POEMS ANTHOLOGY

THE LAND OF WALKING GODS

I built this version of myself

So fabulous, fierce, and commendable

That no one could fault or destroy me

Determined to stand like a god

Amidst the winds of the world

Omniscient.

But gods can never be held

In the arms of humans

They float above us

Unable to plant their feet

And walk in the world

Unable to yield

Into the sweet meeting of souls

The rest that is the crux of human life.

This world has become a land

Of walking gods and absent humans

Half-like creatures

Who don’t really know how to be here

And I am one of them.

The impressive holy garb we wear

Is our trauma

A protection we painted into existence

In the name of survival

In the name of capitalism

To help us walk through the sea

That is no longer red

No longer ferocious

No longer trying to drown us.

It is time to lay on the beach

Resuscitate our humanity

Discard the robes we wore

Naked like babes

Breathing first life

And begin again.

ANCIENT REST

I am metabolizing something old

Ancient

My ancestors running through the red carpet

Of my wrinkled mind

Telling me it’s over

That they did the running

So I don’t have to

And my frenzy is a dishonouring

Of all their gifts

Their sweat and tears.

The echoes of their fast footsteps

Jolt me back

Into my body

Remembering the world where I stand

Where I needn’t hide

Nor flee.

Their old fear rises through my bones

And speaks through jerks

Twitches in my core

My heart aches in my ribs

And I stretch my fascia so wide

That any stale blood will surely pour right out

Clean again

Or perhaps, clean for the first time.

I want to curl up in a ball

And I realise

Perhaps it’s safe to do that now

Perhaps my contraction is a deep bow to my ancestors

My rest is their rest

Let us rest.

SAFE

Words amidst a world in crisis

We were never safe

Walking over land

Across seas

Building impermanent homes

No sapphire eyes

Or golden hair.

We were never safe

Saving our pennies

Building our communities

Thriving despite it all.

We were never safe

In our land or yours

From your weapons or your words

We were never safe then

And we aren’t safe now.

They weren’t safe either

And neither are you

For if one person is unsafe

We are all unsafe.

Warring against each other

Dividing

Conquering

Killing

Blaming

Tearing each other apart.

Forgetting that the apple of our eye is shared

That our breath is shared

All of us seeking safety

Making it more illusive every day.

May we reach into our hearts

And speak the truth:

We were never safe.

We want to feel safe.

THIRD LIFE


And then there was nowhere to run

No need to run

No urgency to run

And my third life began.


The one where it was safe to let the joy in

To open my heart

Even at the risk of it breaking

To play freely

To receive freely

To create freely

With no hook

No perpetrator

Waiting in the wings

To fuck up my world in the worst way

Or in any way at all.


In my third life

I am living in a land of freedom

The forgiving yet stable soil beneath my feet

And the spectacular horizon

That reminds me of my sovereignty

Every. Single. Day.


I didn’t just wake up here

I’ve been building the walls of this new world

Since the day I drew my first breath

Even if I didn’t know it

Yet it always seemed slightly out of reach

A moving mirage

But I kept on building anyway

Laying the bricks

Raking the leaves

Planting the seeds

Watering flowers

Believing (at least partly)

That this world would one day be for me

Even if the voices outside and inside my head

Told me otherwise.


And when it was really ready

I stepped in, through the veil

Planted my feet

Expecting it to vanish

Feeling the guilt of my own pleasure

The supposed sin of my own pride

Those intergenerational knocks

Inside my bones

They became so loud

That one day I said ‘enough!’

And bought all the inner judges and naysayers inside me

Into the courtroom of my mind

And I presented the facts.


This is my third life

My peace

My power

My freedom

My abundance

My joy

And I have earned every single bit of it.


There was no contest

So the judges and naysayers shut their mean mouths

Perhaps temporarily (let’s see)

But all my selves agreed

It is time to walk the world of this third life

And so, I do.

 

THE LOST YEARS

The Lost Years

They come rushing up my 40 year old throat

Flowing out my eyes

A time warp

20 year old me

Translucent

Wondering what happened

As I claim now the sweet life that she yearned for,

yet couldn’t really even picture, or dream about

Not then.

I stroke her hair in my mind’s eye

As she weeps

The unfairness of it all

I remind her

She is with me now

Sharing the ripened wine of our wisdom

Together at last.

I can feel the colour rushing back to her cheeks

As she walks through the decades

Sitting beside me for a time

Soft whimpers

Processing the journey

She leans her head onto my shoulder

And slowly slides into me

Integrating.

My heart swells with gratitude

I can feel her

Helping me to take up a little more subtle space

My legs yield safely into the earth

Stronger and softer

Knowing there will be no more years lost.


GROWING PAINS

As I destroy the structures of my world

I disperse into a million fragments

Waiting in the womb of what’s next

No mother to hold me

Other than my own inner elder.

She’s not quite sure;

None of us are.

As I cease to exist

The urge to claw into creation

Sends shivers and shockwaves through my system.

Destruction calls.

Force calls.

Soothing, satisfying, settling

Harder these days.

I remember

I am at once the seed in utero

And the cocoon itself

This time between the world before and the world to come

Is precious

And it’s here I must wait.

The term of transformation takes its course,

Only in our scared holding

These growing pains are my right of passage.

And as I claim them, they are immediately sweet.

Oranges, roses and sandalwood smoke.

Bitter coffee

Morning light

My senses take me from one world to another.

Transcendent.


Many Worlds

As I sit in the unknown,

I feel all the time lines spreading themselves out before me

So many that I could skip right into

Each one with incredible futures

Each one with losses…. Some of them too heavy to hold in my mind’s eye

Straddling all these worlds

Leaning in

Repelling back

Not sure which world I belong in

Catching the fear rise in my throat and swell in my belly

Then letting it go again

Again and again and again

Remembering the nest I have built inside my heart

And the net of the folks who cradle my cheek and give me a swift tap on the butt to propelme forward

Remembering that I don’t have to choose just one.

That I am meant for many worlds

Weaving them as I walk towards the things that bring me alive

The things that bring me peace

And the people

The ones who remind me who I am.


Wildflowers

I learned to be a lotus

To grow beautifully

Emerging from the mud

An exception to the rule.

I transformed into an orchid.

Elegant, graceful and exotic

Withstanding the elements

An unlikely swan in the dry desert.

You paid homage to my beauty

And I learned that love was easier

When I held such a pleasant form

So, I stayed here for a time

A muse; an object of admiration.

While you saw me in the wild

I felt like dried rose petals

Pressed within the pages

Of an old heavy book

Preserved; somewhat unalive.

As I watched the world

Through the looking glass I had constructed

I realised I was really a wildflower

Or at least, I wanted to be.

So, I stepped through the veil

replanted myself in the earth

Some place ragged

Robust with all the elements

The unending vitality of the earth.

Resting, dancing, drinking

Unkempt and primordial

No need for admiration

To contort to a pretty form.

Surrounded by my fellow wildflowers

Learning to live all over again.


HEALING THE MATRIACRH

The voice of the patriarchal matriarch

is far more damaging than the patriarch itself.

Disguised, hidden

under eyelashes

pearlescent lipstick

and sweet tones.

Tricking us into yet another form of submission,

self-abandonment and subtle shame

every time she tells us we will prosper if we do it differently.

If we close our legs

cover our breasts

smile sweetly

or let our ferocity lead.

Her signature is the sound of a wagging finger

the smell of the perfume section of that fancy department store

and the way she blends into the beige female sea.

She's so familiar that we don't event notice

until we feel small and insufficient.

Before we call to the patriarch

let's understand

he is now living inside her.

Here in the hearts of women is where revolution lies.

May every woman remember:

as we invite each other to full aliveness and unbridled splendour,

we all heal.


LITTLE EARTHQUAKES

Little Earthquakes

Cracks beneath our feet

Only felt under slow foot or conscious eye.

Lost through speed

Or denied through Band-Aid obsession.

Patching ourselves back together

Stitching up the ground, our skin.

Cotton wrapped hearts

Walking in foreign lands

Holding the broken world above our heads.

Little earthquakes

Whisper the way to us.

A compass of cracks

The lay lines of the heart

An invitation to surrender and sovereignty.

Tickling our inertia

The wrinkly lines of our inner elder

Beckoning us towards

The most splendid unknown fields.


TIME TRAVELLERS

We are all time travellers

Carrying the past in the present

Weaving futures from our grandmothers’ baskets

Weather they were empty or laden.

Russian dolls

Many mothers hidden inside us

Children too

An endless unfolding of kin.

We walk with their pain

We walk with their gifts

So often forgotten

Amidst modern world din.

Our ancestors call

Yet we cannot hear

Our grandchildren

Still stars in the sky.

They beckon us

To peer forward

To look back

To stand still.

To rake the soil beneath our feet

Discard the muck

Plant new seeds

Dance, pray and bless our crops.

Farmers of the future

Our hearts beat through the ages

Drumming away our pain

Wisdom through shared rhythm

 Time travellers remembering.


RECONCILLIATION

We are all masterpieces

Projects in progress

So busy making beautiful brushstrokes

Or painting over our mistrokes

Filtered, flawless, fabulous.

We forget that we are also trees

With roots that travel all the way back

Innocent babes

Waiting to be watered

Lit by the forgiving sun.

Working hard

To give ourselves what was lost

Lost nonetheless

A living paradox

A projection of our best intentions.

As we run from our roots

Manifesting new realities

Ignoring the quiet knocks

At the old wooden door inside us

Whispers calling us home.

To hold the world above our head

Project a pretty painting

To become the light we seek

Seems favourable

Until we can’t feel our feet on the ground.

Our roots are calling for reconciliation

As we walk to water our garden

And sink our feet into the mud

We may realise

There is no longer a reason to run.