flame burnt
ember of
gas
exploding
in my eyes.
Watching the end
of the world
no longer
feels
so
dramatic.
© Si Matta
doves whispering/ as they rest their wings/ in the rafters your silent sanctuary
― Kate Mullane RobertsonA song waning through old trees,
The length of eternity in her eyes,
Dreaming the world into existence.We sat with broken wings,
Licking our wounds,
And watching the ancient sun rise.We sat with mending hearts,
Finding strength in the wind,
And learning to fly again.In dream-
The uterus of the universe
Unfolds its flower to us.Nimble and scarred,
We drink from its nectar,
And place our hearts here.Moments are where we hide,
Where we grow,
Where we die,
And where we learn to live.The shadows of limbs,
Broken and dropping the leaves of fall
Drip on the peripheral landscapes of our inner worlds.A sanctuary of rebirth.
© Si Matta
“behind the mask of ice that people wear, there beats a heart of fire.”
— Paulo Coelho
He peels the bark
slowly from around
the knots.
And dreams of the all
the eyes that will
peer through.
Shape shifted
and dreaming.
The dance continues.
© Si Matta
Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all.- Stephen King
The birds whispered my name,
As I fidgeted on a cold chair,
Learning of a god dressed in thorns.
As they talked in righteous dictation,
I would pull thorny brambles from dirty hands-
Finding god in the splinters.
I remember how the rain tasted-
Dry in safe beds made from synthetic fibers.
Yet I could hear the birds whisper my name,
Telling me stories,
We forgot to tell ourselves.
© Si Matta
Each of us is born with a box of matches inside us but we can’t strike them all by ourselves― Laura Esquivel
I use to dream,
but my well
has ran dry.
Like cottonmouth.
I often cough
on words and
pass the torch.
A flame.
© Si Matta
Never lost/ Fading slowly to Silence/ By infinite degrees”
― Ashim Shanker
The sinew of
the moment led
us to this
leather of silence.
Sometimes I forget
your name, but remember
the taste.
A distant drum-
Your heart.
© Si Matta
“His eyes were that colour you can’t see in the rainbow. Indigo.”
― Rainbow Rowell
I remember turquoise,
it tasted blue
in my mouth
as he shoved
it down my
throat.
He gushed in
my hands, unaware
of the water
I held.
© Si Matta
“Sleep apnea is a plague in the western world.”
― Steven Magee
She passed out in
a cacophony of memories.
All the pretty dreams,
Dissected and worn.
She fell asleep to
the sound of old records.
All the pretty covers,
Creased and torn.
She curls her lips
to the worlds she dreams.
All the murmured words,
Bathed with scorn.
She walks unaware of
the stilts of gravity.
All the heavy faces,
Draped and creased.
A mask now covers
her mouth, as her
eyes attempt the
words
of sleep.
Sometimes death sinks uneasy
in the appetite of the lost,
A ritual with
no rite.
It has been since time
that plagues feel the
urge to breath,
eyes blink uneasy
behind
concealed ironies.
© Si Matta
Beneath the securities of good nights and safe houses, lived fear. Fear dressed in Existential fangs always sat at the outside waiting to get in. The sweet smell of apple pie and coffee seemed a good enough shield to the elephant that sat in at the edge of the room, flicker of flame and wax. Shadows have always lurked beneath the savory light of ‘everything’s fine if you send hopes and prayers.’ Then one day, everything changed. Not the flash of atomic light we dreamt of in cold war beds, terrified with nightmare, and the comfort of mothers floor. No, it changed the way you would expect a tad pole to become a frog, unseen but heard for miles across platforms of social distancing. The veil became thin, and the emperor ran across abandoned golf courses, naked and scared.
Photo: Patricia Halleran
Pay attention to what the frogs have to say, they may have all the answers we need.
Be safe. Be kind. Be gentle.
Leaves Gather Their Breath
The wind stands still
just for a moment
as the leaves
gather their
breath
before
the
long
descent
to
fertile grounds.
Immersed in cyclic
compost seeping
with mist.
the heat
of
Rebirth.
Leaves Gathering Their Breath | © H a v e n