Friday, August 29, 2014


Sleeping in that spiral moment,
where holes appear in hall of night,
so is the day dismissed, denied;
as reason pondered every slight.

Self looked into that veined place,
where blood of soul still coursed,
hoping there to find true solace;
morning broke in purer source.

Viv: hall
Abby: holes
Barbara: sleeping
Hannah: spiral
Rosyln: moment
Anya: dismissed
Debi: looked
Jules: suits
Irene: pondered
Laura: veined
Pat: solace

Wednesday, August 27, 2014


chariot VBGbQBU

Reduced, to form, crushed
beneath the weight of years,
and dirt and time, pressed
deep into the arc of earth,
where matter is removed,
and only shape remains,
the core source of what
was, held rigid in skeletal
grace, remembering that
once life bequeathed flesh,
movement, solidity, in ways
which now, can only be
imagined; flying ephemeral
through mind and thought
to honour what once was
and now, is no more than
bare bones of being and
truth- captured, preserved,
held fast in that lost moment
when death triumphed to
spread the calcified equine
skirts so lusciously in dust,
rendering all, immortal!

Monday, August 25, 2014



Cart of bones did rattle through the days,
raising dust and stones in rickety roll,
along the side of language, rising cliff;
words did stutter deep of anger's toll.

Reason rode atop, held tangled, fraying reins,
sought to sustain momentum, hold the road,
as memory drew absence, hope took flight;
time  baffles longing, lost in hidden codes.

Desire was loaded high in bulging sacks,
demand had tied them tightly, bitter thread,
as sanity did sort, raised fresh needle yet;
so was the load of sorrow sent to test.

Sunday, August 24, 2014


Intangible, yet recognised, revealing form and place,
identified, realised, transforming mind and heart,
through energies unseen, unknown, undiagnosed,
so does beauty birth in glory, suddenly defined.

To track the path and purposes of that made manifest,
to find the course that it does take toward perfection,
is something which cannot be done or demanded,
for the sublime creates itself in hidden, unknown places.

When soul connects to that which births in glorious shape,
then comes the moment for which the mind does seek,
and that which is called art, eternal, ephemeral, so real,
does stand before us, silent, and yet to all does speak.

Saturday, August 23, 2014


The template set so neatly into place,
that moment of our meeting and connection,
where pattern then was laid, unconscious
and unseen, and yet, it formed in firm,
deep place the image of relationship,
which would not be changed until we took
a closer look, revealing that the shapes and
forms we had created in that beginning, did
no longer fit, and could no longer make
the design which love required, and where
the places left empty, where passion's paint
could form fresh shapes, could no longer
bring to birth the beauty that had once
been ours, so easily, as colours of our
love slipped lightly, perfectly into the
open-ness of becoming; made of our
emptiness, the patterns we desired.


Sleep dried, scabbed, on mind's dull eyes,
crabbing, crippled, rusted onto old belief,
waiting to be rubbed from ready flesh,
tears dried from deep and hidden dreams.

Gathered at the weeping edge of thought,
holding to the raw, red beach of fear,
so did soul creep close with sodden cloth,
calling to awaken, to be fully, truly real.



The whiskey settled murky,
like silky marsh displayed,
to isolate the pain of breath,
your absence brought decay.

My mind befuddled darkly,
mouth was closed and tight,
the razor edge of brutal words
did race through deepest night.

Your lanky form left shadows,
the puddle of your love,
did trap the ripples of my grief;
froze hope and would not move.

Power of the word

They all stepped out delighted,
held hands to start the dance,
drew inspiration, dedication;
knew they'd found their chance.

That moment born in power,
when words did stand in line,
and stepped the light fantastic;
made mockery of mime.

So did they stand in union,
so did they move in place,
so was their power intensified;
thought bestowed new grace.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Words of fire

Words of fire
flung dragon breath,
searing through
 the type, reducing
 all to ashes now -
demanding dreams
take flight, soaring
far on blackened
wings, scattered
pages lost, revealing
in epiphany the
gift such flames

Life drew doubt


Life drew doubt regardless,
as cards were dealt and drawn,
those swings of fate and destiny
which bring us crashing down.

Time stood still on crippled legs,
no fight left to display,
fiery mushroom clouds reborn;
as death did lead the way.

The sturdy grasp of destiny,
her face so grim and stern,
as fear still strokes uncertainty;
and so our lives do turn.

Nose to the ground of hatred,
ear turned toward the past,
so is found pure vengeance;
the dust of hate does last.

Asylum of our making,
built low to hide the chills,
no luxury is waiting;
the alley rots and fills.

Divided is the vision,
in fishnet, glassy eyes,
as bells continue chiming
in beat with brittle sighs.

Sorrow rang from hidden halls,
the songs so surely frayed,
in wings of hope clasped tightly;
the roots of love displayed.

Emotions water now has froze,
hard clasped to horror's edge,
just salt-bread for the journey
black soap to wash instead.

So does the mind turn ceaselessly,
white-hot from distant suns,
the air burned crisp in certainty;
what's gone has now begun.

That great proud claim of being,
toil's mirror on time's face,
to walk the miles of learning;
as paper fence now drapes.

The days push ever onwards,
the nights are born in sin,
and as the days are stacking;
so does our path begin.

Happy Notes: life doubt swings
Misky: legs stood crashing
Debi: fight mushroom fiery
Viv: sturdy stern strokes
Ron: nose found ear
Nicole: low asylum dust
Barbara: luxury alley chills
Irene: fishnet glassy rang
Roslyn: frayed wings clasped
Sabra: water roots froze
Jules: soap salt bread
Miss Stacy: turn white soap
Hannah: crisp air gone
C.C.  proud great claim
PuffOfSmoke: miles face mirror
Anya: fence drapes paper

Monday, August 18, 2014



That demimonde of Africa
where there is no grey and
no asylum where refuge can
be found, the rites given to

make pure, acceptable, that
which is rejected, the albino,
those so unlike myself, all
who see them say, except

perhaps a mother, who loves
the child and sees herself
reborn, an offering of oranges
to angry gods, who have

created this transgression of
the skin, the flesh, the image
where the blackness is denied
by pure, white, shining other,

which society will not embrace,
because the difference is too
stark, alarming and wants
only to push from sight -

that demimonde of Africa.


Wednesday, August 13, 2014



It is the honey-sweetness of your skin,
redolent with almonds and of you,
which lingers with me always, singing
in the silence  and the noise, reminding
me that absence is always an illusion.


Your eyelash settled on dusted cheek
and rose and fell in silent sigh,
as breath and beat held sleeping court
and skin surrendered to the sheets,
with whispered tones of almond and honey.
I watched, held court, with time’s assent,
that rise and fall of chest and belly,
in wonder at the touch and feel
of Eros spreading wings in life.
You slept, not seeing what I saw,
nor hearing gentled tones of sound,
which sleep allowed escape and cause;
reminded me of what I had.
The dawn had given form to shape,
had filled the vision lastly felt,
and drawn my eyes to deeper truths,
which lay in languorous, light salute.
And in that moment, you were mine,
in all that life could offer up;
a holding fast to absolutes –


There is in the returning to the place imagined,
barely remembered because so long left behind,
and yet, tapping at the chilled panes of mind;
so does home keep calling as always destined.

Drawn into this universe from that island of being,
pulled into this world through days and years
and months, through joy and countless fears;
so are we driven on to greater, deeper seeing.

Life is birthed in an instant of imagination,
growing steadily and taking purer form,
as soul remembers why it has been born;
and self does study maps to final destination.

Until the turning takes us back to where we started,
and once again we see horizons of our home,
and then the hours behind are fully, surely gone;
death removes illusion, ensures the curtains parted.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014


It is my life to make of what I will,
or can in any given moment, although
the darkness in that shrivelled creep
contains me, often, holding tight

with bony fingers of fear, clutching
at the edges of my sanity, playing
with the frayed fringes of mind,
teasing, taunting, calling me to be

other than what I am, drawing me on
and through, the valleys which
huddle beneath soaring mountains
of possibility that I fear to climb,

for I might fall, and drown in that
great ocean of sky which threatens
to engulf me in waves of imaginings,
as if I were a young eagle, feather-

fluffed on a first, timid, unexpected
flight, flung from rocky outcrops
of cold reality; avalanched into
eternity, crumbling down through

thundering dreams and nightmares,
careering in a pebbled dance of
probability; scattering at last in
silence, far below where I began,

leaving only shreds of myself and
broken pieces of my life, waiting
to be brought together in mosaic,
by all those I had left behind

and to whom I offered my ending
and my beginning to make of it
what they would, while I soar
high above on shining wings.

In memory of a friend and others who have chosen the same path.

Monday, August 11, 2014



Bend, said life,  for the straight way
cannot last, because there will be a
limit in the parts you need to play,
where emotions run like water
to hold you on the east bank when
what is needed is to go west, to put
down the heavy case of memory so the
load is lightened and you are free  to find
the narrow lane where even through
deep, darkening shadows, light shines
so the eye can see beyond the now
and the sound of the Soul calls
in echoed silence, to show you
where the grain may be threshed
from the harvest of your Self.

Sunday, August 10, 2014


Awe in slow becoming,
the wonder of this world,
where curiosity is born;
so does his dream unfurl.

Friday, August 8, 2014


In that voice which calls
from deepest heart and mind,
which speaks of justice
and of what should be,
if we are to have a world
where human rights abide,
so there will be many who
 are frequently offended.
And yet is it not greater,
that offence which comes
when we deny the truth
or seek to censor, make
tidy, that which is raw,
bleeding, brutal and unjust?
When we seek to silence
voices, because they make
us feel uncomfortable, or
because they do not fit
so neatly into the world
we wish to make, then
we seek in truth to
silence our very souls, and
it is not the voices which
die, but ourselves and our
hopes and our futures, and
worse, the hopes and futures
of those who will come after.



Forty, the age when time

leaves youth behind,

so progress can be made

and Soul take hold of

Self, moving toward union,

where more years stand behind

than  do ahead, and wisdom

cautions patience and

acceptance, now

required, not optional.

Thursday, August 7, 2014


Dream, for the night demands  your full attention,
wander through those realms without dissention,
gathering the treasures which are scattered near and far
where gifts abound, too many now to mention.

Dream, for the day would ask that you are present,
drifting through the gaps where light does rent,
knowing that in possibility there will be found your fate
and mind will take you far when fear does not prevent.

Dream, for the life you live would have you be fulfilled,
calling you to valley depths and on to distant hills,
that path which takes us further, calls us home to Soul;
until the moment comes when Death does present the bill.

Childhood moments

If I could touch those childhood moments,

when sunshine danced on morning's face,

and sang of possibility, and abundance,

of optimism, expectation and simple joys,

then, like captured drifts of cloud,

or light consumed, fairy-floss of day, could,

would I re-capture, those fleeting times

when so much was imagined, and so little

carved in the stone of reality; when hope 

giggled in ridiculous and unexpected mirth,

in the corners of established time, and reason

dragged frayed slippers across unpolished, 

dream-rubbed floors, while curiosity waited,

with clasped hands, to have her wings dried,

spread wide and shaken in pure delight? Perhaps.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014


Shrugging dusk, grappling with the heavy coat of night,
falling into darkness with a suddenness which makes
summer laugh and spring smile and autumn remember,
as day trims the cloth of light accordingly and surrenders
to the force which dictates when it will be born and when
it will die, or at least, sleep, in those lost, chilled moments
wrapped in the shawl of blackness which is now, once
more, being drawn slowly from the closet of time and
purpose, shaken out with the last drift of sunshine and
warmth, ruffled through slow mornings and snapping
evening, tousled by the cold, frosted hair of the season:
so does winter come again with icy, quiet words.


The sculptor stands like Obelix upon the broken ground,
carving and creating, new forms which are profound,
the crocodile with dragon head and bat wings is defined;
so does the artist bring to birth, that which lives in mind.

Creation's roar is rising higher, belching smoke and fire,
a force which surges  ever on, defeating muck and mire,
a spaceship of imagining, old tractor dragging earth;
Neptune flies like Superman; Greek gods can only curse.

The Goddess waits impatient, a black swan slowly floats,
 a man who can't stop clapping, sits silent in his boat,
and as a chicken clucks and scrapes, a black cat creeps nearby;
a dog with yellow teeth sucks time, to watch a raven fly.

The Mother great and glorious now settles into place,
holds out the cup of ancient life, with orange flowered face,
and then the bluesman strikes a note as playing saxophone,
beside the violinist, each calls our souls back home.

The stories then do gather of Ice Queens and of Kings,
as Hansel kisses Gretel, and truth of love does sing,
as metronome beats steady time against the breast of life
and Ali Baba rubs again, the bottle once described.

Liquor gone, the glass grown old, the contents fully dried,
so does the ego drop to rest when fall comes after pride,
Self must push the wheelbarrow,  harvest of our fears,
find needle in a haystack, to prove the worth of years.

The sculptor stands like Obelix upon the broken ground,
carving and creating, new forms which are profound,
the crocodile with dragon head and bat wings is defined;
imagination rules the day and draws deep every line.

Obelix, a dragon, a crocodile, an old tractor, a bat, a spaceship, Neptune, Superman, a greek god or godess, a chicken, a black swan, a nutcracker, a man who can’t stop clapping, a cup with orange flowers painted on it, a black cat, a dog with yellow teeth, a bluesman playing the saxophone, a violinist, Hänsel&Gretel, the Icequeen, an old liquor bottle, a wheelbarrow, a needle in a haystack, a raven, a blue car, a metronome…

Sunday, August 3, 2014


Zigging through the zagging of your snakeness,
I saw your chilled, revealing, sliding truth,
watched as light reflected off your patterning;
knew that darkness called you home to sleep.

You can lose people

You can lose people you know.
Or they can lose you. It amounts
to the same thing - loss and a dis-
connection between you and them,
in ways never expected, never
imagined, never dreamed in the
deepest nightmare, never thought
possible, never considered, never,
never, never..... but it happens and
you realise, that somehow, in a
moment of endings and beginnings,
they are gone. They are lost to who
they were, and so lost to you, and
in that losing, that letting go, that
disconnecting, lies a new path to
your own becoming, and to theirs,
although now, the chances that
your paths will cross have become
less, at least until, you find them
again, or they find themselves,
which amounts to the same thing.
You can lose people you know.



The last signal jumbled, became unclear,
as if the words you spoke, had no point,
could not disclose what you meant, as drip,
drip, dripping through gauze without
sound, pooling in flamboyant irritation,
at my feet with no appetite for truth, no
desire to touch the sun, reach for bliss,
in that way in which love can never tire;
in that way of returning to me....

Friday, August 1, 2014

In that place of mind

In that place of mind are hidden so many secrets.
In that place of mind are hidden so many secrets.
They whisper, singing sad, small songs in darkness.
They whisper, singing sad, small songs in darkness.
If only time could draw secret notes as songs.
Inked upon the page of reason, demanding they be sung.
Pain guards the door and grief sweeps images in piles.
Pain guards the door and grief sweeps images in piles.
They will not be released without the key for turning.
They will not be released without the key for turning.
Pain is piled high, stacked, each upon the other at the door.
The key is lost, there is no turning from the door of pain.
Locked within the cellar of abandoned self and sanity.
Locked within the cellar of abandoned self and sanity.
I count the grains of sand which dust the barred window.
I count the grains of sand which dust the barred window.
The cellar locked, abandoned to itself, without sanity.
Barred grains sand smooth the window which is within.
Secrets are placed to whisper pain in smooth grains.
Singing is stacked high in the cellar of turning sanity.
Time is hidden in sad darkness behind barred window.
Reason notes the key is lost and secrets guard the door.
Hope is scrawled as future inked in sad, small songs.
There is no place released or safe from ever-rising sand.