Intimacy of everyday life

The blood gave Puma what he craved,

that warm connection,

that deeper resonance

the end of a ritual.

the flow from a raw, umbilical cord,

roots

There was, of course, the fur,

the light fluffy stuff.

It was claws that built a bridge between them,

it was sinking teeth in flesh that released the duende,

way beyond play.

It was the same for the bunny,

it was the same for the rabbit,

only this time the rabbit was fed up of being called a bunny.

The rabbit wasn’t cute,

the rabbit wasn’t Flopsy Mopsy or Cottontail.

The rabbit had feelings too.

personified,

objectified,

infantilised.

There’s more to a rabbit than a cuddly thing for children.

If you could get close to a rabbit, you’d meet the animal within,

an animal with teeth,

an animal with family

an animal with ties,

an animal that doesn’t live in cottonwool

has enemies,

is preyed upon,

and is a killer.

Oh yes, rabbits kill cabbages.

So when Puma the cat met the rabbit outside,

there was a deep connection within,

Desire,

the sort of desire a tiger has,

the sort of lust a jaguar has,

the sort of appetite every self-respecting big cat has.

Fear,

the sort of thrill running for your life gives you.

A wildebeest across the savanna,

the ancestors of the rabbits ran free for their lives.

No half-life here,

no cuddly wuddly bunny.

Blood,

flesh,

even the fur mattered

in the utility room that night,

It was the intimacy of everyday life

The walk

The walk

Dear Mountain Bear,

Thank you for going on the walk I did not do.

You have taken the shoes from under me,

and given them room to breathe the air of night,

while a cryptic owl swooped his silent flight

in search of the very thing I did my best to put away.

The hunt for fresher life, fertile and festive,

in the company of small mammals in plain sight,

in the company of trees in leaf,

earthworms and earthlings,

in the garden of the Big Bang.

It suited me to stay indoors,

and not to cry too much in the face of the messenger outside,

to celebrate a brave warrior‘s walk

into the cradle of my infancy,

into the face of my fears,

into the promise of my fertility.

How does an Unbeliever pray?

Not on my knees with head all bound in thorns,
not in a pew prostrate before a god,
not stooped, nor bent, a sinner supplicant,
a poor unworthy man afraid to say:
Like as the eagle soars astride the wind,
like as the river flows from spring to sea,
like as erratic stands upright and firm,
a worthy creature proud to stride the land.

No more a child beset with guilt and shame,
but grown attentive to the joy of light,
humble as dust and underwhelmed by night,
a star that shines and whispers love to all.

We move in prayer, our talent in our verse,
we celebrate in time the universe.