About freedom: me
 
I have always thought freedom is about being free
But I still don’t know what freedom is all about
I know what it isn’t, and on that note
I suppose, I know what it is, to me
 
Freedom is and isn’t money. I suppose in that regard
One will never be free. What if we change our currency
To something else? Perhaps change it to deeds? 
Acts of good will? The gooder, the richer
The truthier the wealthier. No pretence
The ultimate aim is benevolence
If only money were leaves. Well, this would be leaves
From the metaphorical tree you grow. No exploitation
 
Freedom is and isn’t human meanness
Humans have a mean streak ingrained in us like
Choice steak marble. Some find it easy not to be mean
Some need every ounce of their marble 
There is no safeguard against meanness save our will
Again, i suppose only a common goal for good
Will preserve freedom like freedom should
 
How we treat our extremes would also affect 
How we are free. I suppose the humane treatment of prisoners
In certain European countries come to mind, but not drug addiction
It has become an epidemic. How do we tackle it?
I suppose no money, no drugs. Some are just plain broken in the mind
(and body). Could we fix it early? Could we find out early? Dig it out?
Define broken. It’s all in the details.
How does one teach? How does one prepare a teaching syllabus?
How does one draft bill and legislation? The debates and amendments
And the voices of everybody taken into consideration
Again, no money, no exploitation
I think
 
What are we prepared to do to ensure and preserve goodness?
Right is hard, and best is harder.
It’s a sitting down and ironing out and a talking out
All for a common goal 
 
It’s a long, slow, continual, forever process
 
It’s not each teacher taking their turn in school 
To draft the syllabus for that particular grade 
With the aims, objectives, learning outcomes and activities 
That come to mind, which almost always
Become the final product designed to please 
The administration
It’s not rigging the system to ensure one’s supply of money
Does not run out
For the sake of freedom
It was and wasn’t and is and isn’t 
And shouldn’t be solely financial freedom
 
I suppose true freedom is not absence of control for freedom’s sake
It is the absence of control-for-control’s-sake
 
 

Trinity
 
We frolic in the swimming pool
One hairless monkey but for the slight paunch
and two smaller younglings climbing on the parent,
jumping and paddling away like young dogs
Sometimes they make me swim like a crocodile and they
hang on
 
I paddle like a dog, to vary my method
and save my decayed limbs, shoulder and neck,
so many joints, tendons, ligaments
 
Such shouts we make, such splash
Two crows perched on the potted plant
at the periphery watch us, in the deep patch 
of water, ‘what fools these must be, fouling
our sweet drinking water’
 
Against the dying of the day
These fools play unsleeping
Unwary of the dangers night bring
‘We know but we have a home’
No snake may climb this giant stone tree
With a width so wide no human may encircle them 
Only flight’s trajectory
 
Now the queen watches 
A dark beauty, with eyes darker still
Surveying her subjects, ‘Those fools
who perhaps might be wiser than they seem
Leave the pool, shroud themselves in cloth 
Coloured like the world’
 
The queen watches as we leave
Below the sickle mustard moon
And dotted diamond star
In unreachable trinity
 
From its perch they all seem
Suspended by a straight invisible thread
 
What comes next?
 
 

​

 

 

A beautiful thing
 
A beautiful thing 
makes you stop and stare
and not want to move on to other things
even though they may be more beautiful
because you are too busy, too caught up in admiring
the flow of its beauty, it is like the spiral of 
a whirlpool, from that of a bottle
when whirled up in a twist, the water within moving like
a twister, your palm and fingers grasping
like two-piece pincers, forearm momentum and stopping
the bottle and by that, the water in its track
 
Can one ever stop water?
Now it is a whirlpool
This beautiful thing
Even plastic is now beautiful 
In spite of its terrible livelihood
Can it ever be beautiful?
What life to live a curse
Look no further for a vampyr in modern form
 
Does one fear to move on from a thing of beauty
for fear of forgetting, to construe moving on and
not remembering as an act, a piece
of betrayal, like gathering stones, choosing only the flat ones
to best skip them across the surface of the day
 
Let it be misty that no one may watch
this act of throwing one’s stones on the surface
that may only reflect in its current state
Accept and allow all throwables, all undesirables
to bounce and go away and eventually drown,
sink into the bottom of it, sink into the twisted state
of things, cover and bury in the sweet love of earth
 
A poem can make you stop and stare
A woman can transfix and captivate
A man too, a place and a tale
Move on, if you will i suppose, for what is a leaf to do
but float on the drift on the current of things
dictated by earth, gravity and the moon
 
One can’t help but stare at the sky
At the giant river of drift
Infinite in things
White blue night and day
Pink orange yellow red
 
What is there to do but 
betray, release all you’re carrying
and stare, blessed by a cursed living
as men and women and flowers and 
stones and poems