Water drips from a leaking sky
an enamel bowl upturned.

What I live for

Stringing beads


I am stringing beads
Some are cheap bright plastic
Some are precious and rare.
There are hag stones,
Bits of coral and turquoise,
A twig and some silver
Two old gold rings and a ruby.
Some are made of paper and glue
With writing on them, sad, and funny too.
Some are brassy, some are onyx,
Dragon glass and sea shells
Some are made of leaves and bark
There are petals and cigarette ends.
Jet.
Crystal.
Tin.
And one I baked in the oven
And a little Buddha
And some seeds tied with red string.
Some look like pretty boys
And kisses and loving
And pretty girls too,
A few, too few too mention
Almost resemble regrets.
Some look like tears
Seen obliquely through laughter,
Diamonds and Pearls.
There are lots that look like words
Mantra shapes that vibrate
And birds and a dog and rain and joy and pain

I am stringing beads
On this necklace
Which will never end.
But stringing
The beads
 I am.I am. I am.


Written for the What I Live For event https://www.facebook.com/events/530335293684273/ curated by author Satya Robyn to celebrate the relaunch of her books in her new Buddhist name. Satya's wonderful book Thaw, about Ruth, who gives herself three months to find out what she lives for, is available at a special price for short time - read it and laugh and cry and remind yourself how precious this thing we call life really is. http://www.satyarobyn.com/?page_id=56

look up

grey grey pavement cut with shadows

drifting plastic and estate agents promises

gum and spit and leaves and shit

third floor balcony loving the sun

brazen geraniums and a smiling dog

music and light and fuchsia and white

private dancer

A fly dances the barren white
of the garden table,
two front legs performing
a constant tango of exploration,
even in rest,
even in the stippled shadow
of the lowering purple geranium.