Thursday, July 31, 2014



Whole, they said, it is about being whole.
Whole, I said, is that a place where one
can be, or an idea of what one should be?

Or is it a dream, where birds fluff feathers
in ridiculous blues, reds, chestnut, where
life is shining and the dark days of monsoon
lie drowning in the dirty gutters of reality?

Is the peacock whole? Is it more complete
as it changes tone, reduced deep decibels,
relaces them with fluty cry, with trills and
echoes which ping as music, blends as one?

Or is being whole when I take the broken
rocks of self, the branches of spirit and
the dust of soul and mix them with the
water of emotion, to make the mud of me?

My lungs suck deep the teachings and the
should, wheezing as they cling and close,
the I of Me and the Me of I, as life demands
I swallow fermenting fruit in order, to be


Barbara: blues
Irene: birds
Viv: chestnut
Rosalyn: shining
Nicole: monsoon
Debi: fluty
Jules: peacock
Marilyn: trills
Jennifer: ping
Christopher: blends
Donald: rocks
Rick: lungs
Abby: swallow



The crowds did draw ephemeral,
through windows of the night,
in shuddered, shining sanctity
where reason did take flight.

As wings of feathered dreaming,
were spread  through distant skies,
so blossoms black and brilliant
did fall in dance, entwined.

Lost voices rose in dormant echo,
murmuring through the leaves,
of trees in silvered trunk and twig;
where fairies laughed and teased.

Angels gathered shimmer close,
eyes brimmed with joy's delight,
and green clouds scudded silently;
new moon rose to great heights.


I wrote this many years ago on waking from this dream:

Gift of Love

The fruit falls swiftly from the tree,

the bear stands silent in the lake,

the figure crucified is seen

upon the framework of the dream.


With arms spread wide and silent eyes

they lift her high upon the boughs

and turn her face towards the south

where white-flanked cows raise shining knives

above the meek and pious brows.


With sure and steady strokes they strip

pink flesh from each initiate,

to bathe in sacred waters then

the raw-bled truth of god and men.

The wise man watches, monkey-faced

and clasps each paw in full embrace

around the pierced and bleeding feet

of Woman, raised … her Self to meet.


Then gathered in bright, whitened arms

the corpse is carried to the edge

of water, sanctified and deep

wherein the Goddess counsel keeps.

To lie beneath the water’s chill

and watch through full and empty eyes

the blood-washed sacrifice above

has been her greatest act of love.


Embryonic memory did borrow sorrowed mind,
as thoughts like turtle scuttlings were hatching, roaming wild,
regrets in sharpened toothpicks to puncture wild relief,
earlobes dangling fatness, did burn from hidden speech.

The ego reached in jagged force, lone fighter on the day,
demand in bitter ripples as soul's aura was betrayed,
and in the slow unwrapping was shame so soon revealed;
grief drew blackened stockings on what must now be healed.

Songs of emerald colour soared, brief snapshots of the past,
the dance of life, in pine-sharp sap was flowing deep and fast,
dissecting all the dreams she held, marshmallows fat and sweet;
bursting buds of almonds, the fruit of love's bright leaf.

Microscope of focussed mind was held in consciousness,
while snakes of fear were homing, through an endless press,
of coastal drifts and mountain mists recorded for all time;
the books of fate were neatly shelved, unseen the Self did hide.

Truth did record the facts of all the child had been and seen,
the woman grown set dainty foot in lemon-scented dreams,
destiny dug deep the roots that birthed her into being;
and offered branches broad and wide; allowed the inner seeing.

Imperfection is the mark of  those who walk lost worlds,
so one leg lame, irregular, the psychics ancient call,
and head cocked slightly to the edge and listening for the birds;
so do the shamans hear and know the power of every word.

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Blazon of woman

Soul reclining, pillowed into Self,
mind resigning, anchored into heart,
limbs embracing all that is on offer,
skin relating, perfumed rich delight,
as flesh is tracing, fingered truths,
with hair in luscious, lingering locks
unfolding, defining, winnowed grace
of gentled face; eyes revealing from
brows  as pure-drawn arch, to lips
revising, smiles and sorrow's frown,
where spirit treads on narrow, gentle
feet, with soles in patterned tracing,
through dusty days, where walks the
woman, proud displaying, the blazon
of herself as maiden, mother crone-
born from the bud of blessed, life-
kissed being, protected within the
arch of bone and body; gifting that
badge of bountiful birth, to all....

Speaking out ....

The dead have silent teeth and empty throats,
they have no voice with which to speak, to cry
of all the horrors they have seen and been and
known; to call for justice, freedom from the

power of those who kill to claim what is not
theirs, the land of others, who suffocate children
in waves of dust and shredded metal moments,
where blood and tears and destiny are driven

deep into the waiting earth; dressing broken
fragments of their lives, their souls, their
hearts, that costuming of evil which war does
primp and posture into place, for those who

are the victims, for those who cannot speak,
and for whom the only hope can be for others,
that their throats are not empty, their teeth
are not silent, their words are not crushed

beneath the boot of evil and injustice and
military might, and that in the darkened
quietness of this awful, suppurating wound,
their only hope is that the voices of the living

will be speaking out for those who lie strewn,
fleshed like scattered crops, in that harvest
which bleeds and grieves and slowly seeds
the fields of future justice in aching Palestine.

Saturday, July 26, 2014


That image of the father, slowly, collecting carrion
pieces of flesh and bone, steadily, carefully, placing
them gently into the receptacle, plastic, brightly
coloured with lettering, blood tracing the edges,

in a cradling of the broken child, reduced to meat
by the bomb dropped from above, in demon's roar
of rage and punishment; tangled together in fear,
dreams, loathing, love, regret, rage, defeat, grief - all

woven in a web of mind, spidered, clinging, waiting
for the breaking of heart, hope, terror, arranged,
chaotically on the shelf of the moment, cracked,
dusted, chipped, condemned in fate's bleak, blind

eye, masked, black denial, shadowed delusion in
that place of hate and fear, scattered stars on scarlet
heavens where angels moan and weep; dismembered
child; dismembered parent; dismembered Palestine.

Friday, July 18, 2014

How do I love thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the days,
and then let me count the ways, and the
moments and the minutes and the hours,
and the weeks and the months and the years
and the decades and the lifetime, that I love

you and always have loved you, from the
time that you were born, because you came
from the deepest source of who I was, and
the depths of my being, in every way, shape
and form, brought to birth in love, for love

and through love and known as love for
all of the time we have been together, and
even when we are not, and even if we are
not, and even if we can never be, in that
way of comfortable, familiar, constant

love, but even then, that too is a way I can
and do and always will love you, and it is
a part of the many ways which make up
the how that I love you, for love is all,
and forever, and shape-shifts to become

whatever it needs to be and in truth,
there is no 'how' to love for love only
ever is itself, that eternal connection
between two people, that embrace between
two hearts, that melding of two minds...

that which we call love and find in many
manifestations, can only ever be itself,
and cannot be trimmed and cut neatly,
or be made to fit into any place or image,
and that is how I love you .....


They ran, those memories, like frightened children,
wanting only to hide from forces that they did not
understand, or recognise, because they had been
hidden - so many distant truths were not denied.

They huddled in dark corners of our minds, and
hearts, hoping they could find a place  to settle,
drumming dusty fingers on cold, hard floors,
tracing patterns on unhallowed, frozen ground.

They waited, breathing slowly, tasting  feeble hope,
as days drew into months and dribbled, darkened years,
for nothing can be lost which once was found and lived,
though vision dims when  darkness denies true sight.

They ran, those memories, like frightened children,
and yet their laughter rang like bells in echoed realms,
as racing onward, through the playing fields of destiny,
they hopped, across the chalk-drawn games of life. 

Past, present, future

Tomorrow stood with waiting arms outspread,
as yesterday did float in dimming shadow,
listening to the song which sang through now;
what is called today, where time has narrowed.

Trio of what is, what was, and still might be,
this gathering of forces, labelled time,
are ever-present, constant and considered;
dance in silent steps through all our minds.

Labels, words and terms are gathered sure,
to lock our lives in places which have form,
and yet it's all illusion made from thoughts;
with death and life in constancy reborn.

And present now will vanish when observed,
the past has gone, the future has not been,
for all of it's imagined and surmised;
we make the world as surely as we breathe.


Fear scurried like a rabbit on the grass of thought,
those first steps into being, wearing danger's dress,
in almond colour crooning as if it could deceive;
so was reason charmed, brought doubt in as a guest.

Confusion crept through days now soaked in dreams,
to chop the toasted belly of dark nights,
as stars did spring across the bloated heavens;
sparks of hope still shone above, in distant bright.

Madness digging deep now made eternal mark,
that soup of soured sanity as pure bubbled broth,
where demons stirred in steaming, cruel delight;
revealed the hell where minds bake and are lost.

Yousei: rabbit almond color
Irene: first grass steps
Debi: charmed dress sip
Viv: soaked dreams days
Misky: chop spring stars
Barbara: toasted belly sparks
Raoul: bake mark deep
Roslyn: bubbled broth steaming

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Come and sit beside me I said to myself...

Come and sit beside me I said to myself,
take a place, settle in, move as close
as you can, for we are alone on this
journey through life - the me and the I,

that are contained within this Self that
we know and while we have wonderful people
who love us as family and friends and
companions, it really is just us on the

road to becoming, from birth unto death,
and in between, in moments especially,
where there is pain, suffering, hurt,
grief and deepest sorrow,  we are most

truly, absolutely and completely alone,
for there in those places,  no matter how
much we may yearn and while the love of
others can and does, help to heal the

wounds, it is really just us, in the depths
of those dark, bitter-bright nights and
meandering days, that we are reminded
of the truth we would choose to forget,

or deny, and that is why we need to
hold hands, hold hearts, hold minds and
hold together as one for the greatest
loss is when we are broken apart, split

asunder, in that tearing of Self from
Soul, which lays waste the ground on
which we stand, sit and lie down to
sleep; which destroys the pure and

perfect foundation of our unique truth,
that grace of being where all that we
are and all that we have been and all
that we may be, settles in harmony and

a peace which passes all understanding,
for others, but not for us,  because
we have learned in those lost, silent
places, that it comes down to us,as we

sit,beside each other, holding hands....

Wednesday, July 16, 2014


Cauldron stirred on whispering fire,
circled whirling through the ages,
slosh of universe in bubbled broth;
life slow-brewed in steady stages.

Turning of the stick in endless time,
through the steaming surge of being,
seasoned with the salts of reason;
so does all emerge in pure revealing.

This is alchemy and ancient steaming,
gathered in creation's boiling pot,
material is mixed in roiling dreaming;
so becomes what is, from what was not.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014


Sometimes the way things are is so painful,
life knots, like angry, tangled hair and refuses
to be pulled free, to release in that flowing
which makes so much possible and which
can be arranged as beautifully as imagining
would ever allow, in that neat, harmonic,
settling into time where all is in order and
grace can shine, coiffed, coiled, held in
place, and secure in its own settled peace.

Sunday, July 6, 2014


Rage, rage against the loss of one you love,
keen and cry and flail against life's breast
drowning in that bitter, awful grudge;
wallow in the depths of endless grief.

But listen always for the distant sounds,
of birds in busy tweeting, draining deep,
the rain upon the roof and thirsty ground;
so does heart remind and call us back.

Pain as petals broken will then surely fall,
one by one in deliquescent, steady dance,
edges curled, surrendering to fate's call;
all that is destroyed is then transformed.

Love leapt

Love leapt light, ridiculous,
drew cartwheels in the air,
turned upside down and
spun around, delighted to
be here - that dance of life,
fantastic, that dream of
song revered, that minuet
of madness - that gift
of you bequeathed.

Love withstands

Love withstands the distance,
and the grief of separation,
that loss of flesh and smell
and touch and taste of you,
of all you were and might
have been, of all you are
and we might dream, of all
that life delivered, then
denied and took away so
suddenly, determinedly,
so painfully and cruelly,
and yet, you were here, we
did meet, we did touch,
we did love and we do
still love and it is that love
which can never be removed,
for love, even if it exists
for just a second, will then
last forever, and forever. 

Friday, July 4, 2014

Deep soul pockets

Deep soul pockets wherein the world hides,
and life lingers, waiting to be released,
brought forth, made real in that moment
of imagining and becoming, despite the
flecks of ancient fluff which holds on to
waiting edges, and which can always
be found in deep soul pockets, for that
is the place of gathering, and keeping,
and reflection, as alchemical brewing,
continues in the darkness of unknowns.

Thursday, July 3, 2014


We all have stories and we live shared
stories and we agree, on what is real,
and what is true, and on memories,
and experiences, dates, places, times,
where, some of it is true and some
less so,

but all of it was our agreement
as to who we were with each other,
and the life we lived together and
the relationship that we had..... and
then, suddenly, one of us decides
to change the story of our past,

to weave new ways of remembering,
through what has been, in a form
which bears no relation to the reality,
which is nothing like what it was,
and yet, is now their story of it all,
and one which is impossible for

others to share. Why does that happen?
How does that happen? What can one
then do with the history which was
once known, and which now stands
grieving, by the side of this new
recounting and accounting of what

was, and which is held up as a brittle,
imagined mirror of who you were,
who you are, and what you were
to each other? There is no answer
beyond that of: sometimes a story
is just a story and all you can do

is listen to it and respect it as the
truth of someone you love, which
you cannot share and which will
never be your truth, for, stories
are just that which we tell ourselves,
to make sense of our lives.

Lullaby of grief


Crystalline the lullaby of grief,
in shining, blackened, arched
and keening sighs, vibrations
which do resonate with angel
smiles,  as spirit holds the
bucket God has given, to fill
with green and swaying leaves
of memory, budding, like the
waterlily, floating on deep
ponds, in scattering of images,
reflecting on the surface, opal-
glittered dreams of what once

tattered pages, leaf by leaf,
of sacred verse, which holds
the pearl so precious of our
love, for soul to fish again,
for secrets, rocking in the boat
which heaven built, as ancient
hands keep writing, telling tales
of joy and great bewilderment,
while horses of new hope stand,
waiting by the plank which still
connects the drifting mind, to
solid, sure and waiting earth.

Irene: crystalline, lullaby, vibrations
Viv: God, bucket, kindness
Rosalyn: shining, blackened, arched
Stimmyabby: waterlily, green, swaying
Barbara: scattering, opal, surface
Hannah: pearl, verse, sacred
Misky: leaf, boat, fish
Jules: heaven, secrets, writing
Hala: bewilderment, horses, plank

The seed

The seed cracks open -
what was inside is now
without, and in the
destruction, begins a
process of growth,
construction, creation
of something new;
in the death of the
shell, which holds
the truth, encases the
source, is born that
which is beautiful,
unique, and previously
unknown; revealing
yet again, that nothing
can be made manifest
without something
being destroyed.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

When the heart breaks

When the heart breaks do not cover it,
but leave the wound open, raw, exposed
to the light and the healing sun, ready,
to be warmed from the chill of pain,

soothed by the breath of compassion,
touched by the kisses of caring and
of love, and able to speak what it has
known, and of that which it hopes will

be, when the day comes, for the weeping
edges of gaping sore to be taken tenderly,
by time, wisdom, and eternal hope, and
held in place, secure, comforted, certain

that everything must, can and will, heal,
and it will mend more quickly and more
surely if it is seen, honoured, recognised
for what it has become; for what it needed

to be,  as the experience destiny offered,
than if it were hidden, unknown, denied
and left in dark, mortal, festering.