Re-Present

Raising my voice in support of our First Australians

Read poem

The I in Having

The I in HavIng
A sense of self. Even just a slither, a pocket of knowing from which to see
and upon which to stand — makes all the difference.
My pocket’s been drifty, wet and warped at best. Just now starting to cure and dry.
The simplicity of having. Holding and feeling. A knowing touch and a touch of knowing.
Sends waves to wire a self.
Signals that ding a thing to form.
Signals that sing a self to knit (and sleep). All good, but.
When signals calibrate to warnings sent by landscape scarred and dry,
the self is cracked in ruin
and the world a danger farm.
Bolt upright, at attention- empty space reserved for harm.
Protection not possession keeps the having where it’s calm.
Safety sends away the knowing, the self left hanging parched and dry.
Survive on drops of faint faith callings-
now the drops are bucket high.
And slowly, ever slowly, the steadfast truth of self arrives.
I’m ready now to be the river.
Watch me float, watch me fall, watch me rise.

Luke Edwards July 15 2022
 

Grace-Kiss Turned-Around

Unknowingly, have I laboured, to keep my life at bay.

Walked miles in forlorn pursuit, with luggage-laden pain.

Through days I’ve shuffled earnestly and carried an infinite cave —

a well of memory and echo, holding me enslaved.

Pressed against and in between the outside of the edge,

this inner molten halo-black has made my heart its bed.

For this is my existence - a drama dusk rerun.

Yet now I find me looking back upon what’s come undone,

and as I slide my way behind another setting sun,

from here beyond the beam I see the reel, the script, the hum.

Lightly now I backward step — I watch, I bow, I fall -

to be grace-kiss-turned-around and fiercely love it all .

 

©Luke Edwards

 

Emmanuel

A manual for healing is emerging.

Here, at the clearing

amongst the smoulder, I can sense the trails out.

Wait, step, wait, wait.

Drop to knee — when required, bow.

Breathe. Rest. Wake. Wipe.

Step.

Palm up. Float. See.

Emmanuel.

©Luke Edwards

Lift these scales

Lift these scales from my eyes — my head and heart as well.
Go deep into the wired cells and dance.
Rest inside my aching bones — thaw out their frozen memory-
release the clotted paths from overload.
Stay and sit and linger-longer , soak up this brooding press.
Leaving traces of the promise of an underlying yes.
January 2018
©Luke Edwards