unmoved like stone
not one but many
gravel that lines the floor
of a swimming pool
white on turquoise
moved
gently rocked until
empty
empty until full
once again
the water moves and
splashes against
the walls
spilling over the lip
like a song
or sweet words
wasted and falling
through the tiles
maybe not wasted
but left to nourish
something else
someone else
a change in
direction

~

06.03.07
Leigh-Anne Tyson

the ice along the branches breathes
while I sit waiting
the storm passes slowly
somewhere else sight is masked
by falling snow
sheepishly I write
knowing there is much to say
and yet having no voice
by my own admission
to express or make sense
so I retreat into silence –
no not silence
retreat into the wind’s rhythm
the heart beat of tonight
to listen to the quiet symphony
played out just beyond my window
it is me who is restless like the wind
anxious to move and fly above
around the turning, empty branches
the hollow windows and corners
the doorways filled with light
and welcoming warmth
the frozen footsteps that no longer
fit the shape of my foot
there is no resting place,
not now while the bud at the end
of each branch sleeps
not while rose is quiet
not while the butterfly is dormant
not while….
it is the song of the ice that
brings me home again
and here, it is how I know
from where the song truly comes

~

01.03.07
Leigh-Anne Tyson

at the corner of the building
standing near the trees
snow fell in wide white flakes
over me and everything else
to the left the bench, black and stark
stood in contrast
empty and unwelcoming almost
almost because despite the emptiness
I felt the pull, insistent and relentless
to fill it – to fill the bench
while at the same time
be filled
it is the silence filling me
the hush of the snow
as it falls slowly slowly down
landing here and there
along the top of the bench
the branches of the trees
the rosebushes half hidden
already in the bank
and on my bare face
upturned towards the sky
the city sounds are muffled
cars in the street beyond the curb
crawling by, their low rumble
soft enough
to not disturb the moment
I could not let
my breath even
interrupt
as I let go
into the
long
white
afternoon
~

27.02.07
Leigh-Anne Tyson

I

I am pulled at
Against
Like threads on
And unfinished piece of fabric
Loose and flowing
In the wild winter winds
Torn along the grounding line
Then flying, flying
Only to be caught once more
In naked branches
One by one those pieces fall
And fly on their own path
Away, away, away…
To be picked up elsewhere
By unknown hands
That part of me undone
Let go, unwoven, unraveled
Reclaimed then absorbed
As history does with time passing
Shredded flag now left waiting for the
Morning sun to rise and warm
The last remnants

II

Questions rise up in me
Like bubbles
in a glass bowl of water
I press my hands outward
to the edges
The smooth gentle curve
Beneath my fingertips
Watching out the glass walls
In the circle
I find no breath to guide me
To the surface, to the truth
To the wider space above
And make no move to be carried upward
Waiting instead for the ocean
To be released in its own time

III

When the valley is leveled to reach the mountains
my heart will soar with the clouds
my soul will reach down through the depths
Like the roots of a great tree
And all that remains will lay out like an emerald meadow
Filled wildflowers under the shining sun
~

25.02.07
Leigh-Anne Tyson

the night swells
with the falling snow
winds carrying each particle
to lay them down
in layers like fabric
loosely woven and turning
gathered and cascading
down the long legs of the land
light through the windows
and my own shadow mingling
with the fresh white coat
nestled between the evergreens
tomorrow will bring the empty tracks
left by small animals looking for food
their wanderings unseen until they are
safely tucked away in the deep branches
and hidden holes
for now, the snow is unbroken
untouched for the moment
this peace unfolded and laid out
for anyone to see, if they choose to look
like me, forehead pressed to cold glass
watching
watching
watching
the snow grows higher in the corners
of the window
i can trace my breath with my finger tips
as it clouds the glass
fatigue sets in as the last trace
of day dressed in the dark folds of night
and I will soon lay quietly
like the roses under the snow
waiting for spring

~

18.02.07
Leigh-Anne Tyson

in the pause of the moment
I find myself standing up against
the rough and frantic passing
while time rips itself into pieces
again and again
floating to the ground like tiny pieces
of paper
part of me wants to jump up and try
to capture each one
fall to the ground to assemble
the puzzle
the fragments
the thoughts
part of me wants to make more
wind, to wave my arms
to move the pieces higher
to the sky
upward and outward
away, unleashed
unsaid, unread, unknown
and still another part of me
wishes to be in that moment
just before
before the shredding and the waste
the emptiness
to fall to my knees then
thankful for the moment’s fullness
full and round like a tear
waiting to fall
long held in
falling now
rolling over the edge just as
the arms of the clock move
forward again and again
in this cascade of time
I stand
in truth I stand alone
and surrounded
like the centre of
a wheel
with each second, each minute
each hour, each day
the rim that holds the spokes
and hub in place
but tonight, as the day has
slowed to its familiar end
I realize now it is the air
the space surrounding it all
that gives its shape, its form
its stability, its longevity
without it the wheel
or any other fragment
would not be what it is
and nor would I
all this before the last piece
falls
~

12.02.07
Leigh-Anne Tyson

what ails the heart
the obvious thump thump
that echoes through
the body
what is left unsaid
stopped by fear, grief
but knowing that the motion
the embrace
the reassurance that is held
between the palms
heart
what ails
floats away on the breeze
leaving me standing
here on this hill
overlooking the lake
stilled waters and sunshine
my arms wrapped around you
while we watched the clouds
and climb over the frozen waves
until we are breathless
this is good for what ails me
this exploration of the broken map
of ice crystals, and suspended stones
of wood and sand reclaimed
of forgotten children’s toys
of refuse
of beautiful open water, resisting
the persistent touch of winter
where the geese fly and dance
and the water glistens like diamonds
this – this is what heals
I heard the lake under her
heavy mantle of ice
and felt her reach up to hold me
while I kept holding on
to keep holding on
this day
to the next
and to the next
until what ails
dissipates with the last wisps
of cloud – until the ice breaks
and melts into the heart
like this inner fire
that warms me
and radiates outward
to touch
to love
to live.
~

11.02.07
Leigh-Anne Tyson

a drop falls
like a bulb of water that rolls
gently down the vein
looking for its final place
and the rest, waiting
for the heat of a day
to bring new life
rising above and over
in the moments to come
words fail
or act the veil
while the rest behind
is scattered, undone
or simply waiting
the drop now cradled
in the crease of one finger
down to the centre of the palm
beginning, ending all at once
and the world is reflected
upside-down
from where I am watching

~

02.02.07
Leigh-Anne Tyson

Oh
Words flying around the circumference of
My existence – hand extended to allow one or two
To light on the palm
Flying and falling below the edge of the line
That I write upon
Reaching above just slightly to create
An atmosphere of interest
My eye drawn against the convention
Of lines and letters and curves
I, in this growing hour
Later and more open
Where sleep unleashes
And light restricts
Here…
Here is where I sit with myself
And the other I and me with the hands
That fly across keys and words and
Touch what takes only a second t form
Until it is formed and then the fingers
Must move on
And on and on and on
Outside the window the wind taunts me
Doesn’t call me out – but instead mocks
And says ha! You see as much as you love
This freedom and what I carry
When it is too cold too cold beyond the door
To exit under the moon light
And yet deep within your heart you go
Regardless
This and that
And that and that and this
Everything stops
Oh
Oh
With every plebeian self to reflect
The trinity of me oh this ridiculously verbose
Collection of curves and periods and fullstops
Is enough to remind me of one thing
There is not enough
To let loose the tongue, the fingers
The mind, the soul, the everything
To say to think to live
What must be.

~

Leigh-Anne Tyson
25-01-07

I

The first to speak for
I – and for no one else
The knowing of others
Is like the knowing of a river
Almost impossible
Beyond the passing
How could I speak
For the stones and
Countless drops of water ?
The endless sea of faces
Though we are connected
Like the roots of a tree
And spread outwards
Like its branches
I cannot be the bud blooming
On the other branch
Not when my own petals are
Just now tasting sunshine for
The first time

I

Am torn against the image
Reflecting itself in the mirror
Hung precariously on the wall
Where if I brush by carelessly
It will come loose from the nail
And crash to the floor
Shattering against the concrete
To reflect in a million tinier ways
Fractions and fragments
But the me there in pieces
In the shards and dust
Is the same one
Unscathed by falling or
Crashing or losing
Just simply there
As the riverbed houses
Its liquid soul
As the tree blooms from the
Inside towards the wide open sky

I

In the presence of myself
And me – rooted in the binding
And unraveling, unfolding and flowing
To realize that there is nothing
Left behind to speak of
Or speak for
All that is left is to be

~

22.01.07
Leigh-Anne Tyson

In last moments or first ones
Where are the words
To express, the tools that
And in the telling in the most
Crucial and important
They lay like beads
Scattered and fallen
On the floor
They have fallen into
The cracks between
The boards and rolled
Into the corners of the room
But you must know
That it is there that my life lies
My love, in the littlest round curves
Of glass – coloured and playful,
Waiting to be collected, strung
It strikes me in this falling
And sudden loss
What is required of a moment
Beyond a touch
Of the heart
That you, in not knowing directly
From my mouth or touch or song that
It is love that sustains me
That carries me forward
In the last moments or the first
When it is not the words that matter
As they play in the corners and smaller places
Please just know this
And let it be enough
For once…
– I love you.

~

21.01.07
Leigh-Anne Tyson

here the turn goes with the notes floating
from finger tips beyond
eyes yield little in the faded light of evening
cords that drag in the water
turning in the current
where is the truth the lie
there is no mirror no matter how we try
and yet what is clear
life ends, there is suffering
and it is missed completely
by those still looking
for the mirror as proof
the cords drag more deeply
carrying debris
while the blood of thousands
fills the soil
precious lost again and again
it isn’t enough that it spills
not for those who want
justice .. justice not for the fallen
never for them
the river rolls its insides
over and over
polishing stones, and clearing
clearing with no judgement
the leaf is here
and then I lose sight of it
as it flows around the bend
even standing still along the shore
while the water’s edge
moves and changes
without intent
cords and all
not even a simple witness
any longer to the arrogance of
shadows and veils
I have to sit and rest here
while the music flows along
beyond me with the water
to the sea
to the sea
and beyond……..
it is the sound of this water
rushing by me
that somehow calms inspite
of the constant clamour
the arrogance of activism and
ignorance equals the
arrogance of fear
and the death consequent
considered equal to the death
of innocent
flow
when life is only measured
in scales tipped with anger
fire and fear
the outrage is inaction
the outrage is ignorance
the outrage is reaction
oh
it is easy to sit
behind the lines
not even near the edge
and say this and that is not
to those who say that is not
and this is
while the children and their mothers
die and weep
weep and die
while the argument
accelerates
life dwindles
and the river swells
and swells
and swells
this flow
turning and rolling
boulders to pebbles
to tiny grains of sand
that bejewell
the ocean’s garments
and cools even the
most raging fires
cools
like a soothing hand
to a fevered brow
here though while the last notes
fade like an old photograph
left in the corner of a bookcase
images as powerful as punch
fade leaving the web
of entanglement
bruised battered
unnecessarily
the flow unending
and the rest
no rest insight
~

la tyson
09.01.07