blame

blame sits tight
between worlds
sealed
with a cork,
between you
and me,
between words
said and not said,
between eyes
shunning and
looking through,
between fingers
pointing and clasping
what's unreal;
blame sits tight
between worlds
dying to meet
and merge,
in a celebration
of not what is
yours or mine,
but what is ours.

love seen, unseen

and I said to myself,
'be like the roots
of a large old tree -
never resting
in the steadfastness
of a ground
held tight,
for that's not how
you can grow;
move out,
far away
from what feels safe,
grope in the darkness
of a world
where you cannot hold,
but are always held
by the breaking
of new ground;
and as you grow
those tiny wings
that bore through the earth
who nourishes you,
seek out the strength
of your own being,
in the becoming
of all that is embraced;
for your home
is not where you first
took root,
it is in all that you
seek and return
with love,
never once imagining
to reach the blue sky
that feeds you
with its unseen love.'

look

look.
look into those crevices
with eyes that pry open

the dark and mysterious;
look.
look into those wounds
that smart with the salt of tears
washing them in a quiet embrace;
look.
look into those weights
that bear you down
when all you want is to fly;
look.
look into those thoughts
that want to rush in
to fill up and meld every pause;
look.
look at what you want to look at,
what's in your purview,
what's in your slack;
look.
look into your own eyes
as you look into the world,
yes, you always have a choice.

and so I look into these eyes,
that often rest in the cracks
where new life throbs,
waiting for its time, to rise.

the elephant in the room

I don't want to hide
behind my words
this time,
words woven as usual
like a silk sari -
smooth, elegant,
pretty, flowing,
drawing you into
her mysterious folds,
letting you drape yourself
in whatever way you choose;
for sometimes,
like today,
even poetry
gets in the way
of the world,
when what must be spoken,
must be spoken out loud,
for there is no other way
sometimes,
to see and honour
the elephant in the room.

what does it mean to love?

what does it mean
to love?
in this world
that is so trapped
in words
and meanings,
in forms
and trimmings,
in finding
a thousand ways
to live, not die?
what does it mean,
to love?
is it to come so close
to a person,
so I can feel his breath
as mine?
is it to write an epitaph
even before we've begun,
that says: "this is not love"
or "this is where love lived -
together and forever"?
is it to forego solitude,
yours and mine,
so we can never be alone
nor truly together?
is it to stand up to defy
the hand of death
that falls gently,
no matter where
we choose to look?

what does it mean to love?

to love is to be died upon,
where a parting of ways
paves a way inside me
to walk on, with you,
even when
you've gone your way;
to love is to be so broken,
that every cell inside me
screams 'no! don't leave',
yet to watch you go,
over and over again,
and to choose
to leave my heart
that way - broken,
not fixed;
to love is to be the earth
and the wind
and the fire
and the waters
dancing together
to celebrate life,
to love is to not
stand in your way
as you leave here,
but to sit beside you
for however long it takes,
and hold that unborn life
and untrodden path,
like a midwife would,
in uncertain hands,
giving and receiving,
merging and splitting,
grieving and rejoicing,
for a love
that we can
only feel,
but never fully know,
nor find.

remembrance

tonight,
I was walking
with the wind
against my intrepid form,
flaps of pores
on grimy skin
earnest and open
to the smell of wind,
who sang his ancient song
of love -
'pain is not resistance',
he hummed softly,
'pain is but a remembrance
of what it feels like
to hear this song,
this call,
as I seduce you
to walk back home -
to be wild,
free,
alive,
human.

on the other side of hope

it's dark here
where I am held
in a stranglehold,
waiting for something,
for anything,
to get me out;
it's dark here
where walls
push and shove,
folding in,
releasing me,
as I inch my way through;
it's dark here
but it's safe,
when there is
nothing here
to know,
to do or become,
where there is only
one sacred breath
holding me
as I hold it,
as I am readied
for a world
that I can only
live to know,
the first cry
of a dying
and a becoming
I can feel but never own,
and always, always held
in the depths of this navel;
on the other side of hope,
is hope.

window shopping

I'm not a mannequin
at a shop window,
draped by things
you want to put on me,
to lure passers by,
to see what they
don't get to see
otherwise;
I'm not here
to take what's on offer,
scared that I won't get
what I really want,
I'm here to ask,
to cook up a storm,
and then leave
as quietly as I came in,
to thunder into
those skins of plastic -
cheap look alikes
of what's real,
what's human,
and right here,
now.

grounded

sometimes
I get into a frenzy
of making things work
with rules,
with ideas captured
and struggling,
like helpless fish
in these wires
of space and time,
with my son,
who brings me
the seasons in moments,
of life's uncertain ways,
where what was written in stone
in the breath
of the morning sky,
is whisked away
into the setting sun,
always melting
into its love
of the earth
I can never see
from where I stand,
grounded in this
ever-shifting
ground.

imagine

imagine
how you would feel
if you were one pen
among others,
changing colour,
making an endless doodle
on an empty page,
outlines of nothing
for nothing,
living everything
as it comes,
without hope
or warning,
and no beginnings,
nor ends,
imagine.
feel.
life.

I see you woman

I see you woman,
in flowing white,
as you breeze across
painted statues,
a carefree cloud
gliding over
a steadfast sky;

I see you woman,
with rainbows
in your eyes,
and a thousand
suns smiling,
lighting up
the whys;

I see you woman,
with robes held
by a single thread,
waiting for the moment
to open and merge
with the distant
blue depths;

I see you woman,
in the new skin
that you chose,
so you breathe in
a new love,
to fill and flow through
your every pore.

sealed

I spoke to you of freedom,
how everything I see and touch,
when I first turn my eyes inwards,
and then outwards,
grows wings;
but I sit here now
with wings I cannot use,
wings pasted to my skin,
sealing a love and a joy
that cannot flow out
through these pores,
for they are closed
with the pain of a bud
too scared
of her very own
folds of love -
a love that is fierce, whole,
yet completely messily human.

the roar

oh yeah,
I think I've found my voice,
after all these years,
of bending over backwards
of squeezing into a crevice,
only to make room
for the whole world,
and for voices
not as much mine
as the one I had tamed
and pruned;
oh yeah,
I think I've found my voice,
not that helpless whimper
of a sniper
who needs cover
to make his mark,
but the voice
that has given in
to itself -
the roar
that must shatter
the silence of a forest
every once in a while,
that splits open
all orifices
hidden and sealed,
in one silent, resilient
gob-smacking breath
of an unshakable love
and self-belief.

return to innocence

don't hurry my child,

to come back home -
it's not time yet;
the world is still asleep,
and in a rush
to take control
of things
it can never own
nor see,
with eyes filled
with screaming bats
in dark caves,
who only know
how to listen
with the folds
of their skin;
not with the primordial heart
that whispers to them
the ancient song of love
for everything
utterly human.

any way human

don't wear that rubber

when you listen to me;
I want you to feel
the warm cracks
of skin meeting skin;
grooves melding
and carving
new ways
of being skin;
I want you to feel
every fold,
fold in and open out
in waves,
as I let you in;
remember it's a privilege
not a right,
remember it's a song
not a jingle,
remember it's a merging
of souls not just skin,
where you don't need
a piece of rubber,
to talk or listen,
you just need a heart
that wants to come in,
anyway, any way human.

never too late

I didn't know

there was a voice
that lay buried
inside me
for forty six years;
a voice
that could only cry
a newborn cry
of helplessness,
of needs buried
in a silent dark womb,
that was safe,
waiting upon a world
to listen, to placate;
abandoned by a mother
who knew not
how to feel a child,
a child who was born
to teach her how to be
a mother, a human,
with a voice
cared for
now,
never too late.

Grace

crush me,

I said to Life,
until I feel my bones 
crumble to dust,
and burn
with the fierceness
of a love
that leaves no ashes,
only the sweet fragrance
of a flower
who's folded her wings,
so she can fly
across the earth,
with the wind.

return to innocence

don't hurry my child,
to come back home -
it's not time yet;
the world is still asleep,
and in a rush
to take control
of things
it can never own
nor see,
with eyes filled
with screaming bats
in dark caves,
who only know
how to listen
with the folds
of their skin;
not with the primordial heart
that whispers to them
the ancient song of love
for everything
utterly human.

I don't want you to ever leave me

walls caved in,
ruins of castles
built with air,
now sprayed
with crushed seeds
that will have to be
forgotten;
lives half-lived,
torn and gutted
by battles long fought
in dark caves,
where no one is welcome,
where I sit
with my gut wound up,
unreachable,
threads tangled,
but yearning to connect
and weave a life together,
where the only light I can see
is when I look into a clear pool
and say to myself -
"I don't want you to ever leave me."

life swings by

often,

life just swings by,

between 

joy and grief,

longing and envy,

tribe and solitude,

gifts and losses -

all things grey

and murky,
but rich,

not black and white,

like the world loves;

often,

life just swings by,

in one moment,

lived for yourself,

but not others,

for you are not blind

until you slow down,

to pause and truly see

where you stand,

and where you could be,

where you live

and when you could die,

and all the people

you were too busy
to walk with,

who you simply left behind.

in the line of fire

I stood unfrazzled
as you fired at me,
looking me in the eye,
there was nothing to do
but feel your skin shake,
with every word etched
on a breath filled with hate
that simply refused to die;
and as you shot
right through my gut,
and bullets pierced
this softened skin,
all I could do
was look you in the eye,
and smile and feel
into my worth
in this bag of skin;
and then, when the fire
was out and spent,
and you moved on your way,
I held the hole left
in my bleeding gut,
to walk on
with my head held high,
and a heart that held sway.

Courtship

Courtship

we play the same games
all over again,
casting our nets wide,
wishing for a tiny catch
to gladden our hearts,
our minds;
we use the same baits
all over again,
hoping they'd draw in
hungry mouths like ours,
testing them,
as they're tamed;
little do we remember,
that all it takes,
is a little loving
of our own selves,
to wait on the deck
with an earnest dream,
and look to the ocean,
that always brings
the world's waters
to the wild beating
of our chests.

sometimes 
like today,
my being smiles
a quiet smile,
like a candle flame
that's held up
through storms,
melting herself
and bending
with the winds,
not because
she's scared of the dark,
but because
she's found a way
to find herself,
by dying
to a world
that others cannot see
just as yet;
a world that speaks to her
in whispers and dreams,
as it turns the wheels
ever so slowly and surely,
in every life she lights,
while she weeps.

dressed with care

care is not
the one sprig of green
placed atop
a bowl of fresh salad;
it's not that delicate
swirl of chocolate
between layers;
it's not
the snow-dusted edge
of a glass,
inviting lips
to meet their sweetness;
it's the dressing
mixed in
and tossed with elan;
it's the tenderness
of melting edges
always meeting,
a gentle disappearance,
and the rim of a love
that's always growing.

fallen leaves

I sit in the shade
of a lone dark tree,
tears falling around me
like leaves in heaps
around roots dug out,
stripped of the dirt
that wraps them
in a warmth I can find,
only when I taste
the silence
and impermanence
of those
fallen leaves.

for she's also, my love

don't ask me to leave,
don't ask me to become,
don't ask me to let go
of things that I've
lost and found,
don't ask me to draw a line
that can never be erased,
don't ask me to close a door,
when I can leave it open and wait;
don't ask me to block roads
and burn bridges built with care,
don't ask me to put out the fire,
when I feel pregnant with moist air,
don't ask me to look to the heavens
lightening in the distance,
don't ask me to watch the storks leave
to find their new inheritance,
don't ask me to hurry up
and move on to other worlds,
leave me with the grief I own,
and if you can, sit with me
and make it your own;
for every time it feels this way,
that it's time to move on,
a tiny voice inside of me cries
asking me to wait
for her also to come;
and so I wait for that moment
when all the voices inside me
can join in and celebrate,
th arrival of every ending
and new beginning, however late,
and so I look to find my rhythm
in this intimate dance of life and death,
where there are always different partners,
and moves to understand, not regret;
where to move towards a new love
when I can feel her, and hear her call,
there is no way for me to leave behind
my old love, for she's also, my love.

between 
and around
what we want 
to be perfect,
and what we feel 
is imperfect,
is what is,
the fount of love
that gushes
and is lost,
in a sudden disappearance
into an underground stream.

an elegy to myself

sometimes,
like today,
I feel like
not talking anymore
in this world;
I feel like
going silent,
sinking into that space
from where
these words flow,
and never come out
from there,
to see this world
ever again,
sometimes
like today,
I just want to dig
my own watery grave
and write my own elegy -
a song that I will sing
to myself,
as I sink
into the depths
of that one breath
that gave me
this life,
this end.

without walls

and while the world
proclaims and defines
what is 'mine',
what is 'yours',
and what is not,
some spaces
breathe and soak
and own
everything
that is 'ours',
like a sponge,
filling up
their every pore,
with the breath
of a world
without walls.

when I listen

your words
fall into my skin
like rain in a well,
where touch
is only a surface thing,
where wetness
is still merely a dip
into the ripples,

for your words
become me,
and a part of what I hold,
that I cannot give
back to you,
but only receive,

for I am just a well,
without a bucket
or rope.

the rim

come
to the circle,
where we each
hold the rim
and fall apart;
let's share our stories,
of fear and joy,
grief and love,
shame and passion,
without judgement,
without interruption
and advice;
let's carry the stories
together,
as if they are ours,
while we hold the rim
with our hearts;
let's watch ourselves
peel away our masks,
and throw them
as an offering
to the fires
of one love.

grace

for it is only
when I am brought
to my knees,
and sink into
the mire of despair,
when I die
to everything
I think is me,
to everything
I know I can do,
when I become
the skin and blood
of these waters
that I don't ride,
but live and breathe,
when I step into this dance
where I don't need to know
who leads,
it is in that one moment,
where darkness and light mate
unto their death,
in that sacred communion,
that I feel the hand of Grace
hold me, lift me, stroke me,
with her ever-gentle power,
and I move and sing
like that dying swan,
who has only now
learned how to truly live.

one jasmine

will you allow me
to linger just a while,
in the lines
of your palms,
as you hold me,
with the lightness
of the wind
upon your being?

will you allow me
to open these tender folds
I'm still learning
to grow into?
for they're not wings,
they're the kiss
of white silk
upon a moist cheek,

waiting for you
to open your heart
just a little more,
to white love -
the love of one jasmine
that can fill up a whole room
with her sweet fragrance,
that never leaves

the hand that holds
and the heart that's open
to her simple, modest,
unchanging love.

vision

what is it like
to know and feel
that I am the vision
that is carried
in a womb,
nurtured and nourished
by a mother,
who can never abandon me?

what is it like
to hold that vision
in these blind eyes,
and bow to the grace
and privilege
of being given a dream
that is not mine
but hers?

what is it like
to feel the honour
of being the wind,
the fire, the earth
and the water,
through this form
and these words
that are but hers to use?

what is it like
to wear every word
that flows in and out,
like a sacred piece of cloth
given to me by the universe,
to cover this naked form
that she knows and holds
like her very breath?

and so I pray -
let there be grace
in my words.

pen and ink

you know,
as a poet,
it's easy
to be flippant
in a way,
to get into that space
where pictures
become words,
where sounds
become songs,
where textures
become dimensions
of things
that cannot be worn,

it's easy
to slip into
a default mode,
where you feel
you own the things
that come to you,
where you become
the pen that moves,
when all you are
and can ever hope to be,
is the ink that flows
when the pen is worn
by fingers
readied to speak.

far away

in the stillness
of my eyes,
sometimes,
thoughts freeze
and journey
into walls,
into people,
into things,
into the sky,
or the sea
in the distance,
wandering off
into edges of worlds
I cannot reach
and explore
any other way,
only this
far away look,
this otherness,
that draws me
closer in.

don't look for me here

don't look for me
when I go silent,
for you may not
find me here -
where there are only dams
and white water,
turning wheels
for grey homes,
closing in on hills
they can never climb,

my spirit
doesn't belong here.

don't look for me here;
if you remember
the silence,
you would know
where to find me,

don't look for me here;
come to the forests
as the wild spirit you are,
not as a tourist
with look-out eyes,

and then perhaps
you will find me,

in the fall of leaves
upon the earth's
broad shoulders,
in the skin of trees
stroked by the fingers
of a doting wind,
in the smell of life
stirring with a freshness
that feeds every pore,
in the wildness of songs
played in the silence
of an enthralled heart,

that's where you'll find me,
when you stop looking for me.

One

enough!
let's stop speaking
of you and me,
of men and women,
and those in between,
let's stop building more walls
where there are none,
because for some,
those are not walls,
those are their homes,
homes that we can enter
only when we forget
what we are,
and remember
that we are
neither half human,
half beast,
half man and half woman,
but a new creature
living, breathing, birthing,
a life of its own,
where zero and infinity,
one and one,
become and are,
One.

gravity

when there's a heaviness
in my body,
and in my chest,
there is only this
that I want to do -
to sink deeper
into this shell,
and this ground
upon which I stand,
where I can die
into the circling arms
of my mother,
my beloved,
drawing me in,
into her love,
a love that feeds
the whole universe,
a sweet remembrance
of what it is
to move
with love,
in love,
for love,
into love -
a love that holds me,
and makes me feel her,
only when I want to.

for the love of sand and skin

it was beautiful today,
as we sat together
on the soft sand -
two children
with itching hands,
wanting to simply dig -
not too much,
just a little for now;

to feel the grains
slide against our skin,
giving in,
and flying through
our fingers
opening to the sun,
to dig because
we love digging,

not to build sandcastles
saved from hungry waves,
but to dig,
for the joy of it -
for the smiles,
for the sweat,
for the love
of sand and skin,
and then stand astonished,
to see the carving out
of a mine,
from within.

gifts from the sea

I walked along
empty shores,
hands tied
to the seams
of my dress,
with a fist,
not a touch,
until the salt
sanded
my tender skin,
and the wind
rushed in
to uncover
what I could not feel
beneath,
and then,
as the waves
kissed my toes,
I walked in a tatter,
seams ripped apart,
a naked form
making love
to wind and water,
and little hands
reaching out
to collect
gifts from the sea -
a handful of dreams
and friends,
hand-picked,
and clutched
in salted palms,
that have something
more precious now,
to cherish
and hold.

circles of love

ripples
form and begin
in the closeness
of that first step,
not the one
near the edge,
or somewhere between,

but the one close in,
where the skin
of a pool,
is stabbed
and met
with a fight,
a giving in,

where hearts
close in
on love,
leaving their home,
to find other homes
in places
they'd never left,

circles of love
growing, and
reminding us
of all our homes,
always starting
from the one
close in.


And here's a dear dear friend's reading of this poem, which she sent as a gift to me, and now to the world.....

Circles of love - read by Irina Latis

the voice

sometimes
a voice takes hold of me,
a voice that feels close,
yet far away,
a voice that feels like mine,
and yet not mine,
a voice that's both
loud and soft,
stern and gentle,
wild and still,
a voice without a form,
or a name,
a voice that grows
from the well in my navel,
or the ocean in my chest,
the voice
that's been forgotten
in this human family
with many mouths to feed,
the voice -
not on stage, but
prompting from the wings,
the voice
that simply wants to be heard
and find its way out,
quietly,
into the heart of the world,
where some voices
are always louder,
always heard.

where the peacock dances

there is a reason
why there are more eyes
tucked into feathers,
as he walks across
those empty fields
of bowing grass,

there is a reason
why they open and dance,
to the ancient song
of grey clouds
gathering around
the heart of a sky,

there is a reason
why they long for the rain
from across the hills,
a prayer to serve the world
a joyous dance,
when it needs more eyes.

come,
to where the peacock dances
with a hundred eyes.

the taste of walls

the new world says:
'self-love
is the best love',
'the only love',
'you cannot love another
until you love yourself',

and when I love myself,
the world says:
'you love yourself too much',
'feel it all in your body',
'let it all in',
'that's how you can know love'.

and that's when I ask myself -
is that why I sit in the shade
of a tree I cannot call my own?
is that why a rainbow
streaks across a grey haired sky?
is that why a flower unfurls her wings
to ants and bees and dewdrops alike?
is that why a fruit perishes
in the warmth of your tongue?
is that why a deer looks into the eyes
of a roaring lion, giving itself over
after a fight?

what is this love?
what is this fear?
and everything else,
between, beyond and around?
all that we speak of
in our glorious tongues,
that have only but tasted
the walls of the mouth
of this yawning universe?

waiting at the door

sometimes,
I wait at the door
for you,
holding it open,
not sure what to do,
to open or close,
not sure how to do
the me I really want to do,

sometimes,
I wait
to call out to you,
wondering
if you'll hear me,
if you'll want to come
inside and wait,
or if you''ll want to
stand at the door
and speak
to me,

sometimes,
I leave the door open
and wait for you
to walk right in,
sometimes,
I close it and stand
on the other side,
waiting for you to knock,
to ask to be let in,
and sometimes
I just tear down the door
and wait by myself
for another me
to walk in,

to say how it is all
nothing but love
in the end,
Love
waiting
at the door.

inside

i wish i could speak like you
the way words flow
delicately,
over rounded pebbles
of thoughts
and feelings,
as they roll over in joy,
as they feel you move
over and around them -
the joy of simply being
awash right now
with a passion for life,

but i can't speak like you,
and that's why i use my hands,
and the insides of my body
to write -
every cell coming alive
to every little thing
they're touched by -
a cosmos exploding
over and over again
into waves, and stars
and comets
you'll never find,
until you peep
inside.

whole

often,
all I want
from this world
is to see
wholeness -
how everything
is so full of itself,
like that tiny peepal
growing from a crack
below the window sill
near the terrace -
the one I saw
in my mother's house,
last afternoon,
smiling in the blaze
of another day
spent.

I wonder how she got there.

strokes of wild he(art)

what would I paint
this empty canvas with,
without colours
gone wild,
vibrant colours
distilled
from the marrow
of this sacred form?

what would I do
without this heart,
who dips into pools
of light and dark
no one wants to step into,
and then dances
without a care,
wherever, however she wills?

what would I do
without her solid strokes
flushed with fire,
leaping with a flourish
over well-worn valleys
of moderation,
silencing critics
with her candid moves?

what would I do
without her colours
gone wild?
for that's how this canvas
unfolds and comes alive,
strokes of wild he(art)
splashed across
the emptiness.

don't wipe the window clean

don't wipe the window clean,
every single time.

every once in a while,
when you want to look out
into the distance,
look with,
look through,
the specks of dust,
and bird poo,
and watermarks;

thank them
for bringing you back
to the messiness
of your form,
creating art,
real, stark, and diffused,
against the glaring lights
on a darkened night,
and the all too perfect blue
of a lazy summer sky,

art that's like manna
to these tired eyes -
plucked, threaded,
and lined
with a preciseness
and a beauty
that comes with a price.

yes, don't wipe the window clean,
every single time,
leave it messy
for just a while.