The Bridge Across Forever

I belong to twilight,
in the silence
between worlds,
where things
are always arriving,
ending,
beginning,
without names.

I belong to dawn
in the stillness
between breaths,
where things
are always leaving,
dying,
being born,
without a whisper.

I belong
where nothing belongs,
only this life,
this body,
the bridge across forever
now.

Lotus

I feel you
in the depths
of my womb,
a stirring of new life,
soft contours of mud
dissolving into water,
bubbles rising up
and popping,
before they reach
the skin
of upturned green palms
holding the immensity
of the sky
in their bosom,
ripples leaving
without returning home,
as fire sits with fire,
burning away the dross,
and somewhere
in those murky silent depths,
a lotus blooms quietly,
turned on by her solitude,
parting her folds
with the gentlest touch
of the first morning sun.

Born Free

today,
I want to talk about
my pain mother,
not yours;
the world sees
and extols
your pain,
but what about mine?
is it any less?
or more?
who would know?

did you know
I thought I was dying
as I slipped out
of the safe,
nourishing void?
squeezed,
pressed,
pulled,
pushed,
and wrung out,
my frail lungs
crushed
between walls
without an end,
daggers plunging
into tender skin,
I struggled
and gasped
through
the darkness,
a terrified ball
stretched thin and flat -
perhaps my
first painful lessons
of how to fit
into the trappings
of a fitted world
I had to make my home;

yet,
the song of my heart
exploded
into the sleepy silence
of an alien world,
with the rush of blood
from incessant stabs;
my heart throbbed
and expanded
with that first gulp
of blessed air
I swallowed
without your help;
and my insides
they came alive,
announcing
to the universe,
that I had
indeed arrived.

and the world
looked at me
with ignorance
and awe,
smothering me
with pitiful eyes,
they only saw
a helpless child
swaddled in fear,
they didn't know
I was born free,
held by life.

Heading Home

I wonder what it was
that drew me to you,
and away from you....
was it the sudden expanse
of stark wilderness,
of wind-sheared mountains
against bald brown,green and blue;
or was it the sheer uncertainty
and hard compassion
of fast-changing tides of wind and water;
or was it the simple innocence
of a black and white life,
where every dimple and blob
breathed fire and ice;
or was it the ever-growing mystery
of virgin depths and shrouded heights,
of limpid morns and surreal nights;
what was it I wonder,
that took me in,
that made me stand unfazed
against the slanting rain
and powdered ice,
or the blood-curdling winds
and the veiled wintry sun,
without a cover or name -
a faceless face in a paltry crowd,
where everything
felt warm and safe,
where suddenly an island
transformed into a continent,
that grew wings and feet and arms
from closing waters,
rising and falling
with the wisps of clouds,
singing the soulful song
of wild geese
heading home -
a place where I can return,
so I can leave and live,
another life, in another world,
just another place
to rest awhile,
where fire meets ice,
where days meet nights,
where black meets white,
where will meets longing,
where fear meets love, and
where life meets death,
so I can be born
all over again,
and again.

Broken Waters

and as I stepped out
from your womb,
my fears held safe
in your depths
all these years,
I felt the smelting
of heavy chains,
of unspoken terror
leaving me,
and I looked up
to the winter sun,
filled with a lightness
of a heart and body
that's finally learned
to feel and cherish
the wetness
and freshness
of broken waters,
given birth
to a sacred life,
waiting to be held
and worn.

Somewhere, Everywhere, Anywhere

somewhere
in a distant forest,
a leaf twirls on tip toe
to the yawning ground;
somewhere
up in a mountain,
the first raindrop smudges
the dust off a weary stone;
somewhere
in the haunting darkness,
a firefly lights up herself
to blaze a trail without a trace;
somewhere
up in a passing cloud,
a puff of air grows silently
into a thundering storm;
somewhere
which could be in the middle
of everywhere, anywhere,
silence becomes the swell
of a new wordless song
waiting to be sung.

A Moment

poised,
      upon each
branching moment,
      is a dream,
a thought,
      a word,
a breath,
      and silence,
waiting
      to be born
and die....

Emptiness

that feeling
of sweet disbelief
while you're enjoying
ice cream from a cone -
heaven in every lick,
until your tongue
suddenly drops
into that hollow -
of the shell
left behind
when all the goodness
and joy is gone;
emptiness
is that magical space
you never quite know
or even thought existed,
until all else
inconsequential,
falls and melts away
into your
unquenchable womb;
the void that cradles
the death and birth
of all of life.

Birth

I am no more your mother
than the dark soil
where you rest -
your womb, your coffin
until it's time;
I am no more your mother
than the flaming sun
that stokes your spirit -
reclaimed, rejoicing
at your arrival;
I am no more your mother
than the flannel clouds
that distill joy
filling your every cell
and breath;
I am no more your mother
than the agile wind
who carries you
to the moon and stars
every now and then;
I am no more your mother
than the dancing trees
under whose shade
you will sit some day,
where your eyes
will wander
to the sun and the earth,
to the clouds and the wind,
to the moon and the stars,
who called you
into this world
one fine day.

Walking Home

I know the way home.

I can see it
through
the blinding fog
of heavy darkness
swaddling
my trembling self;

I can hear
the drumbeats
of my heart
moving to
a crescendo
with every step;

I can taste
the sea-salt air
that stings and riles
my rusty form
steeped in beliefs
steeled over time;

I can smell
the vestiges
of my old self
after a moulting,
ripping the fibres
of a blood-stained past;

I can feel it
in the contours
of my innards,
filled with a rush
of fresh blood
proclaiming a new birth.

Yes. I know the way home.

A Flowering

A tightly closed bud
getting ready
to bloom -
to burst open
to her own fragrance,
but not too soon.

In the pain
and struggle
of a birth
and a death,
she is born.
A flower.

Quietly,
unannounced,
hidden from
prying eyes,
she arrives
with her
joyous
presence.

Vulnerability

Vulnerability
sits inside each of us,
like a rose amidst thorns,
to unfold herself
to the warm sun
on a cold wintry morn.

To be a rose
is to sit with the thorns,
even as they prick, and
let the blood flow out;
it is to be alive
to all the pain and joy.

To be a rose
amidst the thorns,
is to stay
in the seeing,
being and knowing
that "I am enough".

When vulnerability
is the midwife -
love becomes the womb
and the passage,
for a new connection
to be born.

When you sit
with your vulnerability,
all naked and raw,
and with a broken fullness,
you begin to love yourself
and find love in this world.

Waiting for Love

a gentle stirring
takes root -
deep in my gut,
sucked into a vortex,
my insides churn
and sink
into nowhere;
a little heart
is tossed up
into a bubbling
cauldron of sorts,
a magic spell
rises out to numb
my wobbly knees,
tipsy fingers and toes,
the waters break,
waves of pain and joy
rise and fall,
waiting for love
to be birthed.

The Birth of New Love

when the first show of green
peeps out of the dark, acrid soil,
the whole universe conspires
for the rain and the sun
to baptize
the birth of new love.

A Birth in every Death

like the yucca and fig moth
make their way home
unto their death,
there lies a reason -
magical, unknown,
for every pain,
and every death,
when that becomes
the birth
of a new loved one.