Thursday, December 19, 2013


Ephemeral the presence of you when you are gone,
that drift of atoms, molecules which speak;
the imprint of your being, is on me and all things,
eternal in its gift; your nature full unique.

The body energetic does permeate all things,
when presence has so clearly been removed;
skin speaks in drift of perfume where you were,
and so the act of leaving is reproved.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013


In that moment of surrender when power is no more,
there lies the hidden treasures of defeat,
wherein the Self is supplicant to Soul's eternal cause;
and transformation holds the floor, discreet.

To know that one is powerless and nothing can be done,
that greater forces are at work within,
then comes the call acceptance, with no place left to run;
obeisance is the answer that's now given.

For when we do resist, we breed resistance in return,
at loggerheads the forces will endure,
and only in the softening can grace then slowly burn,
and fires of acquiescence render pure.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013


Instinctive is the way we seek,
to find some settled ground,
connecting to another;
relationships confound.


Dawn spoke cold and damp,
dew in chilled release,
spread in sparkled dress,
on grass, and earth and leaf.

Scattered for brief moment,
discarded by the night,
liquid sheen lay shining;
sun saw all take flight.

Monday, December 16, 2013

Where did you go?

Where did you go, the person we knew for so long?
Did it happen slowly over years, without our noticing,
or suddenly in that unexpected triggering? Who can
say and yet, at some point, it was clear, you had put on
new costume, covered the self we had known for so
long, and made your way into a new world where we,
it seemed, could not follow, removed as it was from
all we had known together; alien, unwelcoming and
so strange to who you had been for yourself, and for us.

We could see you, but not touch you, in that way
we once had done. You were there in physical form,
but gone in other ways, as if you had never been.
It was and is, a death without a body or any finality,
which allows no time or place for grieving, even as,
the grief grows, broad and deep across the remains
of the days we had known and shared together. Where
did you go, the person we knew for so long? Are you
still there, in that nature which was so familiar to us,
and to yourself? Unlike real death, will there be a
resurrection unto Self, and unto us? No-one can say.

But it teases, that possibility because how can one's
nature be erased? It must remain as the foundation of who
and what you were and are. And so all we can do is
wait. Perhaps it is time to stop asking: Where did you go?
And to simply trust, that you will return, in your own
good time, for how can it be possible that someone can
leave themselves, and those they love and who love
them in return, behind? The time for questions is past.
We wait, patiently, until you return to yourself and to us.

mere mortal

We are made mere mortal,
mind would disagree,
laughing at death's portal;
embrace eternity.

Sunday, December 15, 2013


What we call a miracle,
is natural in this world,
and seen to be exceptional,
because not understood.

Nothing can eventuate,
or take place on this earth,
without it being ordered;
normal and of worth.


The light shines vast eternal,
through heart and mind and soul,
to draw us all connected;
in honour of this world.

In celebration we can find,
a way to truly care,
ourselves and all around us;
so love, does always share.


Regret threw wasted leg across the well-groomed back of fear,
and settled lightly into place, to ride the beast through night,
and day, until tomorrow and beyond yesterdays which leered,
and called from hidden valleys, hard mountains and horizon,
urging, always on, through desert mind, drowning thought,
as sweat soaked, shining into blackened coat and dripped slow,
across dimmed eyes and salted cheeks of crusted passion.

Trackless paths led deeper into desolate, demanding realms,
with maps discarded, barely read, so little did they show,
and with no more companion than belief; frail, brittle shells,
did animal and rider make their way in slow and steady searching,
through high-grassed heaven and thickly forested belief,
intent upon each small, imperfect piece of what was now;
finding, scattered in old ashes, traces, of what had barely been.

So was the journey made in silence, but for clattering hooves
of grief, which patterned deep and clear upon hard earth,
packed firm in mortal moments, minutes, days and truths,
held for memory, in place; foundation for the journey of return,
the way back, through shining nights and blinded days where
laughter hid in dying scrub and brutal bush; that place of death,
where hope rested, lay protected, ready to be one day found.

Saturday, December 14, 2013

Lost youth - art of life

In dribbled tease serenity does gather in my mouth,
wanting only to digest what time consumes in trust,
as morsels made in moments mad and meddled,
where reason does lie chewed; no more than crust.

Like remnants of a meal from mind befuddled,
the dregs and dross of drowning hopes of youth,
when teeth do rot and crumble into shapes supine,
then so do all those futures, possible or not.

Wherein the dreams of Self are mortared into shape,
discard themselves like shards of mirror dropped,
as that which Soul has lost; forgotten as it gropes;
on paths which trace the patterns writ sublime.

Then so is hope in silent choke so steadily revealed,
as vapour from the jasmine which will rise,
no matter night or day, or heat or steady cold, immersed,
for purpose has its power and strength besides.

The signature of being, unique and ever brought to birth,
and there, in pure creation, does peace, eternal breathe,
that time will bring acceptance and a knowledge born;
the truth of all the ages; art of life will then be seen.

In letting go of ego and demands which have no place,
so do we find  there is no more than now and here,
releasing those desires, demands and needs which hold;
surrendering to the moment, discarding all our fear.

Green Man

Ancient energy held archetypal and profound,
waiting always at the edge of form and mind,
speaking, whispered through deep oceans,
laughing lightly in the depths of distant cloud,
hiding, mischievous  and ready throughout time;
god of green and natured things, where life abounds.


Dancing lightly through the edge of reason,
teasing at the root and leaf of jungled thought,
so does the power of nature take new, abundant form,
and calls to sure account, that bursting, blistered sap
of life, drawn down into material and held within
the heart and hands of raw, rich possibility;
surges unique, and beautiful, in creatured grin.

Childhood beliefs

I remember me ... or do I just remember what has been told,
imagined, recorded in the hidden voices of others, demanded
as fact, and absolute, when it is no more than opinion, belief,
woven around the tangled remnants of forgotten past,
and childhood, hardly lived, and soon denied; replete with pain.

I remember me....or are they ghostly voices, echoes of dreams,
folded fantasies, side by side in drawers of darkened time,
where black droppings, huddle beneath tattered clothing,
and restless garments, shoulder to shoulder, wait to be taken,
to be worn again, no matter how rich the smell of mould may be.

I remember me I wander through those distant, gaping years,
trying to put back together the child, long lost, barely formed
and hardly grown, and yet made adult in an instant; formed as
mother in the face of loss and death and grief and deepest need;
I remember me .... at least I think I might if I try very, very hard.



Feast of wings in wondered spread,
bright eyes, sure beaks abound,
as flock descends on heaven's breath;
the gift is raised and proud.

Hell clapped hands

clapped hands
and heaven smiled,
earth abundant rolled,
as thundered passions
through the clouds,
beat steady, drenching

Friday, December 13, 2013


Complexity of character and circumstance will sure decide,
how much of any message can be delivered, or will die,
and if the understanding will occur; words revealing truth,
or simply echo, sadly to be ground beneath thought's boot.

There is no gaurantee communication will in time occur,
for belief can twist our words and make meaning just a blur,
and everything which is offered will have no place to fall,
attempts at true connection, no more than hollow, brittle call.

Thursday, December 12, 2013


Time passed tender hands across grief's eyes,
truth was lost in shadow, so were lies; 
hid the vision memory would display,
closed raw, sodden lids against cruel day.

In the darkened drifting, wounds were healed,
minutes managed hours, then days, then years;
so peace did knit the tangled threads of pain,
brought pure flesh of hope to life again. 

Wednesday, December 11, 2013


These words were drawn from heart and mind revealing,
the substance of the love I felt for who you were,
and yet they were rejected, in mid-flight, like broken birds;
crippled feathers, dropping dusted onto barren earth.

How sad they were, in silent state, crushed by winds of anger,
which ruffled still, small sorrowed tufts remaining,
blew in hidden whispers through gasping beaks of hope;
huddled, helpless, hopeless in their littered gathering.

And yet, even in the midst of such unexpected destruction,
they lay in sure and scattered patterning of older truths,
for life remained in faint but steady pulse of tiny breasts;
such offerings were not so easily, by hurt reduced. 


Crucible does cradle crushed and sulphured soul,
demanding that it melt and blackened, truly holds,
new form until the moment then is finely drawn;
with alchemy to charm and life to be reborn.

Night fears and superstitions

Why is it that the dark where light is absent brings us fear,
as if where vision is impaired and shape and form denied,
we are more vulnerable; surrendered to potential and unknown,
which forces mind to reason, process and decide,
if that which can be sensed, or heard or felt in blackest night,
can be explained away; dismissed beyond the edge of what is real?

Why is it that when sunshine breathes in precious gasps again,
are phantoms, terrors, brittle dreams so easily dispelled,
and heaving breasts of horror settle slow, to rest upon the pillow,
letting go of all that was imagined; stories blackness tells,
like wisps of smoke in deliquescent drift upon fresh morning;
all substance disappeared wherever brightness lays?

Because through ancient times, and all our cells contain,
we carry truths of demons, dangers, born in places without sight
forgetting in those moments when nothing can be seen,
such fears are but ephemeral; no place in modern worlds for them to hide,
and even sunshine, once the only source to succour peace of mind,
is now replaced, by one brief switch, so darkness is restrained.

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Gods of thought

Gods of thought did trample on mere feeling,
demand that they be honoured and embraced,
as arbiters of all this world conveyed;
so science rose to hold the upper place.

Flags of logic, rationale and cerebral did fly,
as heart and intuition watched with grace,
knowing that the pyre of ego had been lit;
and conflagration would consume apace.

But without senses holding equal ground,
the flames could not be felt or even seen,
and steady did the embers so inflate;
in silence, secret winds were brutal keen.

Imprisoned in the castle they called reason,
with battlements empirical and proud,
divorced from that dismissed as metaphysical;
so were the coals, destruction, so endowed.

For only in the waters of pure consciousness,
can things be understood or ever known,
and where the mind is set apart from matter,
so death will be by life, in time bestowed. 


Sadness settled, whispered clear, beheld the moment born,
as heart did speak like timid bird through shrubberies of fear,
and mind with kindness, cautioned soul to listen;
those words which sorrow uttered, and reason now must hear.

Regret and grief shared shadowed cloak against the pain,
and called for time to reckon sudden, breathless halt,
that feelings could be called to new, unknown account;
a process of surrender, acceptance of dark fault.

There are those times when scars are yet again revealed,
and pulse with senses, long forgotten, and yet raw,
which trips and upsets balance, bares tender flesh;
common sense is swallowed in hurt's unforgiving maw.

We stumble then through hidden fields of  buried grief,
pressing through the dense and broken chaff of thought,
wanting only to leave behind such frozen brutal sods;
called to grow through what our life has taught.

Monday, December 9, 2013

Love is constant

Love is constant and hurts cannot corrode the substance,
nor rust or rot, at edges, chiselled fine by years,
diminishing the foundation which heart and fate has laid;
for loving others is a power beyond mere mortal fears.

The cuts and wounds of anger cannot reduce this strength,
enduring as it does through endless, reaching pain,
to last as pure foundation, meaningful and brightly held;
connecting always, soul and mind, until it is regained.

So do not fear when doubt and rage do chasten love,
for all the deep, slow bleeding of relationship,
will never drain the grace which it does bring to us;
and it will full endure, the worst that life can bring.

Sunday, December 8, 2013


Tradition settled tidily
 into the space life left,
set to and tidied corners,
primped bows and
made correct.

It gathered up the dregs,
collected all the dross,
preened at all the edges,
brought order  and
then left.

Alice and advent

Alice ticked off every day,
carefully and sure,
this adventure was unique;
life so madly drawn.

It was a journey unexpected,
arrival never known,
and yet she plunged abandoned;
such courage surely shown.

Speedily the time did draw,
moments into place,
something notable was born;
Advent seen as grace.


Scars revealed as anger,
woundedness as pain;
so our inner world does speak,
again, again, again.

Remember in the suffering,
it's not the other's fault;
fear and rage are yours alone,
and not for crude assault.

But lashing out at others,
distraction brings for sure;
rejection and resentment,
in futile, unwise cause.

Saturday, December 7, 2013


We come together through shadowed fate,
as family or friend, and even acquaintance,
drawn into relationship as life weaves
its way through us and knits new shape.

It happens, often, without our knowing,
or choosing to be drawn together,
this connection which embroiders two as one,
and makes rich patterns, in the doing.

Stitched in place, loose and often tight,
we are held as emblems of love,
with a patina of emotion colouring it all,
and darkness holding hands with light.

Heroes and cowards

How easily we do project onto the image set,
our heroes and our cowards, our saints and devils yet,
denying that humanity is found in each of us,
the best, the worst, the middle - it has been ever thus.

Friday, December 6, 2013


Sorry is such a small word,
cramped sometimes,
but powerful all the same;
five letters expressing regret.

There are things we do and say,
which we may not mean,
or have not expected to cause pain;
then sorry speaks.

When we act with less integrity,
or less kindness than we might,
with thoughtlessness perhaps;
gestures mean a lot.

For few of us mean to hurt,
or make others suffer,
and that is why sorry exists;
a small, but powerful word.


The word did haunt the halls of heart-
It echoed hollow through the rooms of mind-
And yet demanded it would be a part -
Held the hand of hope for love to find -
Knew that fear would hold but never last-
Abandonment had taken hold of time-