Mountain Thoughts

Standing on a mountaintop
daring God to strike me down.
No hiding place, no exit game,
no escape route out.
One false move could send me
spiralling.

Everything else has been practice for this
and this is practice for everything else.

I wonder:
Why do we fight the feeling
when fighting makes it worse?
Do we feel it is our duty to fight,
to push away the prospect of oblivion?
Survival instinct.

I remember:
For a time, reality
was a hell I couldn’t escape from,
a bad trip that never ended.
I had to learn how to dance in hell,
but I knew
if it got any hotter,
I would burn up again.

I would re-acclimatize,
lie back
and try to trust the current
to take me
wherever it would take me.

I had to re-establish
my relationship with my thoughts,
had to remind myself:

Don’t lock them out –
they won’t come in if you leave them be.
Don’t let them sell you a solution
to a problem they created.
Don’t let them trick you
and fall for their salvation.
False prophets will not
lead you to God.

I had to reconnect
with those around me,
had to draw on their strength,
wondering:

What is it like to be
gravity?
Keep me grounded,
please.
What is it like to be water?
Keep me flowing,
keep me going,
guide me through the months
ahead.

Conversation
like sunlight illuminates
the different depths
of the mountains
of my mind.

Down below the mountain,
the waves lap
forever
or as close to forever
as I can reach out to touch
without falling.

I keep the waves at bay,
at least for now,
daring God to strike me down.
No hiding place, no exit game,
no escape route out.
One false move could send me
spiralling.

Neighbour

My dear neighbour
bangs on doors and skates in halls,
his protestations penetrating
thin as paper walls.
Sometimes I cup a glass to listen
and find his rhetoric
convincing.

My dear neighbour
starts a riot in peace and quiet
and stands among the ruins
pouring gasoline on dampened fires.
And when I hear his call to arms,
inside my head resounds
alarms.

My dear neighbour
sparks a light on dynamite,
illuminates the bedroom
where I toss and turn at night.
Sometimes I look through cracks in plaster
and glimpse a forecast of
disaster.

My dear neighbour
infiltrates when I’m away
and leaves the carcass of a ladybird
upon the fireplace.
And when I see the mangled limbs,
the light below the mantel
dims.

My dear neighbour
takes his leave beneath the eaves
and disappears for weeks on end
if only to deceive.
But I know that he’s never gone:
he always turns up
later on.