Privateers are building homes in the trees which else
where would be board nailed hide aways for smart kids.
On our island this is front tiered business. Gross bonds care
little for fruit ripening too long, too soon. If it's all
the same mount up means time to pluck.
A major worry: cane raised winds whipping through ripping
swingers off the roofs.
A pick up crew is hired to hose away
night fall ruptures before regulators with orders come dawn
pecking; to deter black mambas, poinsettia wired hedges.
Bredren walk by pure in fire for prophecy
strikes; or nest egg shell rattling Chinese gongs;
or reclaimist bee swarms so afternoon tea
leaves would scat and make readings easy.
Line crossed lovers spread
limbs under cloud cover, believing only seraphs floating like
drones might notice; while pilgrims in crimson robes pause
to peek at the Adam & Eve linked in nakedness ̶ your soul
device searching for signal.
And the whistling you hear? not birds;
tenants content; and so impressed with the ether updates,
the clean slate wiping view.
Most mornings sun streaks start
up first stop by their sky lounge windows ̶ Security measure:
yesterdays wing flaps; futures past worded bit worming dry
running ̶ green light air show: Alive we're all aloft today.
– W.W.
THIS HOUSE IS
built out of certain strong brick only,
and warmed by a tireless
flame within
its walls so that mould will not choke them.
A house daily breathed in crumbles less
quickly than an empty
house: a man's
essence-vapours vivifies blank space.
The tenant gives the house its purpose:
to remain standing. But
abandoned,
it starts to court a fate of ruin.
A solid framework then, to be filled
with fire to keep it from
burning down,
or from sighing, shrugging, collapsing
̶ a thought that, starved of recognition,
crumbles into ash. Then
do we know
which tenant keeps this house standing now.
(from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 