beggar

I don't want a million dollars
wrapped
in a smile,
a hug,
a word, or gesture,
that would be too much -
too rich a dessert
for my fragile insides
sensitive to love,

give me what you'd give
to a mute beggar
on the street,
who wears his shame
unadorned,
who makes you notice
what it takes
to be stripped
of everything
you call your own,

give me what you feel
when you become
the empty bowl
in those trembling hands,
of the one
who only asks for you
to meet him
eye to eye,
heart to heart,

give to me
like you would
in your last moment,
in your last breath
with yourself,
with me.

unlabelled

sometimes I wonder
if you will ever get it -
to look at a jar
without a label,
to hold it against the light
streaming in,
and to look at it with interest,
to smell the aroma of its contents,
to feel the texture of what's in it,
to see what it is saying
without those words
you're so used to,
words that tell you
the whole story
wrapped up
in certainty,
not the clarity
that comes
when you rest in that
silent space
of feeling lost,
and of wanting to know,
because
you simply don't know.

bridge over silent waters

I'm forty six
and only just learning
to speak,
so bear with me,
if you can.

watch me like a toddler
who's suddenly found
her voice
and what it does
in her world,

listen to me if you can,
listen to this world
of dark silence,
where I belong,
from where I come

into your world;
teach me the ways
of this world,
so I can learn to speak
and sing with you,

feel this new voice
with its stutters, trembles
clammy silences,
explosions,
cuts and stabs,

a voice that demands
what it knows is possible,
a voice that yearns
to build a bridge of love
over silent waters.

a freedom, without wings

I am after all
a bag of skin,
stuffed with things
meant for me
and the world -
hand-picked earth,
with stones and seeds,
remains and worms,

a fistful of nothing,
always wanting
to be something,
caught in the frenzy of a world
which makes meaning
out of everything
and anything
that is meaningless,

a halfhearted escape
from the talons of death,
when every cry
from every heart,
that only wants to love
and be loved,
melts into the silence
of a freedom,
without wings.

unrest

the birds are back home
in the trees rooted
in their stillness,
chattering to each other
about their long day,
ripples move along
in their daily parade,
waving their goodbyes
for tonight,
a lamp has been lit,
in the folds of clouds,
gathered for a celebration
around an enchanted sky,
while a tiny heart pulses here
with a sadness and longing,
feeding the unrest
of another day lived
like a torn prayer flag
flapping in the wind.
.

bridge across forever

some chapters in life
are like short stories
without an ending,
a bridge across forever,
suspended
in the quiet knowing
that any outcome
is perfect,
in the larger scheme
of things,
and a life lived
in conversation
with skin.

bucket list

someday, I will die,
and in that moment,
when one door closes
and another opens,
the only thing that will fill me
is the silent space
between the two,
where everything becomes
meaningless -
what I lived for,
what and who I loved,
what I yearned for,
who I touched, or not,
what the world was before me,
and what it might become,
what poems I birthed
and miscarried,
the roads taken or not,
the worlds discovered
and those still virgin
and uncharted
for those to come after me,
and a bucket list
that will be my shroud,
and carry me
into the fires
of a life simply lived
for its own sake.

bubble-wrap

memories -
patterned,
discrete,
fragile,
like bubbles frozen
on bubble-wrap;
I love popping them
on days when I have
nothing much to do
but wander and linger
in those grooves between,
listening to the sounds
of moments lived
and unlived,
wrapped up in one,
as they wait
to find hearts
ready to pause,
pop them with joy,
and move on.

in the elevator

closed in
by walls of steel,
where bodies meet
only in the distance
between them,
eyes furtive,
looking away,
to anywhere,
to the changing numbers,
to time in-waiting,
to a love
that's suddenly stripped
to the essential,
that can be felt
but not be spoken,
because,
to speak the language
of eyes,
would mean
to look into the terror
burning the fire escapes,
to look into the waters
circling our hearts
in prayer,
beyond the steel
that confines us
and takes us to places
we go to,
but where we
never really wanted to go.

insurgence

on some days,
this vessel
cannot contain
the insurgence -
the ferocious call
of the primal,
the forbidden fruit
grown in the depths
of ancient forests,
too strange and wild
to be named, packaged,
and laid out
on neat shelves,
in a world of
lazy fingers
and empty bellies,
where the hearth
is dead;

and so I go
to that dark place -
savage
and intense,
carrying this twisting
ocean of fire,
and her white hot curves,
where I know
she will be welcomed
and held safe
without a question;
that place from where
grounds shift and explode
without reason,
where new worlds
are consumed
and born,
all the time.

hold their own

when you cut through me
beyond these veneers
you touch and sand
with your bare hands,
you will find
those long grains
of timber grown
in the wild,
that speak of
distances
and depths
of earth and sky,
captured
in tangled roots
with only one purpose -
to hold their own
in the fragility
of their unstoppable tips,
leading themselves
in the blind,
into the mystery
beyond you and me.

the thread

moments strung,
glass beads shining
life's radiance,
but no one can see
the thread,
not even me.

but I know
it holds me together
in the dark,
when I look for it,
when I feel it,
something to grasp
to become unfocused again.

don't ask me what it is,
don't ask me to show you,
for it cannot be seen,
only felt,
strung through my navel
and yours,
binding us to our ways,
so we can feel free
inside-outside.

between you and me

if you've been a mother,
you will know
how there is no you or me,
no giving and receiving,
only an endless flow
called forth
by nipples exploding
and lips sucking,
devouring,
the life force
of two bodies
locked
in a timeless embrace,
lost in trance-filled smiles,
pouring into each other
over and over again,
fed with the pain and joy
of a river flowing
without banks
or shores,
between
you and me.

sacred

the forests and the hills and the trees,

the birds, the flowers and the bees,

they don't wait for you,

they don't call out to you,

they don't scorn at you

with eyes eking out an arrogance

of lives well-lived,

they just do what they are here to do,

day after day,

rising and falling

into the silence of that great void,

where everything is sacred,

not because they are unique

like the lines on your sweat-filled palms,

that you flaunt like flags stuck into

arduous peaks you finally climbed,

but because they reek of the ordinary

where everything is welcome.

don't build a temple.

build a hut under the stars.

doing

someday
i want to learn
how to write on water,
like the wind
stroking her
without a trace,
when all this grime
will be washed off
my hands,
and i can rest
in the quiet delight
of fingers wrapped
around a stone,
the rounded one
who stilled the lake.

midlife

somewhere
in the middle
of a life,
of moments
book-ended by uncertainty,
when you find yourself
too old for the shells
you carried for long,
and too young
for the faint touch of sky
you still remember,
when you suddenly wake up 
one day,
as if from a dream,
and scorn at the skin 
of sheer neglect,
and the weight of burdens
you no longer feel
as your own,
when you look at yourself
in the mirror
to care for the face
who always measured you,
in ways you could never live up to,
when you toss a coin
and pick a side
just for the heck of it,
something you've never done,
when you stand at a fork
and choose one
only because you know
you can always come back
to that point,
anytime,
when you can swing
between extremes
of being and doing
womanhood,
because you suddenly realise
you are one -
woman.

hidden

some things
must be hidden
from eyes
too eager to know

swaddled
like an infant
who comes
from another world

an open secret
waiting
to be disclosed
and lived
in another time
and place

perfect
in that touch
of far away.

silent shells

have you ever picked up a shell?

and held it to your ears?

and have you closed your eyes ever?

and listened deeply

to those rushes and roars?

have you felt the magic

of those tiny selves 

lying naked

upon sunny sands?

have you smelt the salt and blood

of wars fought 

and buried beneath?

stop.

don't look for footprints,

yours or mine.

listen.
hold a shell.

hear the waters
rise and fall,

rushing inside your skin,
and outside, left behind.

dip into that grounding silence.

listen.

make a sign.

for every shell speaks a story,

of a forgotten,
fostered self,

broken into
by flooding waters,

and a new life

that must be lived

and felled.

the echo

it's strange, this feeling,
for it feels new -
when I speak the words
forest or nature
or mountains or streams,
I don't feel that yearning anymore,
like a hook pierced into my skin,
tugging me, calling me
to do something,
to do anything at all
to feel myself wrapped in a silence
I still remember,
where I can hear myself speak,
where I can feel things move in and out
through every pore,
where I can be without cloches,
where I can be alone,
where every move I make
is thrown back to me, like a faithful echo,
a question mark looking into a mirror,
stopping me and making me linger
in places too hard to seek otherwise,
yes, I don't feel that same yearning anymore,
and I wonder why.....
and I see that there is no hook,
only a gaping hole,
that makes me want to hold that echo
close and light,
as I walk to the other side,
with someone to hold my hand
and that tiny echo,
as ours,
together.

in mourning

when I go away,
when you cannot see me the way you used to,
when you wake up one day
and suddenly remember
the feel of my skin against yours,
and the sound of stories -
both told and untold,
lingering between our breaths,
when you feel that sharp stab of metal
moving in one flash,
from front to back,
and in, then out,
when you don't feel the blood pouring out,
but only the remembrance
of how you were touched,
as if you reached a place
you could never have gone to otherwise,
when your tears freeze in their wells,
not knowing what to do,
when you stand transfixed in that pang
that rips your skins apart,
leaving you naked,
looking into a mirror
you did not want to face,
a face staring back at you,
the one without a face now.

two homes

there is a sadness
oozing within,
not without,
slowly burning the walls
of this fragile stalk,
who for a moment,
forgot who she was,
and where she was rooted -
in the moist humus
that holds it all,
where life
breaks through
and breaks down,
where she cannot hold on
even a moment longer
than what must be,
to these seeds
who have two homes -
where they are born
and where they are taken
to be born once more,
in the same moistness
in another heart,
in another time.

not love

speak to me
of only love
and abundance
and joy
as the one destination
to find
and I will show you
what rises
from within the earth
who has opened her heart
wide open
to the parting lips
of fuming volcanoes
to the shaking hips
of a world
that loves to spin
and dance and fall
to the lusty advances
of the wind
rushing carefree
into forms waiting
to explode their skins
to the churning guts
of the ocean
exploring her whole wild self
inside out
where everything
is a fall into grace
a call from a love
to step forward
and embrace
everything you see
that is not love

new eyes

I wish that I could
give you my eyes,
so I could be blind
to the things you see
in me,
so I could look into
you and me
filled with all the darkness
of a new moon night,
where I can only feel
the seeds sown
deep in our hearts -
the new eyes
that see and grow
between you and me -
the real me
I want you to see.

let's get naked

'let's get naked'

you say,

as I hear  

two voices

inside,

'why?'

'why not?'

they say softly

looking into

each others' eyes,

as I laugh with you

and feel

the brush of cloth

and wind

on my skin,

where there is

really nothing

more to do,

than to feel into

this unadorned nakedness

with all our clothes on,

and touch each other,

with our hearts,

with our eyes.

red

and as I stooped
to smell
and smile
at the roses
sitting pretty
amidst their thorns,
in the light
of a spent sky,
everything turned
a deep red
inside,
the thorns,
the stem,
and the leaves
just born,
bleeding themselves
into a reality
they must welcome
together,
filling each other
with the red
of beauty,
of grief,
and joy.

of all things wild

don't hush
the cusses,
the ogles,
the farts,
the itches,
the hands
that grope
in unexplored places

don't hush
the wails,
the rants,
the rues,
the slaps,
the undies
with stains
that smell of sweat
and desire

don't douse
those sparks
of the raw and wild
untamed beast,
carry them as they singe you,
in the pores of your skin,
in the pulse of your heart,
in the flow of your breath

take them to the forest,
away from the staid eyes
of this delirious world,
and offer them as you explode
in silent reverie,
into the stark stillness
of all things wild
and human

where you will always
be heard and held,
and received
home.

wu wei

wu wei


there's a feeling

inside me

today,

of simply 

being,

like this feather

held 

by a wisp 

of thread

from a web,

and nothing

between

their fragility

and the sacredness

of this one moment

of life

and death

and breath,

and forgotten 

wings.

in my sleep

in the quiet lagoon of sleep,
where waves become sheets
that keep me close to myself,
where eyes rest
without questions
about light and dark,
form, shape and colour,
where breath lingers
in the slow cadence
of waters lapping steady shores
with no froth or foam,
where skin stretches out,
bared open and fragile
like blue against blue,
and the still surface of depths
waiting to be explored,
where my spirit can sit
upon a puff of cloud
and dream of worlds
on the other side,
with no fear of falling,
where darkness cradles me
in carved out reefs
harnessing an ocean,
where everything is touched
and stroked
with a kiss and whisper
of love, not war,
a place where I traverse worlds
that become the reality
I cannot yet live
outside.

disappearance

don't look for me
when you remember me,
as a picture frozen
in your album
of moments
and thoughts,
for you will not find me

stop looking for me
and start looking

scour the trees swaying
with their prancing leaves,
and the mountains
that move your insides
with their stillness,
let the waves of the ocean
wash over you
from the distance
with their lavish love,
and let the breeze rush in
through every orifice,
inflaming you
with a passion to simply be

stop looking for me
and start looking

don't look for me,
for I don't change colours
to go into hiding,
so you can seek me;
I am the chameleon
who loves her disappearance
into everything that touches her
with a nameless love
that cannot be tagged,
remembered,
or forgotten

stop looking for me
and start looking

beauty

to look in the mirror,
to glimpse a form
caught in the eyes
of space and time,
to imagine a woman
with lines and curves
in the right places,
playing within rules,
and then breaking them
not to become,
but to be,
to feel where I begin
and end and blur,
to come face to face
with the question -
who am I?
to cut right through
skins untouched
and to the bones
that don't lie,
to see the worlds
lived in,
behind every story
named and held,
where the mirror
cracks and falls away,
leaving me struck
by the timeless beauty
of moments strung
and worn
on an enchanting evening
of a life,
brimming over
with a love for itself.

walk through fire

walking through flames
licking my scarred skin
with their hungry tongues,
eyes fluttering
with every flying spark
of a dream born,
a body cringing
with every crackle
of a reality burned,
a breathtaking walk
through fears
lived, singed
and ashes smeared,
a spirit drawn into
the fires of illusion,
to meet itself
at the cervix,
where worlds
take seed and die,
while a heart lives on,
exploding
with a nameless,
formless love,
walking through flames
now worn.

play on

I draw the screen
across my heart,
to see my many selves
on stage,
tuning their voices
without mikes,
while the conductor
looks on bewildered,
with no score to play;

and so she waits
for a silence to rise
from among the voices
clamouring
for their rightful place,
the silence which
connects them all,
holding them together
in that wide open
generous embrace;

she looks on then
with moistened eyes,
listening to every note -
its pitch, intensity and colour,
her body swaying
with the exquisite music unfolding,
undoing the clasps
of her gentle, pulsing heart,
becoming each note
in its naked form,
as they take stage
and just play on.

born free

the womb is not a cage,
we are born free,
we are born for release -
the act of choosing
to let go,
not to become
something more,
something different,
but to simply be -
the butterfly
enjoying her wings
kissing clouds,
the snowflake
falling into nowhere
before she melts
into white shrouds,
the grains of sand
shifting and dancing
in the wind,
changing partners
with ease,
we are born free
with this life -
an offering
to an endless disappearance
of me in you,
and you in me.

without reason

give me any canvas
and I'll splash it
with bold colours,
picked
from the rim
of a moment,
steeped
in the personality
of every hue,
without apology;
strokes defying probability,
flowing anyhow,
anywhere,
from eyes unfurled,
reclaiming
the wildness
and simplicity
of an artless art,
where what you see
is what you get,
without reason.

desire

you seduce me

with your talent

of bringing me close,

so close

to what I love,

to what I want,

to what I have died for

in my wispy dreams,

you beckon me

to follow you

around the bend

and into a darkness

I can smell

but not see,

you challenge me

to look you

straight in the eye

and shout out

to the whole world

that yes,

I desired this!

you feed me

with your hands,

cupping your love

for adventure and pause

in those clever palms,

and me, 

I'm soft and porous now

like the tilled earth,

ready to look you

in your eyes, dear Life,

to tell you
how much I love you,

and take you close

into this burning heart

fanning the flames

of my heartfelt desires.

embody

you follow myths as if they are your breath, rising from some primordial space; you wear archetypes and names you believe are your own, as if they are your skins; you pin every smile, every tear, every sigh, to a board, with a tag, as if they are body parts with a reason; you pick up tools to use to mend fences - the ones that first exist in your mind, as if they are the life force coursing through you; you wear them all as if they are a part of you you cannot tear away from, you wear them until you can know and feel that to embody is to putrefy and die, and then live, having died.

ebb and flow

with every ebb
of a wave
who gave her love
unasked,
unedited,
undone,
another rises
from the still depths
of a milked ocean,
to flow into shores
too empty
to return love,
a love that must ebb
to flow....

this love

there is a love
that's simple,
that's quiet,
without any frills -

a love as real
as the soft sand
that melts my soles,
a love as self-forgetting
as looking for shells
in the circle of my eyes,
not further
down the yawning shore,
a love as wild
as the waves that laugh
and entice my heart,
hooking me
to their innocence,
a love as present
as the ebb and flow
that sift and shift
the most steadfast sands,
a love as vast
as the bleeding blue
that always slips through
the corners of my eyes;

there is a love -
this love,
who clasps my palm
in hers,
who walks with me
to leave only one set
of sunken footprints,
who whispers my name
in the silence
between the rolling waves,
calling out to me,
asking me
to come home.

one source

don't look at me
with these eyes,
eyes that have learned
to only see light and dark;
for you will not see me then,
you will only grasp
what you want to know,
in the immediacy
of your inquiry;
and that is not enough;

that is not enough
to breathe into every gene,
to move mountains,
to churn oceans,
to fire up the skies,
to call the heavens down,
to give the earth to the stars,
and to hold
the silence and chatter
of this universe born wild;

don't look at me
with those eyes;
look at me blind -
when what you know
is what you feel,
when what you feel
moves you to dance
that wild dance,
that is neither man,
woman nor animal;

but just a handful of atoms
jiggling in space,
offering themselves up
to be used;
the one source
from where all flows
unlimited, at will,
that belongs to everyone,
not just you or me,
and the walls we see.

two rivers

waters gush and lap
against invisible walls
where grief and joy die.

two rivers commune
into pools of tomorrow
inspired by love.