Once isolation was my plan. Once that was all I wanted and today I am unlimited in all of my thinking. I am weak but I am also strong and I am breathless for all the stars.
“The revelatory whisperer” in me speaks to “the imaginarium” in you Don Beukes. Thank you poet. With your head in a field of dreams carrying divinity and harvest, snow when it is winter and wildflowers in the summertime, and I think of our souls in quarantine, I think of living in the reality of a COVID-19 world, I think of poets living in a COVID-19 world. I think of all your magnificent verses and my depression, I speak to the gifts in you, in your soul and I speak my poetic gifts back to you. You are humble and kind, ingenious at conceptiouslising beauty in a mundane world and as poets we are far from ordinary. We must remain vehicles of authenticity, vessels carrying all the dimensions of the universe, you sustain all my pioneering efforts, all the works in me. I have never known a poet like you. You have perhaps never known a poet like me and we are both living in times that we were designed for, or haven’t been designed for. I want to talk about the concept of our roots, I want to sing about gravity while I give you thanks. For now, as poets we live in both the natural and the supernatural world. I think of your legacy and my legacy. The preparation for a new earth in our poetry. There are new worlds in existence now in your poetry and my poetry. You are a scientific triumph. I am a thoughtful and principled triumph. I hope that you write away everyday and fill the hours with your beloved. While all I think of and observe is memory.
“Wildflowers”. A poem in response to the life and times of Ernest Hemingway. You took the light that was in you and found the light that was inside of me, the light that makes up the stars and the planets and the universe. Your light taught me about abundance and inheritance, the grace and mercy of God, all the potentialities of the universe, your light taught me about submission and obedience found in humility and service, the divinity found in all the seasons, truth, the harvests in the mission fields, and once all I knew of the world was winter and everywhere I went I felt the cold. It was like the pathways driftwood found at the edge of the sea, in my lovely bones and in my destiny but your light speaks to the light in me, into my destiny, into the math of my purpose and all I see now is the summertime of truth and the anatomy of oceans. I think of how the light has made you brave, I see the light in all your effective leadership, your capacity for kindness, your unlimited and fearless intelligence. I love all of you more, if that was even possible. Your words have now become my own, inform my own writing and I have realised with anticipatory nostalgia that I am capable of many things. I see the novel in your eyes as if you were still here and I take your stars and I take your codes, I gather them to me Ernest Hemingway, I remember you in the light of day as a fisherman of stars and codes and that is how my day begins.
“To All The Living Cultural Icons”. A poem for Don Beukes and Eugene Skeef. You are socially aware. You are mindful. You inspire resonance within me. I see the anatomy of the fullness of your destiny. You are anointed, anchored, rooted in the authentic language of poetry. Guess that’s what I call “renaissance expectation”, and your way of looking at the world is authentic, your way of seeing inventing potentialities and turning them into reality, the sensibility of your perspective is soma, the nobility of your awareness does it come from pain or standing on a beach, what is art to you I wonder, all of its turning points and revolutions. I write this down in my journal and call it a book of remembrance. It functions as inheritance. Art, it conceptualises promotion as a symbol for happiness for all time. For the wilderness found in humanity’s ultimate salvation.
“The Imaginarium of Don Beukes”. A poem in response to the life world of the poets Don Beukes and the other life world and inner light I am secretly in awe of of Eugene Skeef. Be your own kind of beautiful community, they teach me. All I can think of today is robotics and the art of building robots in the wilderness. All I can think of is this constant struggle to find intellectual reasoning in redemptive love, enduring life, a return to love, familial love but all I can see is the glory of the clouds above the sea. All I can breathe is the translation of this moment into the discernment of time, of how I have to let go of the laughter of clowns. How I feel courageous for the first time in a long time in this life, and the storm is a warrior but the fact is I am too. I think of how you are important in history, and all the miracles that are to be found there in your potential, and I think to myself just how thankful I am for all your words, all your poetry, your imaginariums. I am thankful. I am thankful. I am thankful.
For me writing doesn’t become easier over the years. It just becomes more of a difficult assignment. Identifying what is real, the reality of poet versus writer, that exquisite subtle magic of ego versus humility, that’s progress, process, the key to imagination and creativity. The soul is what is important, significant, omniscient, all-powerful.
You are all gold, but are you electric, or, a spotlight. For tender is the moment. There is much living to be done in this moment. The man is standing at the edge of the river. In another city, the woman is preparing for the day ahead. She is a diary in a page. She journals her very life into existence. The man is a success at everything. He is a poet. The woman is a novelist and playwright. The universe, the moon, the sun, the planets in alignment are all her stalwarts. All her witnesses. The woman hates the fact that her father is growing old, older, into an autumn poet. The phoenix turns in the air on wings of gold, engineered for authentic grace. The woman thinks the man is brave for looking at his soul like that and gravity falls through the air principled and thoughtful. The rain falling on the roof is like clouds in the woman’s coffee, the smell of winter, a legacy written inside a photograph, and she turns forgiveness into an art, while the man turns it into a philosophy.
“The Science of Happiness”.
I used to believe in the roots of daylight, now I believe in everything. I used to be able not to walk away from grief, the anatomy of darkness found in loneliness, in my art, narcissism and I wanted to stay in the wings of the shadows. I thought that meant protection, that I was protected from traveling. I was a daughter who was also a poet. Now I believe in the architecture of your destiny and my destiny. I speak to the greatness in you and you speak to the greatness in me. You are gold but I am gold also. I went for a swim and was resurrected. And the day was cold, and love, my love, all my reasons became authentic at the beginning, the middle and the end of the interiors of my vulnerabilities and your and the power of team in your potentialities. I believed in the courage of one, but now I believe in the courage of us. You are a field carrying snow and millennia. Gravity endures there like all the reasons for redemptive love. The evolution was won this morning.
“Destiny”.
You are unlimited in your thinking. Your victory is certain. Your resonance in this world exceptional. I am fragile, the wildflowers say. But a message came through from all the dimensions of the universe this morning that the wildflowers were authentic. That they were thoughtful and principled. Understood to be significant in all the beauty that they carried. I like your views on things, especially gold. Your brave life, every quantitative characteristic of your soul. I think back to our first conversations, their exponential trajectory, the arrival of you that turned into chapters. The novel in your eyes and in all of your departures. The legacy of climate change, that you are good to me, that you are the legacy that keeps my head spinning, teaching me about expectation, to be happy, that every moral code is anointed, that agreement is key, that all of our secret potential is fearless and promoted. That we are capable of many things just like wildflowers.
“All The Potentialities”. A poem in response to the poets Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath and the self-imposed poet living in exile in all of us. “Her destiny was too important. His destiny was too important. My destiny is too important. The dominant purpose for wisdom is to live in agreement, promotion and inheritance. Tell yourself that whatever you do today you will be a warrior. A prayer warrior, a mindful warrior, a warrior that sticks to their convictions, a warrior that has unlimited vision. I am thankful for this dream in my heart, and I know the wildflowers will stay in agreement, promotion and inheritance and prosper. It is in the nature of our personal reality to drum anointing into the phoenix carrying the lighthouse in our heart that lives for the lucidity in rational thinking. Does that make sense. That life is a journey that calls to us saying, “Gather up the universe, all its accumulations and pray.””
“Increasing Respect For The Mind”.
You make me think of the potential and belief systems of the mind. How to use the voice to tell my story. I look at all the dimensions and particles of the universe to be found in wildflowers. Wildflowers growing with infuriating exuberance in the face of authenticity, principled and effective thought. They were examples of God’s excellence. I think of the creator behind sabotage. And like a wave almost healing, crafting purposefully the shoreline with infuriating exuberance, I think what comes from the aftermath of sabotage. We can learn to grow in versions of authenticity in the spaces where theology stands on its own, we can take philosophy and all of its teachings and go out into the world and transform the anatomy of loneliness into the science of happiness. We can stay at home and write novels respectful of grief and mourning from a distance. We can remember sabotage, the negative and devastating aftermath of it all and the lessons of friendship and life, abundance and conviction that it can teach us. We can be like the wildflowers. Accepting of an awareness of freedom in its purposefully crafted theology.
You are the sun and I am the moon. You are the indestructible phenomenon of gold and so am I. You’re in a place realising the fullness of your destiny. I am getting to my purpose, doing it rather exceptionally well. When you say nothing at all about the sapling and the taproot and measure your achievements against my achievements, I know that I am with the right kind of person. And you never tell me to keep quiet or to shut up about it, or to go away, or to not exist for a minute because you are busy. Even your kindness is principled, thoughtful, and exceptional. You are man. I am woman. I am told by leading intellectuals that we are world’s apart but I don’t believe them. I think we come from and exist on the same planet. I speak to the daydreamer in you, the philosopher, the teacher, the writer, the epic motivator and optimistic communicator. You’ve never hurt me like the rain, my exceptional sadness, my father and mother and humanity is not perfect. So, I have learned to forgive and see the best in others. You are my hope, the lighthouse I carry around in the energies of my heart. You are all my reasons for the sunlight at the end of the world, chance heaped at my door. You’re noble, that’s for sure. and all this birdsong in my heart is for you. All this forgiveness is for you. All this expectation is for you. All this happiness is for you. I’ll stand by you, I’ll stand by you as you meet your destiny, as you build those empires, in your struggle, in your adversity, and all your challenges will become my challenges, and all your happiness will become my happiness for you are the sun. It’s in your destiny and I am the moon. Look at me. I have been healed.
“Waking Up In The Belly Of A Poem”. A poem for the world and all the dimensions, particles, kingdoms, cities and empires of the universe and in response to your aura of authenticity.
The woman’s father was resting but she had her eye to the telescope. What am I going to without all the self-taught possibilities of the universe, the oracle’s memory on mourning and the desire to live, the complex narrative of love and all I can think of father, is the divinity of the wildflowers. “You would like that, I think dad,” the woman thought to herself. It will inspire you, or someone like you in the wildness of the world, all your lionlimbs in magnificent and abundant ways, and so she spoke into the hours to every reader of this poem. When you are no longer here I will have to live somehow, and write somehow about conviction and walking at the beach. I will have to swim without you, write without you, live with and without your memories to guide me all the time as they did before. The woman got up and walked to the door and the light became a river meeting the supernatural for heaped at the window was chance and she could hear all the vulnerabilities of the world in birdsong. She thought of all the noble stories she would write, that would instruct her in all her victories and convictions. And she breathed the day into her, the pensive rain and the dry rot.
