Thursday, February 28, 2013


Time can take the hand of pain
and clasp with soothing grip,
to lead beyond the place of hurt;
release the desolate.
With furrowed brow the hours pass,
in creased companionship,
as minutes tick and seconds fall
and healing is bequeathed.
In moulded moments all is made,
and formed for future's touch,
where past is left in shadowed land;
forgiveness is sucussed.
The salve is patient waiting,
the dressing bound as trust,
as weeping wounds are bandaged,
in flimsy gauze of hope.


The heart breaks open willingly
to offer its embrace,
and spread its bounty graciously;
to all who would partake.
With no demand for recompense,
and no attempt to judge,
the source of love is offered,
in bleeding sacrifice.
Upon the crucifix of life,
it hangs in soulful beat,
reminder of the selfless gift;
God's grace in pure release.
Nailed upon time's timbered cross,
it drapes throughout the years,
an image of surrender;
an offering of peace.
In fluid, echoed memory,
in song of steady beat,
it marks the many moments,
when we connect and grieve.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Why does caring have to hurt?

It is in the connection
 of caring that we see,
our very hearts are opened wide,
 laid bare, so tenderly.
When circumstance divides,
and brings rejection clear,
then heart in quivered helplessness
will see it's soul revealed.
Without the skin of loving,
when anger rules the day,
the beating source of life
will feel the deepest pain.

Sea had smiled

winslow homer

Image: Winslow Homer

Sea had smiled with darkening maw,
and bared her salty teeth,
to swallow lost and languished soul;
to drown my mortal grief.
The shadow held to timid craft,
with pitiful resolve,
upon the ocean's wave-lost face
where death would soon enfold.
In dreaming night the journey fled,
through bleak tumult of day,
and mocked the feeble efforts
of mind in Neptune's grave.

We are but love made manifest...

We are but love made manifest
though we don't realise,
remembering our inner truth,
which we were born to find.
The time upon this spinning earth,
is magically defined,
and written in the stars above;
our future to decide.
The life as written with soul's pen,
is spread on ancient clouds,
and haunts the corridors of mind;
beckons us back home.
It's like a play which we did write,
forgetting as we birthed,
and in the staging, finding words
to realise our truth.
To write, direct and play our role,
is what we came to do,
and while the stage is firmly set;
the rest is ours to show.

Monday, February 25, 2013


At the moment of judgement....

Watercolour, Endless Earth, Roslyn Ross, 2012.

At the moment of judgement remember
that the other, on whom you fix your gaze,
is more damaged than evil,
and more frightened than cruel.
It is good to have opinions and beliefs,
but only as ways to sift through,
what life might be, and not as prisms,
through which to distort our view.
For the soul of every one of us is sound,
disguised by our wounds and our scars,
distorted by our fears and our doubts,
hidden by the beliefs that we hold.
So when mind points a vindictive finger,
at someone else, who has failed or fallen,
remind yourself that your knowledge
is simply that; it is yours, not theirs.
For the truth is that what you know,
of who they are and what they have lived,
is as little or nothing in their reality,
or in yours; or in any just reckoning.
For such is the nature of beliefs
and of judgement, and of perception
that the world around us and those
within it, are created by our own minds.
We see what we expect to see
and we judge within the limits of our knowing,
and that means we can never truly understand
another, nor why they do what they do.
We can merely reflect, with compassion,
on that which they appear to be,
and that which they seem to do,
and remind ourselves, we and they are one.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Madonna and child

Madonna and Child (an unfinished touch)The gift of life is gathered,
in sinew and in cell,
as woman brings to being,
a child, a soul, a self.
The mother carries in her heart,
the memory of days,
when whispered sure creation
weaves mortal truth again.


The either and the or,
the here and then the there,
the black and then the white,
the past and then the present,
are contrasts and pure opposites
which manufacture world.
With black and white,
and cold and hot,
and good and bad we see,
that in defining other,
we find the I and me
and in the muted pondering
lies you, and all that means.


Grief tore discipline to pieces
as heroic prophets fly,
and tears were stealing
patience with cruelty sublime.
The limits of life's gazing,
within the moment drawn,
broke brittle heart asunder;
and mocked a mind distraught.

Friday, February 22, 2013

Caring carves a tomb

My heart is full and wanting,
the touch of someone loved,
in word, or signal given;
to show he hears my voice.
And in the painful grieving,
to think of someone else,
who suffers more and greater;
just makes me feel much worse.
The lesson learned so long ago,
in talking to my child
and then I learned in my own way,
that reasons don't inspire.
The hurt makes echoed mockery
of all the sanguine words,
and spits upon the spiritual;
as sickening - absurd.
There is no true solution,
just wait, surrender slow,
through aching heart and brittle mind;
as love through pain is shown.
The powerlessness which settles,
the helpless place of wounds,
will force old memory to rise;
show caring carves a tomb.
If words and wanting cannot heal,
and wishes are no use,
then all that's left is feeling,
until it's felt - released.
Beyond the blood-laced weeping,
there will be found a time,
for suckling on God's comfort;
the liquid salve sublime.
The 'milk' of the Great Mother,
will flow from breasts as wine,
to wash away the bitter taste
from heart, from soul, from mind.
But draughts of deep-felt healing
cannot be drunk until,
the feelings have been honoured
and lived material.


Graffitti is a message written on a public space in the hope that others will read it and perhaps remember, possibly learn, but at least accept the sharing. This is what I would like to say...............

Sometimes when life is painful thinking about others who are worse off just makes you feel worse - my 12 year old son first told me that.

 Sometimes when life is painful believing it is a lesson you have chosen in this life just makes you feel worse. I learned that myself.

Sometimes when life is painful all the spiritual mantras ring hollow and make you want to vomit.

Sometimes when life is painful all you can do is feel the pain and wait for it to pass knowing it will and 'shit happens' and loving people means you will hurt sometime or another and there is really nothing you can do about it.

Sometimes when life is painful, after you have felt the feelings - never drink on a full heart - the only comfort is God's gift of a stiff gin or large glass of wine at the end of the day.  Or maybe two stiff gins or three glasses of wine!

Today I am asking you to consider graffiti as a subject, to write a poem influenced by the aesthetic or purposes of graffiti,

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Never drink on a full heart

Sometimes when life is painful thinking about others who are worse off just makes you feel worse - my 12 year old son first told me that.

 Sometimes when life is painful believing it is a lesson you have chosen in this life just makes you feel worse. I learned that myself.

Sometimes when life is painful all the spiritual mantras ring hollow and make you want to vomit.

Sometimes when life is painful all you can do is feel the pain and wait for it to pass knowing it will and 'shit happens' and loving people means you will hurt sometime or another and there is really nothing you can do about it.

Sometimes when life is painful, after you have felt the feelings - never drink on a full heart - the only comfort is God's gift of a stiff gin or large glass of wine at the end of the day.  Or maybe two stiff gins or three glasses of wine!

The present can so shake the past

The present can so shake the past
that memory must fall
upon the mirrored ground of truth;
destroying all we know.
The face so known, familiar,
takes on a distant cast,
as if the demons captured,
their mind and so their heart.
To look upon one that you love,
and see in shivered waves,
a glimpse of someone who has gone;
reveals a love betrayed.
And yet the whispered words do say,
that what seems so unknown,
had lived within familiar shape;
had been there, all along.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Time and Death

The hoary figure shrouded,
as Saturn drawn through day,
in skeletal imaginings
to haunt my hopes and dreams.
The scythe is drawn and sharpened,
the skull is polished fine,
as Time and Death dance silently,
within the halls of Mind.
In hovered, hellish rattling,
the bones are brittle born,
to echo hidden memory
of what I have become.

is the name given to a movement in poetry aimed at clarity of expression through the use of precise visual images. The early period often written in French form was Imagisme.Use the language of common speech, but employ exact words, not the nearly exact, nor the merely decorative word.

First kiss

In shocking damp invasion
his mouth had found my own,
and only could be rectified
with water and the soap.
The dance was long forgotten,
the tongue would never be,
as desperate later lathering,
scoured long at memory.

How’s your memory? A little saucy or ribald? Perhaps more shy, delicate, even tentative? Your “first kiss”, not your memory! Such was this week’s light spirited valentine poem prompt – describe your first kiss.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

The heart holds moments

The heart holds moments gathered,
as truths which love has told,
and whispered in the depths of night;
where days of hope unfold.
These links of long becoming,
can never be released,
for heart gives no account to time,
and will not be diminished.
Though days and distance draw apart,
the ones you love the most,
let reason roam on Soul's tilled field
and know they're never lost.  

Monday, February 18, 2013

Through children's eyes

The image sure is riven
upon the childish mind,
where glance and demonstration,
mean more than any word.
The lessons are not spoken,
the learning is not known,
and yet you teach the child
through what your actions show.
The saying will be meaningless
when doing does reveal,
the words are hypocritical;
and don't speak what you feel.
Like sponges they absorb,
take in, all that they can see,
and feel, and sense, and hear;
the mix makes message clear.
Your thoughts will reach them,
as will fears; unspoken matters not,
for all you are and all you do
will have its own true cost.
If truth is honoured in your life,
integrity is held,

then any pain, or any grief
cannot distort their world.

Sunday, February 17, 2013

We hold our anger

 Oil on Canvas, Paddocks and Dark Sky, Roslyn Ross, 2013.

We hold our anger righteously,

and summon it at will,
without the recognition,
it hurts and never heals.
When rage is our companion,
no matter what the source,
we hold the hand of vengeance,
and damage those we love.
For in the wintered battles,
where we desire to win,
and use our passions cruelly,
destruction does begin.
And with the children watching,
as we deny Love's salve,
the lesson learned is deadly;
the scar engraved on Soul.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

They called me little princess

They called me little princess
not knowing that the words
were sourced in no reality;
it's not the way it works.
I held onto the fairytale
beyond my childhood years,
and found that no-one else
did see, the one they said was me.
In making me as other,
as something rare not real,
they thought that they were loving;
instead they brought me fear.
For even as a child I knew,
that I was not the one,
they set upon a fragile throne,
which had no place in time.
A princess lives in storybooks,
and there can find her place,
not in the world in which we live;
where fantasies just fade.
The child too long remembered,
this dream of self and world,
and so could never know herself;
live truth as she could tell.
In time I took the royal robes,
and cast them to the floor,
and knew myself as woman;
the raw, the real, full born. 
Your daughter is no princess,
your son no prince can be,
but each is mortal precious;
in their humanity.

 Our prompt simply, to write a poem from the viewpoint of a fairy tale character.

Land of eucalypts

In secret, slivered slip of leaf
the frame is put in place,
a languishing of eucalypt;
as perfumed, drifting grace.
The myrtle from the southern land
is born in fire and death,
and drapes the days in waiting
until it burns again.
With serpentine releasing,
its skin is shaken free,
revealing flesh fair beautiful
as bark surrounds the tree.
The moon shines on its purity,
caresses milky trunks,
as phoenix-like she rises
on watered, ancient roots.
Like demons born in torment,
they raise igniting arms,
as if to cry for mercy
when nature calls them home.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013


The days had staggered slowly on,
and dragged dark memories,
of moments long forgotten;
of dreams which still might be.
The pen had scrawled across the page,
of mind's erratic hopes,
that there could be deliverance;
there was no need to grow.
But huddled in the wings of time,
the past could peer within,
and whisper bitter, costumed truth;
reality played grim.
Until the curtains would be drawn,
and you had called an end,
to face the facts of who you were;
then nothing could begin.
In taking sips from life's deep cup,
and reading scattered leaves,
you found that it was you, not I,
who brought to birth such grief.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

When time began

When time began immortal sway,
seducing all that was,
in steps of now together drawn;
releasing God's true grace.
There was no holding to the past,
nor drawing future down,
but just the telling of the tale;
the here so finely born.
The hands of hours forever made,
will move across life's face,
and hold attention withering;
as truth of death remains.
Beyond the moment tortured,
in ticking dross of days,
we hold our Soul's eternal hand;
remember it's all play. 

Saturday, February 9, 2013

Connection is the truth of it

Connection is the truth of it,
as love made manifest,
and words will be the vehicle,
of bridging minds and hearts.
Without communication,
then only lives the void,
and silence will breed ignorance;
with understanding lost.
We choose to reach another,
with language and with care,
and when we choose to limit,
love's reach cannot be shared.
Words are a gift which carry,
our truths and fragile souls,
and disregarding that,
will leave our hearts full cold.
It takes enormous courage,
to reach beyond ourselves,
and when we know that truth;
our soul can be revealed.

Don't take it personally

Don't take it personally they said,
for that is where hurt lies
and the place where pain is waiting.
But it is personal, I replied,
because there is a relationship,
and reaching out is what is required.
Don't take it personally they said,
for that is just your ego at work
and your needs in regard to others.
But it is personal, I replied,
because it is the love I have
which seeks always to connect.
Don't take it personally they said,
for then you make yourself vulnerable,
and give your power to others.
But it is personal, I replied,
because our hearts are drawn together,
and our minds are intertwined.
Don't take it personally they said,
for that means you want an outcome,
and they will have you in their power.
But it is personal, I replied,
because that is the way of love
and love is birthed in need and pain and grief.
Don't take it personally they said,
for your life will be so much more complicated,
and disappointing if you do.
But it is personal, I replied,
and a life without complications
or disappointments is a life without compassion.
Don't take it personally they said.....
and I replied that love is pure connectedness
and its only condition is that we are personal.....
because we are persons seeking to know
ourselves, and the other and that can
never be impersonal if it is to be real.

Friday, February 1, 2013

If we can find a purpose

If we can find a purpose
in everything we do,
it can transform to bearable,
the worst life puts us through.
In meaning there is sanity,
without it only pain,
and reason can bring comfort;
with peace of mind regained.
It doesn't matter what it is,
that makes life purposeful,
and drapes with satisfaction,
the big and trivial.
It just requires believing,
that there is never chance,
and everything which happens,
is part of our Soul's dance.