This poem is  a making (poesis), not a representation. I did not know were it was going in advance of writing it out.  Thus I discovered and for moment became the emerging outcome as it unfolded. I tapped into the consciousness of the seamless garment that underlies the partitioning consciousness (beginnings and endings). The effect on me, now that it has withdrawn into the background once more, is that I no longer have any interest in origins or endings. I now understand that such thinking is produced by cutting into the seamless agreement in the first place, thus generating its own vexing questions. As much of my writing has been rooted in the customary consciousness that is historical (beginnings and endings) I am now thrown by this poem into great unknowing….



a tree in the backyard
dead tea-tree, almost
birds gather on exposed limbs
flitting rainbows
stable severe shiny black
disappearing whitegreys

flush with red and gold
a lorikeet flips around and disappears
green back received gracefully
into background foliage

oops there goes one
disappearing into the bottomless sky

now three shoot off
arrows into the neighbour’s bushes

what? two return
boomerangs coming home
to the hand that launched them
now they spiral away once more
like ends of a stretched rubber band
crow swoops onto highest perch
immediately given attendance
by aggressive mynah birds
he casually glides away
followed by his loyal train

question arises…

what pulls him
at just that moment
to depart the scene?

what secret summons
do the rainbow birds
obey in their sudden
whooshing away to the horizon

swirling in a vast circle
only to return to their posts?
entire assemblage sits in the tea-tree
each member of the cast
at her appointed position until
on cue the play begins
poised assemblage animates
into a riotous rout

every man for himself

but who started that drama?
                                  days indwelling with this question…
                                                                      and now and now and now

see what your mind is doing here
sword strikes pitilessly
into living seamless garment

forcing “beginnings” and “endings”
in turn forcing the very questions 
your mind foists on itself

angel speaks!

listening to these golden strains
then once more to the tea-tree

fluttering stillness piebald flash of colour
fleeting whitegray
crescendos sudden pauses
vanishing whirrrrings

separate things
becoming all and
all is music

angel of the seamless garment