#1690 - two poems to honour Ora Lerman

1690

5.258

15.ix.24

two poems in honour of Ora Lerman

 

 

 

in the house of the bunny and the brush

Soaring Gardens

 

the hills sunned outward

tractor wrapped

 

we are under black walnut

all here to be far

 

timber in paint

in the life that was

 

wooden whiskers

poise to pounce

 

a loyal stance still now

we are here to witness

 

flat stone walls

what’s there what’s not

 

someone like a kangaroo

someone like a tiger

 

the world green gold around

at the sign of the hallowed allée

 

door flung

we’re pharaohonic

 

eyes all amaze ablaze

a rooster, too, live at times

 

we’re the odd collection

have to do the trick

 

it brights the sky to ambulate

over the hills hear money run

 

but here the bunny of the bobbin sits

at the sign of the timber hopper, grass

 

page driven each on to the next

that’s time and we’re in it still

 

glyphside, cat over map

a fold in the geometry

 

the egg secreted and the egg attained

a rabbit all attention

 

life still, open mawed

and there’s parody of it

 

I make into words, let’s guess

some resigned, nor quite comedic

 

each serious, grim, to its own scale

at the work of being merely

 

least whence, this is place to be mossed

then are we trusted from a form?

 

quite still, calm, not about to leap

but there – it’s said

 

is this plane dimension?

the animal our own eyes in

 

place we see past, diagonals absolute

where birth is always about to be given

 

with what we call a soul

because we do not know at all

 

bright of elsewhere in the brush

a painting of the carving

 

of the creature in mind

by way of story far forgotten  

 

it’s in the spirit of the place

we must remember here

 

 

 

 

aura

 

in a boat

with a bridge

here and gone

 

another of flowers

a slightest sky

 

the picture nothing to the place

 

here we are

a room’s reflected

 

the head dress meaning

one must guess

 

so elven present

quirky calm

she – wraithlike, slight, ethereal

 

and hear the day outdoors

 

as if it were we

now here prepared for

 

all this squirreling away

 

trees at their pitch of season

 

those eyes

always looking out

never where I’m from

 

in a boat

with a bridge

here and gone