African heat

Heat shuffles through
the hidden cracks,
and sulks in fervent
corners, and then is drawn
in shivered waves through
endless turns of fans.

The Day of the Dead - Halloween

The dead do walk through fields of night,
in scattered, bony tread,
devouring meals they cannot eat,
reminding life of death

The Moon

The fullness of the moon brings forth,
fulfillment, blossomed days,
to reach beyond whatever is,
to grow,expand and dream.
And when the new moon tiptoes in,
the Fates would call us close,
and whisper words of birth and
seed, beginnings, fresh-born hopes.

Scottish highlands

The land in rolling purples,
is crimped and sprinkled forth,
as brown and pinks are tumbled,
on earth's full ancient face.
From high to low and back again,
the soil in shuddered joy,
gives birth to endless destiny,
of Scotland's floral grace.

the canvas

The colour speaks,
the brush strokes sing,
the image captured close,
as life is set
in treasured touch,
on waiting, empty space.
The vision flows through
hand and eye, to cast
itself anew, upon life's
canvas, pure and fresh;
the oiled breath of truth.

Before the wet

The day transfixed by humid heat,

Held captive, sullen, stilled;

Disturbed by hum of addled fans

Which brew the moistened air.

Moments

Life moves along through moments,
with conscious seconds seen,
as something to be honoured,
as anniversaries.
And yet they are illusion,
these special days or hours,
for all that we have been and are
is gloried in the now.

I see myself

There is the way I see myself,

And what I wish to be,

And then there is what others see –

And all makes up the Me!

The selves which here are gathered,

Are all part of the whole,

And strive to work in harmony-

That my story might unfold.

Dark Night of the Soul

Immersed in total darkness,
caressed in creep of gloom,
surrounded by the pitch
of death's eternal face and
swallowed into emptiness,
dissolved into the void,
of hopeless, choking uselessness,
I hold my breath and wait.
The times when Soul
is deeply lost, when Stygian
odours creep, and clammy
thoughts embrace and cling,
to hope's clear crystal breast,
remember that the bleakest
night, the blackest place
still leads, to yet another dawn -
beyond the place of grief.

The years have wandered slow

The years have wandered slow with me,
through fields of distant feeling,
and blossomed days of fantasy,
which weave like thread around,
the gentled deep forgetting,
of shining nights and dimming days,
of darkened morning, brightened dusk;
cast carelessly across dark heavens,
as glittered, precious moments.

My heart does not do things by halves

My heart does not do things
by halves, it's present always
in that fullness of itself,
which offers without condition,
the most that I can be.
In silken swift recalling
of Soul's first first memories,
my heart began this journey,
through life's far-tangled realms,
as helpmeet and companion;
as God on earth revealed.

I wander through the past

I wander through the past and find
the blossoms scattered there,
of petalled memory and words
which made my parent's world.
I pick them up with endless care,
and gather them to see,
how much of them that I can find,
which leads the way to me.
The perfumed shreds of time reveal,
a layered, drifting tale,
which drags behind my senses
and drapes my hours and days.
In picking up the petals,
which life had dropped and lost,
I put together images which
live within my Soul.

There is a flow and pull to life

There is a flow and pull to life,
a drawing forward till,
we realise the days have drawn
us further than we knew.
Whatever hopes or plans we had,
are often left behind,
as Fate with tender urging,
takes our hand and leads us on.
We tell ourselves we plan
our lives and yet it is not true,
for it is Life which plans our path,
no matter what we do.
The only choice we get to make,
is not what comes to us,
but what we do with all that is;
how we respond and act.
There is a flow and pull to life,
a drawing forward till,
we realise the days have drawn
us into who we are.

a son to his father

The shadow of my father
drifts behind my half-drawn
self, as painful possibilities
of all I would not be.
And yet within that fragile
shape I see in hollow form,
the best that life
has drawn, from him
and all who went before.
My eyes must open wide
to see, that in the dross
of times, lie broken,
precious pieces
of the man I will become.

children and parents

I watched you grow
throughout the years,
my small and gentle
girl, and now although
an adult grown,
I see the child within.
As mother I have
watched from birth,
my children come
to be, and yet it's sure
they'll never know,
the truth of who I am.
As mothers, fathers
we remain, fully formed
from 'birth', and like Athene
brought into form;
created from their thoughts.
I look upon my children,
and trace their path
and truth, but when
I see my parents -
such things remain
obscured.

Memories

In flimsy, false forgetting
we weave the cloth of  time,
and lay it out upon the past,
to hold our truths and lies.
In needled, bright remembering,
we stitch the scenes in place,
display a dream which suits us,
and fits what we create.

Dance of dreams

I stand aside and watch the dance
of dreams and fantasy,
which night has brought to realms
of sleep, without consulting me.
And then with dark unknowing,
it takes me up and turns,
the slow, strange steps to meaninful;
remembered with the dawn.

The Mother's Maw

The mother’s maw is open wide,
to suckle fingerlings,
and draw within the drifting child,
to save and sacrifice.
From moments of creation drawn
the urge to hold and care,
the newborn soul of endless life,
in hope and in despair.
She brings us all to birth and then,
protects with love and fear,
until the day of blackness brings
destruction yet again.

The Wet Season

The leaves drank deep
of heaven's tears,
reflected glittered wash,
of sorrow's drenched
and soothing touch;
of season's whispered
love.
The earth sighed slow
through moistened lips,
and suckled at the breast;
in slow and sure renewing,
of Mother Nature's
gift.

The drip of time

The drip of time is clearly heard
when life is slow and quiet,
and disappears when days are full;
distractions rule my mind.

Looking at the stars

I looked into the heavens
and saw a world of stars,
of distant, bright imaginings
cast careless in the dark.
In glittered, magicked wonder
they trickle in my mind,
dance lightly on tomorrow,
tease time into beyond.
In drizzled dreams they fall,
upon the robes of night,
a promise full of wonder,
of things I can't describe.
Seductive in their shining,
they call in siren tones,
the truth of how I see them,
and all that's still unknown.

How short this life

How short this life
for each of us;
how brief the moments
spent,
with those we love
and treasure,
with all that we
do have.
Such fragile, fleeting
hours and days
and months and years,
are given,
as precious gifts to
hold with care;
as we walk the path
together.

Jelly

It's just as if the jelly melts,
emotionally I mean, and
there I'm left to slosh around,
until it sets again.

Sadness

There is a sadness to the days,

a dance of grief and dreams,
of image drawn and lost again;
with nothing as it seems.
Where all is sure connected,
each atom drawn to know,
the truth of pure existence;
in you, in me.. the world.
How can there be a distance,
between my heart and yours,
a sense of separation false;
where all is one and held.

My children

I hold my children in my heart,
that place where love has built,
a world of light and truth and joy,
which nothing can reduce.
No matter if the days are dark,
or nights grow long and cold,
these precious gifts of life remain,
the greatest I have known.
A mother's love is born in hope,
to conquer pain and fear,
and offers refuge to the soul,
from birth, through life, to death.

My heart did speak

Photo: Shaun Hamer.


My heart did speak in gentle tones,
and called me to the place,
where I could know it's inner truth,
and find the source of grace.
It was a voice I could not hear
for I was turned away,
and trapped within a place of hurt,
which darkened night and day.
My heart continued yet to call,
and never left me lost,
but whispered in the endless hours,
that all could be resolved.
I had to listen, not just hear,
to see and not just look,
at self and others, all that was,
to walk the path of love.

In a word

What is it in a word which sets
the tears to fall like rain,
a deep and liquid grieving,
of long forgotten pain.

The owl

The owl in mournful song,
paid homage to moon's rise,
brought end to day so long,
drowned my love-torn cries.
It’s voice drew deep within,
the heart and soul of night,
a tone in darkness beating,
to mock my helpless plight.