Visions of Orion Poetry

Tabula Rasa

Tabula Rasa

You speak as if to remember;
as if wondering how words escape
through tiny cracks – I track them
down and revel in the thought.

And what of the light switch
that is somehow jammed;
neither off nor on, but stuck
unwittingly in-between,
picking fights with the fuse box.

That is how these things are.
This is how I learn to live with
the difference between
understanding and feeling;
how one is seldom
synonymous with the other.

I too have looked beyond
that which is visible
to a disbelieving eye,
looked for ways to build
my house on solid ground
without fear of darkness.

Finding a home for fugitive
words vexes me; the aftermath
is mostly squinting
through a dispassionate eye
at details – blinded by snow.

©️ Orion Foote

Almost True

Your words throw gravitas
across silent winter skies;
peeping through dusty shades
of lavender clouds
as if ripe for translation.
We have all met before
but we just don’t know it.

These things will remain;
compress & distort
through a corrosive eye
until understood by all.

And isn’t it also true,
that the tracks I leave
are processed by memory;
that I am here
yet seem strangely absent,
until imprints dissolve
like discarded minutiae,
seeping beneath cold soil
in search of a new voice.

©️ Orion Foote

Unsent

Unsent

At the grimace of dawn,
you watch the day
recede from the minds eye;
keep watch for first signs
of spring – made good on its word.

Each small living thing
is seen through infant eyes,
and a blue interim has lifted
the frost – shaken black seeds
from their frigid cradles.

At days end you dine
without hunger – without the weight
of what was never yours.
Words can wait until tomorrow,
resting on the small table;
lost in fireside thoughts.

And what is it that you hear ?
The patter of tiny drums
echoing on hollow stairs,
the night breeze in flight
with cellos exhaling
through frosted windows,
or New Year primroses
talking in their sleep.

©Orion Foote

Your Song Is My Song

Your Song is My Song

It’s a wrap at the Chinatown
shindig – they’re painting stars
above Beaumont Highway tonight
with high-viz neon sparks.

It’s all light frou-frous
with laughing gas & smoke,
embroidering the black shroud
with on the fly calligraphy.

Between narrow slits
of a wooden shack,
a lambs eye is squinting
through celestial vapours.
Stupefied by black tar
and brandy, a man is rocking
back on his heels, singing
Taishan Blues to the moon.

©️ Orion Foote

Lawrence Chinese Camp: Survey Department of Otago, May 1882.

Beaumont Highway – Lawrence, Central Otago.

Interim Eternal

In ramshackle light,
a stellata blossom
makes its last stand;
rallies against the blight
of a humbug season.

People live & die
by their own devices
around here – mingle
with those of another kind;
gather nebulous clues
to another’s Rubik’s cube
from the corner of their eye.

Some flinch at echoes.
They shy away from
a well meaning sun,
or avert blinking eyes
from a sideways glance
before slow turning
into another cadence.

In these ripened days,
words assume the role
of interim – they grate
like a shopping cart digging
its heels into gravel;
a dance macabre out
of tune with itself – out
of step with its own shadow.

©️Orion Foote

Flying Home

We’re leaving this place;
these kaleidoscope nights
that burn in loud neon
above Times Square after dusk.

Time can blur the lines,
like hearts & flesh
that yearn for ways through
the blare of yellow taxis;
through a maze of noise,
groping alone in the dark
for each other.

Frazzled by waking hours,
dragging feet with humid
thoughts down broad avenues;
our silence reverberating
like the furore of subway trains.

People can travel light
or heavy, distances shrink
in no time or not at all.
We could forage all night
for words & warm cuddles;
hail a cab to abduct us
from the bowels of West 47th
all the way to Brooklyn.

Maybe we’ll find a cool
room that streams movies.
Wordless – wrapped in fresh linen;
in some other sleepless light.

©️ Orion Foote

Coming to the Point

Portrait of Matsuo Basho by Katsushika Hokusai

Coming to the Point
(Choka for Geoff)

It was like joining
up the dots – a hard nosed road
of finding loopholes;
of liquid nights down amongst
sharp thorny tussocks;
hell-bent on the art of war,
like a drunk pokie
machine with an axe to grind.

Basho doesn’t waste
his days – he makes lemonade,
plucks tart cherries from
sprawling temple tree blossoms.
I see him watching
from a rain soaked pagoda,
as if inviting
me to stand En-garde with quill;
to draw first blood in the snow.

©️Orion Foote

Home Truths

Home Truths
(Tanka chain)

Kiki scans pages
of morning’s feline gazette.
She nose tracks letters
in earth scented light columns;
marks time shoveling fur dew.

Black coffee belches
steam from kiln fired cup. Speakers
squirm with hot vibes – it’s
Ry Cooder pulling the strings
all over Chavez Ravine.

Sun beaten faces
peruse stacked rows of new spines.
I watch their eyeballs
search for cryptic codes – ears on
high alert for ringing bells.

April afternoons
peer through weathered portals like
curious children;
picture frames gloat silently
in peach coloured patinas.

Sky water grinds stone
like flint over rock incline.
Liquid ice gathers
with lichen silt; stream bounces
light bullets behind my eyes.

Solar fireball shrinks
into a fluorescent dusk;
he knows how to mix
a Caribbean cocktail
in layers of ochre crush.

Night shows up dressed to
the nines in black taffeta.
I don’t need to stare;
I know she holds the room in
her tight grip – I know she’s mine.

©️Orion Foote

Cool Bright

Cool Bright
(Tanka)

Sky water grinds stone
like flint over rock incline.
Liquid ice gathers
with lichen silt; stream bounces
light bullets inside my eyes.

©️ Orion Foote

Flash Bulletins

In joining up the pixels,
my senses throb
on high tech alert.

These fibre optic days,
despatches travel as quick as light.
They bounce back at us

from autocues – starched
anchors in wardrobe gloss
relay them in HD vignettes.

The morning brought plasma
updates & widescreen data;
issued a warning – tingled

like the intro to Strawberry Letter 23.
Tonight, the counter offensive
resumes under cover of dark.

I punch in remote codes.
Another face far removed
is telling stories with his eyes.

He pull focus & flickers
in sync – like a zoetrope
in a lights out zone.