Promethean heat

We escaped our bodies
by the Promethean heat
of our words,
and cheated time and space.
But now we fall back to Earth
and our clumsy flesh.

Whether it has soul shaking symmetry
or heart-beaten unevenness
the bloom of this day
will end,
as all must open and close
before the moon or sun.

No matter the path
whether we stumble or dance,
down or around,
we will get lost.

Out of the dark
of the cave
follow this trail
of loving words,
back to where we danced
before the fire.

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved)

Sea cave at Sorrento © Jennifer Phillips

Heart-beaten

Finding context

A window opens, worlds collide...
The moon tilts on its axis
and our connection sparks
on the space-time continuum.

Spun out of our words,
we burst into reality
to place flesh on the bones
of our parallel contexts.

I always had a dear friend
but our meaning has deepened
contextually on this nexus -
perspectives framed and referenced.

The interlocking portion of our Venn diagram
shall all too soon be wrenched apart
as our internal worlds click back like cogs -
to regular positions in parallel contexts.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Open window - From Copyright Free Images

The giver of stars

Hold your soul open for my welcoming.

Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me

With its clear and rippled coolness,

That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest,

Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.

Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me,

That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire,

The life and joy of tongues of flame,

And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune,

I may rouse the blear-eyed world,

And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten.

by Amy Lowell

From Copyright Free Images

Six years without you

Dust is thick on my tongue

from the cool pine planks,

when I hide under my bed.

I kiss the floor with my ear

the earth is a chorus of cries

Which voice is yours?

I hold tight the glass slipper

This room is listing.

I am rocked to sleep.

You bloom in my dreamlight.

I search the dust for sand.

In the heat of my heart,

I will make new glass.

These slippers worn when 

we were young, no longer fit.

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved) 

Floorboards © Jennifer Phillips

Those sweet words

What did you say?

I know I saw you singing.

My ears won't stop ringing

long enough to hear

those sweet words...

What did you say?

End of the day...

The hour hand has spun,

before the night is done,

I just have to hear

those sweet words,

spoken like a melody.

All your love

is a lost balloon

rising up through the afternoon,

'til it could fit on the head of a pin.

Come on in...

Did you have a hard time sleeping?

'cause a heavy moon was keeping me awake...

and all I know is I'm just glad to see you again.

See my love,

like a lost balloon

rising up through the afternoon

and then you appear.

What did you say?

I know you were singing.

My ears won't stop ringing,

long enough to hear

those sweet words,

and your simple melody.

I just have to hear

your sweet words,

spoken like a melody.

I just wanna hear

those sweet words.

by Norah Jones

To a friend

I ask but one thing of you, only one,

That always you will be my dream of you;

That never shall I wake to find untrue

All this I have believed and rested on,

Forever vanished, like a vision gone

Out into the night. Alas, how few

There are who strike in us a chord we knew

Existed, but so seldom heard its tone

We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.

The world is full of rude awakenings

And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground,

Yet still our human longing vainly clings

To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.

O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!

by Amy Lowell

Pelicans © Jennifer Phillips

Milkshake

Daydream delusion...
Limousine eyelash.
Oh, baby with your pretty face,
drop a tear in my wineglass.
Look at those big eyes!
See what you mean to me...
sweet cakes and milkshakes.
I am a delusion angel.
I am a fantasy parade.
I want you to know what I think...
Don’t want you to guess anymore.
You have no idea where I came from,
we have no idea where we’re going...
Launched in life
like branches in the river,
flowing downstream,
caught in the current.
I’ll carry you. You’ll carry me.
That’s how it could be.
Don’t you know me?
Don’t you know me by now?

Poem from the movie "Before Sunrise"

Chocolate torte made by me! © Jennifer Phillips

The lost art of moping

Leunig in The Saturday Age - February 9th 2013

Golden velvet

A streak of sun parts 
the monotonous grey clouds,
and I rush outside 
like an addict needing a fix,
my skin matte and thirsty 
for a libation of rays...
I lift my face to their warm 
penetrative embrace.

Pulsing and insistent,
golden velvet soaks into my pores, 
enters me thickly, 
like the finest amber liquor.
Cold ache pervading my bones 
only a memory...
as I succumb to sweet union 
with the sun, like a lover.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Sun on skin © Jennifer Phillips

Howling

Hot nights coming.

Keep the car running.

Lavender fingers,

swallow my pollen.

Gold I swam into your spell,

on the rite of God we fell.

You were plush and I laid bare - 

You had me howling.

Cold I fell into your skin,

on the night you led me 

under your sin...

You had me howling.

You had me howling.

Blush.

Golden siren,

under exposing.

Come lay your weakness down

on the floor in the backseat.

Gold I swam into your spell,

on the rite of God we fell.

You were plush and I laid bare -

You had me howling.

Cold I fell into your skin, 

on the night you led me 

under your sin...

You had me howling.

You had me howling.

Blush.

Blush.

by Frank Wiedemann & Ry Cuming

Frank Wiedemann © rycuming

Anticipation

I have been temperate always,

But I am like to be very drunk

With your coming.

There have been times

I feared to walk down the street

Lest I should reel with the wine of you,

And jerk against my neighbours

As they go by.

I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth,

But my brain is noisy

With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.

by Amy Lowell

From Copyright Free Images

Don't worry, be happy

Here is a little song I wrote,

you might want to sing it note for note.

Don't worry, be happy...

In every life we have some trouble.

When you worry you make it double.

Don't worry, be happy...

Ain't got no place to lay your head?

Somebody came and took your bed? 

Don't worry, be happy.

The landlord say your rent is late,

he may have to litigate.

Don't worry, be happy. 

Look at me, I am happy!

Don't worry, be happy.

Here - I give you my phone number... 

When you worry, call me.

I make you happy.

Don't worry, be happy. 

Ain't got no cash, ain't got no style?

Ain't got not girl to make you smile?

But don't worry, be happy.

'Cause when you worry, 

your face will frown 

and that will bring everybody down. 

So don't worry, be happy (now)...

There is this little song I wrote... 

I hope you learn it note for note,

like good little children.

Don't worry, be happy.

Listen to what I say...

In your life expect some trouble,

but when you worry 

you make it double. 

Don't worry, be happy...

Don't worry, don't do it!
Be happy!

Put a smile on your face!

Don't bring everybody down like this...

Don't worry, it will soon pass, 

whatever it is.
Don't worry, be happy!
I'm not worried.
I'm happy!

by Bobby McFerrin

Image - emimusic

Eclipse plumage

Like burling logs,

Words spin out of her mouth 
at strange angles.

Cryptic myths to be read

only by the spectral glow

of a friar's lantern --

stars fallen to the earth.

I hover hummingbird patient,

Dying quick of interest.

Darting tongue gathering honey

While eternal spring

fades Double-quick.

My bones fill and 

my wings fail.

I fall at her feet

for lack of a better dance.

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved) 

Eclipse plumage © Jennifer Phillips

Sleeping in the forest

I thought the earth remembered me,

she took me back so tenderly,

arranging her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,

nothing between me and the white fire of the stars

but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths

among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms

breathing around me, the insects,

and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,

grappling with a luminous doom. By morning

I had vanished at least a dozen times

into something better.

by Mary Oliver

Bird woman - Bruno Torf's Sculpture Garden @ Jennifer Phillips

Little boat on a blue sea

Little Boat at Flinders © Jennifer Phillips

What will your verse be?

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. 

And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. 

To quote from Whitman, 'O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?' 

Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. 

What will your verse be?"

Robin Williams playing teacher John Keating in the movie "Dead Poets Society".

Returning to stardust

I follow your voice across the fields, dark and wheat.

I am a part, torn apart, from a whole.

You are my completeness – 

The fingers of our soul-shards interlace.

The train to Gethsemane, its awe-filled roar – 

Pulls the Christ out of me.

He takes me upon his cross, upon his back.

We run through the fields, dark and wheat.

Oh Jesus, do not forsake me

My brother in flesh, here comes my train:

Twisting steel and spitting sparks,

curving and coiling, digging

claws into the hide of the Earth.

In the garden we will meet, kiss, and sanctify the soil.

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved) 

Old train © Jennifer Phillips

Blog poem

In the small of the mornings

I wake - sharpened arrows

of consciousness cocked at the day.
Penetrated words play out

their trajectory in the way

uncontrived constellations

fall from the sky.
Reflected floating driftwood
of meanings on the sea
of my imaginings,
wash up on a string of days

on this my shore:

Old Yellow Moon.

Threaded torn pieces

of mind's tissue-material
bagged, tagged and categorised.
These passing emotions 
drawn bow to target, 

fired and dropped to the page.
Piecemeal lurkings and snippets 
of collected imaginings, 
dreams or fantasies.

Realities perhaps 
succinct and distilled...

A muffled collated

rendering of my world.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Tide out at Flinders © Jennifer Phillips

On poetry

"It's just something that's always been inside of me, this kind of voice … I think poetry is able to say things in such a small, perfect way that are so hard to say. I think it's a perfect medium for expressing difficult ideas and concepts and feelings. It's one of my great loves."

Jerry Hall

Looking for grace

I

After receiving their first communion,

the children kneel down – 

little angels all in a row

Waiting for God

They squeeze their eyes shut

till the retinas dance,

sparking up divine fireworks

II

After the benediction of a poetry reading,

the audience gathers around the poet –

hungry angels, lost and cold,

huddle around his fire.

He does not blink,

afraid of his eyelids

and the apocalyptic vision.

III

After reading the note that you left in a book,

my knees were bent by the weight of love – 

for a woman I barely know.

This note that lost its way

found a home in my heart.

I am afraid to shut my eyes – 

Will I see you?

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved)

Candles © Jennifer Phillips

Spring love song

From Leunig - 2013 Calendar

Your cloak

Like thieves in the night

your words permeate

my boundaries and

seep into my pores - skin deep, 

and like a cloak of love, 

they shield my soul.

Then in the late watches of the night,

when my barriers are down,

your word-cloak surrounds me

with colour and light,

like a dancing veil

in the soul-full desert

and you move like a spirit

through the frames of my dreams.

I can't touch you

but your presence 

is so firm and strong

that when finally awake,

I am almost confused,

as if between waking

and dreaming,

we are really together.


© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Veil © Jennifer Phillips

Magicicada

For 17 years they were silent

burrowed beneath their tree,

drinking from the roots and 

carefully choosing their words. 

Seventeen summer suns

slowly split their skin,

shaking the slumber from a

shared suspended song.

And now their love plants

dreams that scar,

singing and stinging softly

the bark with deep bites.

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved) 

Cicada © Jennifer Phillips

Soldier crabs

Low tide. A cloud is moving

over sand - blue shadow

washed with sound, draining

into holes, where mangrove

roots can be seen to copy,

vaguely and hugely, the legs

of what is advancing

and diminishing - segmented,

plated, defensive, legion.

The cloud gone, beside

each hole, clusters of tiny balls,

like abrasive hail, or rainbeads

evaporation has bypassed

in the interests of symmetry

and the poetry of excavation.

by Anthony Lawrence

Soldier crabs at Merimbula © Jennifer Phillips

Sinnerman

by the Seekers, sung by Nina Simone

Hibiscus

Hibiscus © Jennifer Phillips

The fugue tree

Waking from starless dreams, 

in that infinitesimally small pause 

 is an infinitely plump potential. 

Why must I make plumb

body, time and place?

Lying in the shade

I am tempted by 

a nameless fruit

to drink its strange wine,

be soul-drunk blind,

and set fire 

the cathedral 

of memory 

that surrounds 

my self.

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved) 

Fruit sampled © Jennifer Phillips

Window left open

I woke alone to a bed 

occupied with moonlight. 

It was not the brightness

that penetrated my dreams,

but the quiet force pulsating 

just a hair

out of synch

with my heart. 

Neither wax, 

nor wane

nor ghost. 

Fully corporeal,

veins coursing

with yellow gravity 

teasing me 

like an ocean.

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved) 

Moon in passing clouds © Jennifer Phillips

The golden thread

I'm looking for life's precious little

golden thread.

We've got the rusty chain, the tangled

wire, the thick rope,

But we can't help you with the golden 

thread, I'm afraid.

What do you want it for?

I want to see it, I want to smile at it.

I want to tell life's little golden

thread that I love it.

That's all I want.

We've got the ball of string, the reel of 

packaging tape and the optic fibre cable,

But I'm sorry,

We don't have the golden thread any more.

by Michael Leunig

Golden thread © Jennifer Phillips

Little tendrils

Little tendrils of the heart

Curling out and groping,

Seeking little things to hold,

Wiggling and hoping.

Little tendrils of the soul

Delicate and perky,

Seeking little surfaces

Peculiar and quirky.

Little tendrils, little tendrils,

innocent and plucky,

I pray that you are careful

And I hope that you are lucky.

by Michael Leunig

Fern tendrils - Marysville © Jennifer Phillips

Westfälische landschaft

Patchwork fields of vibrant yellow

shouting at the glowering sky

“Look at me!!

I do not reflect you as the dull water of the river there.

I have a life of my own – my own accord…”

The sky answered not.

It looked darkly back, and withheld the rain.

“I will make that field think again” –

thought the sky,

And glowered darkly on into the night.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

South Australian countryside © Jennifer Phillips

Disconnected

They circle around me, 

a dance of particulate matter - 

solid and comfortable,

an easy symphony of like-minded interaction.

I am like the gaps between raindrops,

I occupy the spaces-between - 

tolerated but not understood,

I am an unpopular electric eel in a bowl of goldfish.

I waft like a ghost along the sidelines - 

apart from the main game, a bereft observer.

This concert of which I am not a part - 

I am apart, and this concert is not mine, 

has never been mine.

Intrinsic connection is a rainbow across the seas, 

in thoughts and words-touch.

Marking time, some semblance of comfort

but not really my reality, still to be considered.

What would be our reality?
What would it be?

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Duck's neck © Jennifer Phillips

The latchkey blues

A house key suspended

on his steel bead necklace 

bends the boy's head

to a stooped slow walk,

slouching towards bedlam

and the beast. 

A repeated string of numbers,

careful choreographed walk,

no cracks and skipped primes. 

The magic sum of prayers 

to an abandoned god. 

Ten yards off muscles tighten 

and senses heighten. 

He pauses on the porch

hand to handle-

on the door between 

flight and fight,

father and sun,

safety and surrender. 

Hail Mary full of grace

look at that boy's face,

why have you forsaken him?

The door opens

The door closes

Things fall apart.

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved) 

Key chain © Jennifer Phillips

Counterparts

In my body you search the mountain

for the sun buried in its forest.

In your body I search for the boat

adrift in the middle of the night. 

by Octavio Paz

William Ricketts Sanctuary © Jennifer Phillips

Her skin

"Her skin is composed of strange clothing

and clouds of butterflies,

of events and odours,

of the rose fingers of dawn,

transparent suns of full daylight,

blue loves of dusk and night fish with huge eyes."

by Max Walter Svanberg in "Trouble Deaf Heaven" by Bin Ramke.

Blue loves of dusk © Jennifer Phillips

Chiaroscuro

The moon last night cast

the shadow of a sunflower

across my path.

A cool shimmering thing blazing,

dancing to the reel of a nightingale.

This remnant of gravity's weak

pull on my heart's rhythm,

fell me like a ghostly axe.

What would bloom from its seeds?

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved) 

Wildflower at night © Jennifer Phillips