Friday, November 15, 2013

Confluence

At the confluence of the creeks there
I released the spirit and memory
of the one who held your name, ho,
the one who held your name.

She flowed back out
as watery eddies,
dancing among broad, solid rocks
(buried just beneath the surface).  
Rocks smoothed
by aeons of carving,
by an ancient flow
from an
unseen 
upstream.

How this flow remains
I don’t know;
we seem to get in the way of it so.

But there she is, just afore I release her.
I speak to her.
Whether she hears
is far beyond my knowing.

I barely hear myself.
It’s a quiet conversation.
It’s women’s business.

It’s done.
And there
she flows.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

A love letter without the romance

Disentangled
I see you
I see me
I hear you
I hear me.
There is space to witness
us
There is space to let
love emerge from us
Without strings,
tentacles and romance,
whatever that was anyway.

Occasionally, I can
imagine your scent.
It’s not that I choose to.
But somehow, that scent
exists in my
room, in my nose,
a thousand miles or more from
where you are.

It exists in this space,
the space that allows
appreciation, the space
that allows all the lessons
to sink in,
become part of my DNA.
We are each other’s teachers, we are each other’s students.
There is love
in this space,
in this distance.
There is love.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Untitled

You’re easy to love. You’re difficult to love.
You’re divine. You’re impossible.
You’re simple, complicated.
Comforting, confronting.
Contradictory, constant.
Your heart beats.
Your hands drum on your chest.
You draw me in.
You let me go.
Where am I in this?
I am lost in this.
I step away, to find my way back
To me
To you
as best I can.
Trust me,
and I'll even trust you.
Perhaps, I'll even trust myself,
gingerly, tenderly,
as the path unravels,
unwieldy and quiet in its way.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Rose of Africa

Your bud expounds
your patterns
of geometric perfection and
wild, runaway beauty
You show yourself in honesty,
Rose of Africa

Your softness emerges,
initially as an impenetrable mass
tightly held together
pushing open the bud
the struggle of birth
Rose of Africa.

Unwinding, the tendrils
of your softness
reach out, beyond,
creating something solid,
where once there was only emptiness,
Rose of Africa.

The softness turns to
chaos.
Falling in every direction
Falling with grace,
slowly
until life seems lost
Rose of Africa.

A husk,
meeting the world
with rich beauty,
perfect pattern,
solid, hard,
turning brittle
Yet such softness
in you mandala spirit,
Rose of Africa.


Sunday, June 2, 2013

Departure at dawn

You visit me in my dreams
still
You visit me in my dreams.

You always have something to
say to me;
You visit me in my dreams.

I always receive you with gratitude
You visit me in my dreams.

I wake to a world and you're not there
But you visit me in my dreams
still
You visit me in my dreams.


Sunday, March 3, 2013

'Help me ... I'm a writer'

Re: Application to attend “An Occasionally Facilitated Writers Block”

To explain why I’m called to this gathering of writers ...

I’m a writer.

Yet it feels somewhat uncomfortable to write those words; they form a statement with much loaded history and meaning.

For me, the statement “I’m a writer” is entwined with others’ (especially familial) expectations of what it means to be a writer. It recalls journalism training that often made me sick to the stomach, while teaching me much about being succinct, accurate, clear and quick.

It speaks to the many words I’ve scrawled into countless journals, forming questions and statements that have become imbued with wider searching and greater wisdom as my experience has accrued.

It encompasses poetry, a medium that burst out of me prolifically when I was locked down in my deepest despair, and then disappeared as suddenly as it arrived.

It has involved writing “cookie cutter” press releases and speeches about policies that I have deeply disagreed with, policies affecting ecological and indigenous rights, formed by a colonial government (post-colonial doesn’t seem an accurate enough description).

It is a statement about my default form of expression. Whether it’s the default I want (wouldn’t it be more exciting to express myself through dance, music, song?), it’s the one that I most certainly have.

And now, I need to develop a deeper, more intimate relationship with my medium of expression, so I no longer feel uncomfortable or limited by the phrase “I’m a writer”. I need to explore how to reclaim my writing practice, thereby transforming myself into someone who can trust, again, in her inherent value as one who feels called to serve the transformation of humanity.