Squashed Mosquito Poetry

make room to see
  see that red exists in greens
  trees can be a naked purple
  grass can be so far apart even
   in a carpet lawn
  see the warmth rise and set
  the dancing tea-light expand
   larger than its wick
  see the moon turn
   into a decoration
  or a pond stand still
  see what flowers look like asleep
   (like kittens waiting for milk)
  see birds make crazy angles
  and braches bop to their song of support

and in amongst all the perfect
placements, there exists so much
space, moving as fast as I walk and
  as slow as a breathing mind

make room to hear
  hear the throbbing digestive belly
  traffic, a constant toning of arteries
  and asphalt. The enormous song
  of trees, pausing and disappearing
  into the white noise, here comes
  a whispering blue, an enthusiastic
  yellow. Orchestrating, conducting
  from root to branch
  the dance in a birds throat
  pealing now into now

and in amongst all the perfect
notes there exists so much space, falling and held
in the vast orchestra of in-between
gaps, tuning fork trees, all is
here to exist in this sound
  so sound can exist

make room to smell
  a peculiar breath, entirely conscious
  smell the wood, alive and dead
  smell death, rich and sweet in the
  foliage, in the foliage smell life
   bringing attention to itself
  smell the heat, smell last night’s
  sleep, smell our feet next to the chickens
  and the chicken’s next meal
  And when sitting, a soft
  delicate fragile memory of fragrance
  wafts under my nostril
  into my spine, onto my lips, into
  my spine, onto my lips

and in amongst all the perfect
and stray memories and threads
comes the slow light fragrance of attention
  and breath

make room to taste
  taste the empty bowl when it was full
  while it is full. Linger on the crunch
  and texture; how it melts – knowing
  this in itself is delicious. How it bites
  back or holds an hour long flavour in
  one single bite. Let the tongue swim
  in desire for just this second because
  this sense, like none other, is willing
  to take its turn, slowly salivate
  desire bringing a perfect readiness
  nature is doing her job, nature is
  swallowing, digesting, absorbing
  and letting go exactly and precisely
  balancing a complex organism so simply
  so simply

and in amongst all the perfect
choreography of tongue and thanksgiving
I remember; I am blessed. I am
loved more than I will ever know.
I am Gratitude. Abundance. And the
pain-staking obliteration of everything
else focused on the end of my fork

make room to feel
  feel the pinpoint attention
  mine melting, yours piercing
  feel the still pond, feel the bolder
  drop when I lift the lid
  feel the slideshow reverberate on
  thin skin, feel the depthless
  struggle for survival, the nature
  of all things running its course, the
  disgrace and dignity dying like an
  extinction of something honoured
  feel the helplessness, go as deep as
  space itself, take the drop to the ocean
  and cry for humanity, for degradation
  that takes a being so far from
  home and so desperately hungry and thirsty

feel where you are not allowed
  to go, where the most beneficent and
  sustaining law for the soul
  is the very lid that denies and excludes
the heart of reality. Feel the dissection
the eroding and crumbling of the sun
the Life Giving. The source of sound
and sight
and smell
and taste,
feel all this shine sombrely, shine blazingly on
your skin!

and in amongst all the perfect
emotions, rough, raw and jarring
or polished as a weathered greenstone
feel the shakti rise and dance in one
cell, animate this cell, give life to this cell
sacrifice and make sacred all else
to this harbinger of truth, found in silence
- or song – in this perfect instinct