Poem by Laurence Fuller
Scratched up days peddling on the pavement of possibilities, rocks kick up my tires, philosophers bless my ears as I bash down the new world beneath my feet along palm tree paths towards that augury that touched me as me a boy, I remember my cicerones of man.
Talking to you I feel inspired and that great wide open hope, the flurries bursting in the firefox buds and the many sprouting under the leaves falling from fig trees grass growing with the history of love and bustle.
One step to crunch the red gravel that mulches beneath our boots, satisfying crunch, and understated contemplation lists the subject of the symbols of our hearts we know too much sometimes, the plants and flowers we love flourish under a little water, a little sunshine, watch how far they grow, step back with pride, then forward once more with the lash of thorny education.
Held down in youth from the great journey beyond which men rage on to their loyalty to the charge keeps us together, we know, there’s what’s important to us beyond the bickering smallness of the little rifts that tear us apart.
One plant larger than the rest commands with nature’s beauty this is who I am and then the world comes marching out to stretch its petals, a silver tree, burnt by last year’s fire. There the tribe we whisper through that communal burning, eyes lit up with the flame of the future, burn up mulch of today and with that ash grow anew seeds to harvest.
Parrots follow through wilting branches there’s the question hiding behind the hardened trunks of knowledge time and the years denied the saints of the forest for this generation to withstand the next, bring up the new follow through on your pledges youth, don’t scamper away the hours lacking produce and then again support the heart, mercy to the many, fortune to the flowering tendrils of our land, this earth.
Home again winding vines clutched to the house and rise towards the breaking dawn. Inside we shake our boots dropping pebbles from the hike.
Placed down the portraits on the mantle piece, reflections of the people we’ve all known, the cousins riding their youth out across the orient. And by their side, by the bloom of their twilight they were plucked from the garden of her cultivation reared by the toughness and rough fingers that over years had clipped their uneven parts in humility to the sunlight’s gaze.
Passing photographs of time past with starkness reflect a memory with exact replication, but passing further one step down that hallway the boy with the pull of some spiritual augury he’s compelled to walk. There with oil licked strokes reflect the past, present and future, in awe he kneels before the complexities of mastery that stroke by stroke in color field contemplation that deep longing for the memory so completed and with love redirected to the remembrance the home, the life, channels of grace, the love of the image of our tribe. Tradition of the year, Christmas this time passed again invited across the long deserts of our country to a place hidden in the gardens of legacy.
The marron farmer, the great bull, tusk up against a fence of discontent, eases the brash brass basking sun saddled cattle to the length of yard he has to roam and there: pedigree, pride, patronage states in title signed with blood in love.
Bounty in the waves, bounty wash the hull, there we chatter our lives through the loss of yesterday onto the promise of new adventure tomorrow and tomorrow. When that Christmas we forgot the turkies that year, tradition of our tribe laid out bounty from the sea. The back of the Collector anchored on that mooring of our land, that piece of island on a journey out to see the other side of aspiration. Hiding in the window, all else quiet in the daylight from the rocking of the maker.
Jumping from the roof to the cool waters. Stingrays collect around us like the assembly of love, creatures of dark winged rejection flapping and thrashing spiked tails in unison.
Down deeper we dive, spears in hand to find for us to eat that night, spotted leopard fish stalk the coral, ragged eels wriggle in the sand, crabs claw for what they can get, rainbow fish fluctuate the pendulum of the tide and color the sea floor like wind chimes in the water.
Beneath it all there in the darkest parts of that labyrinth beneath the waves the Australian oyster of the South Seas. Bristling at its mouth manifesting hardened yet reflective of that open face of harmony, tapping at the portent sphere and complex riddles of its own making, densely rolling out in strings in precious mysteries, rolling in stomaches of fundament to resonate the bloom in its adornment.