For all the children not being bombed

Our greatest gifts are hidden in the places that we are most afraid to go.

I need to find my gifts. Fools rush in.  Fools are angels with flaming swords. 

Flaming sords light the way.

Flaming swords burn the dead wood.

Angels with Flaming swords guard the garden of Eden, bereft of dead wood as much as it is bereft of death. Eden is a time capsule. Static.  Pensive.  Unadulterated.  A closed system.  Ecologists say nothing evolves in a closed system.  Nothing changes.  Species that lack genetic diversity are vulnerable to environmental changes.  Nothing changes because nothing changes. God calls this perfection.   

A translucent glass snake slithers her way to the boundary fence.  An angel with a flaming sword swiftly cuts it’s head off.  I forget the angel’s name.  It was something starting with G.

It’s an unoriginal sin at any rate.  

Out of the snake jumps her prey undigested.  An intergalactic space cat called Bags.  Bags sees little red ants approaching. 

The ants are after the bay leaf that is attached to Bags stripey orange tail, which she flips with wild annoyance.

If you follow the ants you will find the ghosts.  If you follow the ghosts you will find the places we are most afraid to go

The dark places

In the dark corner, the dark corners, underneath the bed, in the closet.  Always outside over there.

In the dark side of my mind

I’m looking for something I might be good at.  Looking for my gifts. 

People have usually found their places by now.

Butcher, Baker, Candlestick maker.

Something magical is about to occur. 

I followed the ghosts to a haunted wooden house with a light -yellow door and a red roof. An overgrown cactus garden stood guard out the front.

‘A zero sum game is a zero sum game and zero from zero is zero, and zero times anything is also zero.’  Mathematical cacti were taunting me on my fools quest. 

‘Entropy can only increase in a closed system’ Hot will follow cold.  Ghosts will follow ants.  Order will follow chaos.  It’s the second law of thermodynamics.’

I remember something about blackholes.

I remember something about the dark side of my mind.

‘How many times should I knock?’  I ask the cacti 

‘Knock 3 times.  Ask the three right questions.’

Zero from Zero.

‘The tree in the backyard cried flowers until her tears anointed our feet.’  A cactus stated. 

Hoping to catch a tear, I knock. 

I’m afraid the old house is hiding my gifts

I’m afraid that I might find them. 

I knock once and the door opens.

I’m listening with all my ears, but I can only hear static.

I hear crickets.  They are playing syncopated beats. 

Inside I can see the black figures run.

There are patterns painted black that speak of secrets.

How to build a British naval base.

 There’s magick in the corners dark, magick is in the changes.  The magick is getting closer.

If I find the magick I will find my gift.

Let yourself be told what to do the darkness states.  Let our ABC ABC your alphabet, let our dots cross the t’s and let our crosses dot your eyes like a rocking horse.

Go into those dark corners with a burning sword or not at all.

Where are your Angels now?

Enter as you enter the spirits invite me inside. You earnt that seat at the table

The right to be misheard. I stand still at the doorway.  I have to knock two more times.

I look up and the dark moon is beautiful.

And so is Justice.

There are as many peacemakers inside the house as the grains of sands

There’s the guy who made the tea

There’s the monk

There sits the keeper of the had-had bird, the bird that bore the messages between King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. 

Who could hold such a fantastical bird? I ask my first question.

One man comes from behind me

He means to fight with me

He wishes to cleave me in two, He’s a tempter who offers food, music and love.

I let him pass and he takes my seat. 

There’s no place to sit, no patronage, no Gods, No masters.  The spirits are dancing in the rain.  The house holds a storm at a table.. 

You are not for sale in the lightning.   I close my eyes

A poet can decode the allegories

A poet can read between the lines. 

A poet plants a secret garden and watches the sun bounce of the fragrant petals.

A poet knows which lamp hides the genies, A poet knows which shoulders can carry their tears. 

A designer knows what dresses belong on the hanger

A photographer knows which side is your best.

A poet knows which key will unlock your heart. 

That key is the greatest gift.

The key Rumi himself walked through fire to obtain. 

I knock a second time. 

The door slams shut and I notice I’m in a forest I could never see for the trees.

A fallen tree blocks the path to the backyard.

I want to speak to the tree that cries flowers

I want to ride the lightning.

I have so many questions, I ask of the closed door, with flaming swords that pierce my heart.

‘Why did you reject me?’  I ask my second question, to no one.

I watch time stand still.

I watch a serpent eats her tail

I watch the the past feeds into now

I watch the universe expand

Words fall like water in the storm.  Words like ‘where are you going?  What will you do?  What do you want?  Why can’t you fit in?

I could drink them all and still be thirsty

A giant drops a limb

The third knock and the career guidance officer opens the door.

‘Do you know what you want to do yet?’ He asks.

I know nothing

I have yet to find my gift.

I thumb through a book of uniforms in the vain hope one will fit.

My third question swallows my mouth.

Bags is back, and jumps on my lap for a pat before disappearing again into the darkness at the back of the room.

The house of romantic escapists exists behind the veil, hidden for a reason, a reason that becomes less and less sound, with every bomb that drops.

I’m reading Joseph Campbell I say.

He told me that the greatest gifts are hidden in the places we are most afraid to go.

‘Would you like to hold a fantastical bird’  The guidance officer asks.