Thursday, November 29, 2012

God Is A Bus Driver











God Is A Bus Driver



Sitting on the bus seemed to be the most comforting thing to do. They all sat in relative silence, trying to gauge this newest of locations, as though dropped from somewhere else, and doing something else, stunned, but unsure to question it. It was assumed there would be a destination, as there'd not be much reason for boarding a bus if you had none in mind. No one riding the bus knew really why they were there, they'd just now simply found themselves there, as though moving from one dream to another, not sure about where they had been, or where it was they were going.

Calendars and clocks and all sense of time, left the recesses of their collective minds as they sat within the familiar grasp of the comfortable seats. It did seem oddly familiar to most, and certainly not an unsettling experience, only slightly confusing, a general wonder of what it was they had been doing before they'd gotten here aboard this bus. It seemed dark outside the windows, or on the verge of darkness, it was a kind of back and forth balance of both light and dark.

The low rumble of the powerful engine was all that could be heard inside this cocoon of travel. A woman looked to her own reflection in the window beside her. And, Lilly wondered whom she was, and how she seemed to know her. She smiled back at herself and knew she was in the right place, a place she'd only dreamt of many times in dreams she could not remember until now. They were peaceful dreams, comfortable travels within her mind, and though her memory of them had faded over years, each one had taken her closer to where she was now.

The passengers took in their own moments of reflection now inside the shuddering vessel, here, traveling together but moving in different paths within their individual minds and thoughts. Lilly pulled at a braid that ran down along the front of her shoulder. She had received her coin as she'd boarded, she turned it over and around inside her hand blinking at its soft reflection.

There was at once a slight murmur as the bus rocked slowly coming to another stop. Nothing outside looked familiar, there was not much to see, just hints of things you thought you saw, but when Lilly tried to focus on anything, it just twisted up and passed by the window. She released her braid and cupped her coin with both hands, peering at the somber man across the aisle from her. He looked toward the ceiling over his head and spoke silently to himself.
The outside seemed so close to all the windows on the bus, a canopy that lent itself to the quiet comfort within. Lilly, thought of her Mother and Stepfather, her little brother, and Lucy, her dog. In this moment, they were the brightest thoughts of the short life she had lived.

She knew things were different here on the bus, they appeared as a moment in the eye of her mind and then she now understood it all as one thought or picture there. She felt as though all those around her were sorting through this newest of revelations. Lilly could barely remember the life from which she'd come from, her bedroom, the sunrise, the sky, as she'd left it that morning. It had been early, the sun had just forced itself above the horizon, its first light had found her eyes and held them, as she drifted back to dream.
All the other passengers were quite a bit older than she, but they appeared to have the same questions in their eyes. 
No one spoke, they seemed to be getting answers on their own and Lilly questioned herself as to why or how she'd come to this sudden conclusion. She was far from afraid, more curious than anything, similar to the anticipation she had felt before the birth of her little brother, Turner.

And as she pondered this newest thought, it occurred to her she'd arrived here in a more complete way. In what she could remember of the past, her dreams would sometimes take her to this place, as an intimation of a past voyage. But, today was different, warmer in her mind, softer, if that made any sense, and Lilly giggled to herself. If she concentrated, her conscious mind told her she was twelve years-old and she was from a small town in Massachusetts. Her Mother and Stepfather grew up in towns not far from the one in which she'd lived. Her baby brother, even her dog, were parts of this life in which she'd come from, and she began to recall this with amazing clarity, her entire life until now was a capsule picture running within her mind.

The light outside the bus was brilliant, and all that was within her mind seemed as a book, or a story within one. It was a jewel amongst all the others, and as Lilly turned within her comfortable seat, she could feel a warmth all around her, a reflection of what she was giving. There was only gentle contentment on the faces of the passengers, maybe a secret that had been at once expressed to them all.
Suddenly, they began to speak to one another, butterflies of whispers within their collective minds, there in the sweet silence.
"We know where we are don't we Lilly?" said the woman Lilly thought she'd known. "Home," Lilly murmured within her mind, as all those on the bus smiled and nodded.



-Earlier That Morning-



Cool fall air pushed through the bottom corner of the closed window and Lilly moved the back of her hand closer to the source. The trees outside shifted their branches together as though part of a great silent opera. Lilly didn't know whether to think the falling leaves were lucky to fall, or unhappy their season of existence had come to an end.
She opened the palm of her hand and felt the breath of all outdoors upon it, the last breath of all the leaves she imagined. She thought to herself a lot about why she had been brought into this world, what was her purpose here, was it to grow like the trees, in one place, and never leave?

She could think back to almost all her birthdays, they came once a year, at this time of the year, when the leaves left all the trees, and the sun seemed to take longer to make everything warm. This twelfth birthday, had come and gone just after Halloween, and just before Thanksgiving, but not really close to Christmas. Lilly's Mother had baked her a pie for her birthday, a Shoofly pie that was almost better than the ones they made in the Pennsylvania Dutch country. Now, the pie was gone. It had lasted for three whole desserts, which was a lot when everyone except her Stepfather had some after three dinners. He had some in honor of her birthday he'd said, but then he had to go back to his diet.
Lilly's dog, Lucy, sat by the door to her bedroom. 
She was a dog that had escaped an owner that had kept her tied to a tree in his back yard, he was cruel to her. Lilly's Stepfather, Peter, had brought her home one night six months ago after seeing her picture on the 'New Dog' poster at the animal shelter. The veterinarian had guessed she was six months old then, but she was underweight and small for her age. 

She was afraid to eat anything the first night in her new home. She cried all night until morning. Lilly had gone down to the kitchen that first night to visit her in the crate she had come home in. She had opened the door and Lucy stepped outside her little cage, Lilly held her close and felt her shiver and whimper, and she thought to herself what it might feel like to be tied to a tree all night out in the backyard.

Lucy licked her chin and wagged her tail as though she weren't sure she should. She sat and looked into Lilly's eyes and Lilly tried hard to imagine what Lucy might want to tell her if she could. And, after a while Lilly thought that all she would want to do is forget where she had lived before. Lucy probably just needed what anyone needed, someone to look after her and love her. They were simple things, but as she sat in her room looking at Lucy lying by the door to her room, she knew they were the most important.

Lilly had a baby brother named, Turner. He was one and a half years-old and he fell down a lot, but Lilly felt he was good about not crying when he did, he seemed to take it as part of the risk involved. He was actually her step-brother, but she didn't really consider the different names that adults labeled these things. He was born in the house, in the living room, at three o'clock in the morning, and she remembered her Mother screaming, just once, before she'd heard the tiniest cry she'd ever heard in her life.

Lilly walked down the stairs into the darkened living room to find this new baby in her mother's arms, he was freshly wrapped in a plaid blanket and staring up into the ceiling. Lilly looked up into the darkness to see what he was looking for, she saw nothing but darkness, and it occurred to her then that maybe that was a comforting thing for him to see.
She walked toward her Mother and Stepfather and she felt a strange chill, it was a shudder that ran up her back and it left just as quickly when the new baby's eyes met hers. They were as big as the chestnuts that sat inside the silver bowl by the fireplace. His eyes seemed to comfort her in a knowing way, and just as soon as she felt this, he looked at all the other eyes that were there above him.
It was at this moment, Lilly wondered if this new baby would be afflicted with the same trouble as she.

When she was five years-old, Lily was diagnosed with faulty heart valves. "It was an arrhythmia," she would tell her friends when they asked her why she tired so quickly. In a strange way, this 'thing' she was born with seemed as though it were alive inside her, a strange friend that begged to be recognized. Lilly sometimes talked to it while she walked with Lucy through her tiny neighborhood. She would ask how long she could run before her friend would claim her attention for its own. Lucy would sit beside her, tongue hanging out, their eyes watching one another's, and Lilly would return the pace of comfort in her heart, its beating would relent, and color would return to her face.

Lilly's world was a tiny one, but it was filled with infinite circles of possibilities, and it was her own to do within it as she pleased. Her mother would sometimes search her own mind for answers to the rivers of questions she had. There was Lilly's father, her former husband, who had died one winter while shoveling snow. His face was a blue-gray when her Mother found him lying in the lopsided bank of snow. He had the arrhythmia too, but no one knew until that day when it didn't matter if they had. Lilly's Mother was angry at her Father for leaving the two of them, she had said that the world and God was not fair.
That winter, Lilly had just finished her fifth birthday, that's really when she started to remember her birthdays and feel things in her world more. It seemed everything was just the way she'd wanted it, there was a certain day in her memory, a day she held in her mind like a jewel in a drawer. It was the first day, Turner, her baby brother squeezed her finger and smiled at her, and it was then, she felt her father's smile within her own, as though he stood within her. The baby reflected it in his smile, and Lilly realized this circle was bigger than she had first thought it to be.

She began to imagine a great ocean within the universe in which all souls passed through a magnificent tree, starting at its roots and ending by riding the backs of falling leaves. There was no beginning or end, but simply 'a ride,' a ride that started aboard a bus that appeared just when you needed it to.

One day when Lilly had arrived home after school, the sun seemed to lend itself in such a way she thought it spoke to her and she stopped to hear its message. There was none, but just enough of a nudge to make her stop and look at it. It was a warm day for early April, flowers were pushing their heads above the ground to feel the wind and sun, thought Lilly. She heard Lucy bark from behind the front door as she grasped the big brass door knob and pushed. The big oak door gave her room as it moved, and her heart jumped a bit from her walk and climb up the front stairs, and along with these sensations, she heard the deep voice of an unfamiliar man from further inside the house.

Her Mother rushed to greet her, as Lucy bounced up and down on her front paws and smiled her dog smile. A man she'd never seen before appeared by her Mother's side and he smelled of a foreign smell, a smell of new feelings, a mix of confusion and Lucy backed away, tired of pretending she also was not confused.
"This is your Daddy's brother, Lilly, honey," said her Mother, and she always said 'honey' after 'Lilly,' when she was just a little nervous. Just then, a large hand appeared above Lilly's nose, his, this new strange smelling, different, big man, that looked a lot like someone who used to be in Lilly's life.
"This is your Uncle Abner," then, "Abner" was said once again, by the man in a much deeper voice, and with a big smile, and that hand of his waited by Lilly's nose. Lucy barked once, as Lilly placed her little hand within the cavernous warmth of that hand by her face. He laughed, and Lilly felt electricity within her chest, a slight tumbling sensation as her friend within, stirred and got her attention. She looked down at Lucy looking up at her, then back to the generator of the electricity, the hand around hers and the smile and his bright eyes.

Her little circle was growing.

Lilly's Uncle Abner took them all out to dinner that night at "Our Bellies," her favorite place to eat in town, and the place her Father had taken them, when he was still here, and before he'd gone out to shovel the snow. And now, here she was finishing her slice of lemon meringue pie, watching her Uncle Abner, whom she'd only met for the first time today. He lived in Washington State, and drove large ferry boats across Puget Sound, filled with cars and the people that belonged to them. He looked at her, and smiled often just as her Father used to, and she could feel it strike in the beat of her heart. Her friend within was anxious and wanted to be noticed, there was room for everyone figured Lilly, no one had to be alone and unnoticed.

Peter, her Stepfather, was a kind, good man to her mother, Turner and her, and Lilly appreciated him for this. He worked hard and often, he brought her silly little gifts that seemed unattached to anything Lilly could see wanting for herself. She didn't know quite how to form these intricacies within her thoughts, but she pushed them to a corner of her mind that was reserved for confused things.

Peter tried to be all that he meant to be, and because he tried so hard, Lilly gave him as much space in the circle within her world. She sensed he knew this and he accepted what she allowed him. There were pieces of herself, Lilly was giving away as people and things came into her life, little chunks of her light were left for those that drifted toward the tree. Innately, her little brother, Turner, sensed this and took as much as Lilly gave him, and reflected it in return. She imagined him aware of many things around him before he began to speak. She could see in his eyes, her Stepfather's honest intent, but somehow, her Mother's tendencies too, the branches, her own, were there as well.

And now, snow fell from clouds she could not see, flakes as frozen leaves slowly twisted through the dark sky until they rested upon the others that had arrived before. In her room, here by the window, Lilly's short life ran before her eyes as a map in time. By the window on the bus, now, and back again, in her mind at any time had she wanted it to be so, because it was all in her little world. A jewel in a drawer for her to live again in another world, and the weight of the coin in her hand felt familiar, the fare for passage across this ocean.

In the eye of her mind, she saw her Mother with Turner in her arms, he climbed to her shoulder and looked toward the ceiling of Lilly's room, there, where Lilly could look into his bright eyes and bring his smile to contrast the deep heaves and tears of her Mother. Lucy, sat by the door, her furry head cocked at such an angle as to gain the most from this brief goodbye. Peter, looked as lost as one could be there in what had been Lilly's room. He didn't try to hide from those tears that were riding out from his sad eyes, they were Peter's honest tears for all he felt unable to give Lilly while she was still there. And, for him, Lilly would be most able to repair this affliction through, little Turner.

That reassurance of silence, and his tiny smile, came from bright glints upon the coin in her hand, and she found herself at once the driver of this great bus.
Lilly was where she had come from just twelve years before. The coin in her hand tumbled from the tips of her fingers into the pile of those that had fallen before it. Together, they reflected a soft bright light and Lilly found herself there, her hands upon the wheel and it was at this moment, she remembered the most stunning revelation of all. God, the driver of this bus, came from within her, and she was part of all the ocean that ever was, is, and will be. Suddenly, the simplicity she had known for all eternity came flooding back to her, a rush of love upon return to the source. Today, was once again her birth day.

Again, she was the bus driver, Mother was her ocean, and she fell back into her.






Graham J Hayward  November, 2012

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Chrysalis
















Chrysalis



In unstoppable glide we move in the evolution
of us.
Most unaware, some are, of the malevolent
mugging.
A mugging and murder of untold millions, by cowards,
down low and hidden high.
Sneaking roots from their hives slithered about over years,
trespassing history while writing futures,
burning lives for their coffers without conscience,
so utterly aware.

Inbred and bred for this, born of trusts and funds,
feeding on the souls of all creators,
building steeples, witch's hats on holy houses used to dupe.
The sloths of high and mighty, the society of sorcery and soulless
sold.
They murdered minds with false history, and poisoned
the bodies that followed.

Queens and Kings sat fat and sallow, drooling wine of coronations
and squeezing subject’s wounds from prior punishments.
Brothers and sisters inter sexed, coupling poison semen and warping sallow eggs.

They are perverted trees of families taking countries to war,
and killing the futures of worthy stock, while burping in their comfortable sleep. Waking in afternoons, after another night,
after all, this is their creation, silt, rubbed from worthless flesh of theirs, soiling sheets their only toil.

The bastards built tea pot domes, shook dirty hands while sucking cigars,
and raised the bar of thievery against millions of their bosses.
They stole because they could, they lied to find their way in, they stepped over and on
the honest few.

The monarchy went covert as the web went all over, sticky across our lives
arriving home after birth.
Slave certificates signed us away, wardens of the states, earners for our inter bred keepers. The remoras attached until the casket’s hold had us,
down into the ground, while they sifted through remains.

Filthy theater every fourth year, by then our memories deadened. Profits and promises filled pockets empty.
Some twisted knives in the backs of infrequent truth, whores of redundancy, but it’s all they were bred to do,
and their practice made perfect for them.

And,

during this age of usury, and the bludgeoning of spirits, a chrysalis began to form in the deepest recesses of wombs.
New generations grew restless,
questioned the rented air,
schools for the mentalities of herds.

The ashes of past generations spiraled
within the vortex of time, souls of indigos
returned to arm minds and expose the chains.
Each birth chipped the armor of the mammoth.

The new minds were cast off,
unable to fit the molds of the clearinghouse.
They floundered, gasping for survival,
sometimes suiciding thinking their births
were mistaken in the lands of manipulation. 
Still others fought on from the corners of their own success.

With truth as witness, they worked against the
the steal. For every eye opened, millions more
filed by with the glaze of trance.
Revelation of the world, a paper whistle painted gold.
The useless eaters coveted their killers
and championed their impossible lives.
Salvation eluded generations, easier than animals,
never born free.

But,

now the evolution is upon the stupor,
exposure through the iris blinds the eye.
Everywhere control, is everywhere to be seen,
the construct of constriction is the web of its own demise.
Top heavy distortion,
the foundation, 
aching under the weight of the parasite.
Us, together rising,
fluid as brilliant light in ten seas of blackness.

We are here. 

Simple. 

We are everywhere.








GJH 12


Sunday, September 9, 2012

Any Time...






Any Time



In pleasant opus we can sit together, or apart, on any porch, at dawn, dark, or any time of day.

We can have this.

Amidst all that is bad in the world, be happy we have this.

The clarity is not always there, clouds steal the sun’s shine, maybe our will of some days. But when it’s quiet, as here and now, we can feel someone has dressed this corner of the earth, for just our minute.
Another day to finish, with the cautious promise of another, nice to know we can have this, whatever life’s decision. Because,

nothing is worth more.

At this moment; I understand what we have.

It’s not one thing, it’s not that, or the other, it is the rock shoal of all…


It is us.





Thursday, September 6, 2012

Lancashire Bloods









Lancashire Bloods

Sitting by a bistro,
in the city,
I was mulling the
flavors of a fantastic
Panini Italiano.
It was warm
down in Chelsea,
antique in my corner.

The bricks
in a wall,
a broken,
crippled wall,
spoke to me.
They grew thoughts
to me,
single ingots
of countless sagas.

They were Lancashire bloods,
new in 1900,
as books,
on shelves,
unread,
noble novels
without words.

Each had felt the
grip
of a chiseled hand,
a gentle push
atop wet mortar.

They took their place
beside
one another,
each brick,
every course,
placed there
by a mason,
assisted perhaps
by an apprentice.

a thought, or wish,
attached to each.

When he first knelt
by the cornerstone,
had he been content?
Had he a wife
and children,
debts unpaid?

For sure,
I’d felt
what he had that day,
during
the third course,
there had been tears,
a funeral
for his father
he’d attended that morning.

Pigeons crowded
the lonely pavilion,
beside the mason,
and the
brick by his side.
Each red brick,
a memory,
a moment,
flower,
year,
season,
smile,
parade.

An arm,
a hand,
his,
a brick,
a trowel’s tap,
lilt of mortar,
knees to earth,
another course
toward sky.

Storied stories,
each wall
a prince,
hand hewn
by kings,
Lancashire bloods,
in course
atop course,
lime and sand,
water and lunches,
and walks
by the walls.

Lovely tales
entail,
once the brick
leaves
the kiln’s
bake…

Their stories
begin.


Hayward 2006

Monday, September 3, 2012

Could Forest









Could Forest


There are
confused roots,
reaching in every
direction,
driven,
by memory of water.
Pregnant night,
righteous flash
of thunder
lightning drenches,

steam mists,
and a frog's throat
swells.
Limp limbs
dip,
heavy leaves curl,
holding
communal reservoirs.

Nests of
old species
yet
undiscovered,
coddle the
hatchling’s
first night
in the trees.


Morphine tongued
viper,
there and gone,
slithering beneath
cathedral
skies.

The gorillas
wade the razor grass,
then disappear
into the hold
of a sagging timberline.
Sweeping tops
of umbrella
trees
cover their
lumber.

Crush
of insect screams,
fill the humid
voids.
Fruit bats lunge
near orchids
in the dark.

Mosquitoes stab
their  prey
steal blood,
until tiny
abdomens might
burst.
Then,
they ferry the stuff
away in the night.

Great falls of water
lather
volcanic rock,
loud
in the light of moon’s wash.

On
tips of
my fingers
I could feel all this,
and more.
In
the dark,
this jungle
behind my eyes.


Hayward 2006