Tuesday, 23 August 2016

to clench and release.

to touch the skins of the world
then push down deeper
to the wet coils at the edge of the centre
and realise that it and they
hold the answer
to every question you ever had.

place your ear
to your own heart.

listen.

a relentless thank you.

Sunday, 14 August 2016

a time not for promises,
but intentions set.
an expansion
into the inner realms,
for nocturnal stirrings and spectres
and fathoming what it all means.

or
if not fathoming,
then giving it all meaning.

a recalibration of sorts.

possessed always
with a forever love
of doorways and thresholds.

the garden of the body
stands poised and lightly rooted.
intent. ready
to place one foot in front of the other.

holding gentle in one hand
and might in the other.

feeling

the physical manifestation of emotions
along with the image of water
folding and crashing in on itself.

the knowing
of what is precious
and holding it safe.

no matter what.

the labour of my love.



there is a golden vein threaded through us all

I hold my light above you and you become
a composition of gold and shadows.

my dream self has thorns
growing from her abdomen.
frightening and painful.

still to flower.

but the dark lifts
and spring comes.


always.



Wednesday, 3 August 2016

protective second skins in various forms hide our edges so as not to make others uncomfortable, they conceal the landscapes of the body's hidden geographies where memories are preserved in epidermal layers the way rocks hold their histories and most days the rib cage fluctuates between resembling the walls of a garden in full bloom and the bone frame of a home haunted by shadows.....



*


the outline of the scapula
mapped by fingertips tracing
those armoured remnants
of where your wings used to be,

protecting now your arms
spread wide
rendering the heart vulnerable,
unveiled, exposed,

and therefore you


courageous.
 

Monday, 1 August 2016

in company
eyes
become mouth and hands.

up close 
i inhale
your out breath.

feral,
trying not to spill blood
as teeth
sink into the skin
of your neck
exposed.

a collarbone
mildly bruised.

the body, 
both temple and altar.

the immersion
of a body baptised.

the metaphorical heart 
the offering.

Thursday, 28 July 2016

something like renascentia

and afterwards
i hope you'll find yourself.

in a position different
from that at which you begun.
after writhing in colours
from black to red on your own birthing bed.

*

i imagine my mouth tastes like ash,
holding summer there with the shattered glass
and trying, as always,
to speak love even when it's not pretty.

to speak my fire gently.

the blood and heat are rising
and this appetite was never satisfied with crumbs.

standing in the dark, honouring my light,
i am the storm you don't see coming
clenching a fistful of flowers
cracking open our hearts.


 

Sunday, 10 July 2016

the only sane response is to glitter in return

it's the rain quenching the thirst of the parched earth. it's the morning bathing the world in gold to see it all shine back. it's the shape of the outline of your body and all that is unspoken, and therefore holy, in it's lack of vocabulary. it's an ecstatic devotion to all that's worthwhile. it's the mergence of drum beat and light circling and circling and circling your heart in a room with no mirrors, only your eyes looking back at me, beauty from the inside out, and in the learning to embody all that you believe. it's believing that neither your light or dark need be hidden. it's knowing it may or may not be where you came from, but it's where you're going. and you'll get there. it's in the gathering of the pieces and loving each one. and in the standing back and admiring the view. it's the beauty composed of more than the sum of it's parts held together with the glue that is you.




"life exists only because of a myriad of synchronicities that bring us to this particular place at this particular moment. in return for such a gift, the only sane response is to glitter in return."

~ robin wall kimmerer, 'gathering moss: a natural and cultural history of mosses'