Stories

and we cling to our stories
like leeches
sucking out
every ounce of life,
to live and outlive
the lies we tell ourselves,
the warm blankets we need
on cold, dark nights,
the fires that we light
over and over again
with different travellers
each time,
conversation starters
and sometimes enders,
avatars we incarnate into,
to become the gods
we already are,
even without them;

yes, of course
we need our stories,
to sing our songs,
to dance, to rise,
to fall, to chime in,
to let out
our long-trapped voices
in cracks of stone;

but let's not be bound
by those chains
that slit our wrists,
let's not breathe
their stale, heavy air,
let's not make them
our flesh and bones;
let them live
in the warmth of our skin,
until it's time
to shed their outlived lives,
let's celebrate their death
like the skin of happy bubbles
popping every now and then;
for they are not raging gods
and goddesses
out of incredible myths;
they are but specks of dust
gathering together,
to dance awhile
in a slanting sunbeam
resting upon
the dark
of another unborn morn.

Between Worlds

a butterfly
unfurls
her fairy wings,
waking up
forgotten flowers,
flitting between
two worlds -
encased
in the freedom
of what's real
and what's a dream.

i

i am the one
who stands guard
on the fading edge
moving and changing
always a little more
than I would like it to;

i am the one
who paces up and down
the turrets of your being,
with eyes prying open
and scavenging
the faintest challenge;

i am the one
who holds the elements
and ravishing energies
washing over and flowing
inside you
as one mighty river;

i am the one
who leads you home
on that final stretch,
clinging to your burning skin,
leaping into that abyss
between humiliation and hubris.

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if you have wondered
like I have often,
why my words
have a touch of this
and that;
if you get a feeling
that it isn't 'me',
then you are probably right!

for how can the ocean
not be moved by the rivers
for how can the skies
not be touched by the birds
for how can the earth
not be opened by growing ridges
or the silence of the night
not be emptied by the song in my ears?

I am what I am,
I am what you see,
I am what you hear,
I am what you feel,
because I let Life
move, touch,
open, shape
and empty me.

The Blue Vase

the blue vase
sits by herself
on the centre glass;
thin lips
that don't part
so much,
a graceful waist
sculpted
by light and dark -
playing with her
patterns and curves;
she stands unchanged,
holding clear water,
trusted with
a tiny breath of life -
a wildflower
by the road-side,
given a new life.

the blue vase -
yes, she has a form,
a personality,
a story
from the dark ages,
of heirlooms
and oft-trodden paths,
of rebellion and mediocrity,
dreams
of sun-kissed mornings,
beliefs that hold her
in place
on that very glass, where she
finds herself;
one blow, one fall,
and she's gone!
to pieces
that cannot fit together
in the same way,
to form the same form;

the blue vase -
she returns
to her formless form
sometimes,
kneeling at the altar -
a poet, a pilgrim,
a wayfarer, a murderer,
or a little child,
sometimes,
only to forget
for a moment
the impossible weight
and impermanence
of being alive;
a blue vase
yearning to drink
the clear water
she holds inside.

Travel Light

Take away everything
I hold on to with fear
that binds self to self,
not wanting to let go.

Take away everything
I cling on to for life,
as I climb to the peak
that beckons up high!

Take away everything
so I can travel light,
to the Light within
the darkness tonight.

Take away everything
that I think is ME -
my thoughts, my poems,
my passion, my beliefs.

For each is but a foothold
to rest on for a while,
to catch my breath,
as I watch Life go by.