SPOTLIGHT: Fragments by John P. Drudge

On the Drive to the Shaman

Over the edge
And straight on through
Into fields
Of ancient geometry
Our inner reflections
Dangling high
On the wandering wing
Of a condor
A helix
Of humming shapes
And cascading colours
Sweeping over
Holy pillars of grandeur
Down the paths
Of the cosmos
Beyond time
As I shrink and expand
Hanging tight to the tail
Of a spirit molecule
Leaving behind
Only the echoes
Of a lone monkey’s

A Boy Walks to School

I remember
Walking to school
As a small boy
On the small island
In the endless blue bubble
The sway of casuarinas
High on the beach
And the coconut palms
Dancing with seagrass
To the beat
Of an early morning breeze
With the surf lapping time
To my stilted stride
Gathering shells
And pondering
The sea-sculpted driftwood
Bleached by sun and storms
By the chalk white sand
And twisted
Into ancient forms
A lone morning schooner
Arcs gently
Over the faint horizon
Sparking dreams of adventure
Far away and beyond
With the first bell ringing
Off in the distance
Letting me know
That I’ll be late


Winding water
And pleasure monkeys
Of madness
The connection
To all things
On a journey
To the divine
A quest for spirit
In the eye
Of everything
To find one more
Vision of love
In the crush
Of infinite space

Beyond Tomorrow

Time moves us
Step by step
Toward the calling
Of dwindling breath
And the illumination
Of creeping darkness
In the face of stark
We touch tomorrow
With sanguine trepidation
And peer beyond
The lonely edge of reason
Into the canyon
Where the dead
Care nothing of time
And wounds only go
As deep as love’s
Last breath


The shallowness
Of reflections
The nonsense
Of what we swim in
Responding only
To conditioning
Holding everything
At arm’s length
And tossing rotten fruit
From the tree of
Into the reflecting pools
Of who we think
We are

Harbour Island

The mist rolls in
On the harbour
Over the sail boats
In the sweet hours
Of morning
With the moon and sun
In a brief dance
Of passing discovery
The rustling of palms
Keeping rhythm
To a warm island breeze
And the faint drumming
Of cold endings
Beating quietly
In the closing distance
Of tomorrow


There are things
In each of us
That cycle us down
Through the mire
Of our meaning
The essence
Of who we are
Stepping blindly
Through deep night
Into the bleak times
That beg us into being
From the moments
That stick to us
And grind us down
From the inside


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