Clothes on the drying rack
Hang heavy like a crime scene
Their stories suspended
In a thick, moist air.
Form flattened to shape
Fabric- a changeable skin?
And patterns- a world of whimsy?
A way to keep up appearances…
Whom do these belong to?
Who belongs to them?
Who made them?
For whom were they made?
Faceless, nameless…
A sea of people…a sea of feeling
All designed, arranged and dressed
By fashion.
To make,
To fashion is
To give appearance
To that which had existence
But not a life.
To make or fashion
A thing,
Is to simultaneously
Make or fashion
The maker.
The made
Is like the born
It will live amongst us
And alter our lives
In some or the other way.
The made
And the maker
Are of value
Not for the profits they supply
But for the stories they create.
Because when the made
And their makers are gone
All that is left behind
Is the memory
Of how things were.
Creativity is born
Out of intensity-
A cloud that is dark,
Dense and laden
With the wetness
Of life on earth.
Unable to contain itself
For too long
It expresses all that it has absorbed
And as it falls in abundance
Unmeasured, uncalibrated
It quenches the thirst
Of all longing.
It dissolves all certainty
Through glass
That promised clear vision
You can only see the world
As an abstraction of colour and mist.
Ssshhh… watch silently…
A fashion designer is at work…
That moment that was a vacuum
That could only be filled
With inspiration
Now undergoes transformation
Soon the earth
Will stand fashioned
In a rich green velvet
The body will sparkle
With sequin-like waterdrops
On flowers that smile joyously.
All life will be rejuvenated
And a new romance
Will fill the air…
The rain cloud teaches:
Absorb from life
But abide in vastness
And when the heat gets unbearable
Hide the sun
Take away certainty
Descend on life
And touch it
Show life what it can be.
Wit. Wisdom. Wonder... 