Between the Floorboards

Broken parts of things lost
Between the floorboards of my mind

The playground sing-song,
Holiday cottage of yesteryear,
That checked shirt I wore,
Purple and black,
When I was eight

But wait
I’m not mourning girlhood
I’m dreaming myself into maturity

Growing into the one
I’m scared to become

Yet free now
To walk this path
To the gate
Of my medicine garden

Asking noone’s permission
To turn the key
But my own

Broken

seven assorted-color of chalks gray surface

Broken,
in places I cannot see.
Lost,
in spaces I cannot feel.

Where the river carves a gash
Through the road
So that none shall pass,
There is nothing to do
But sit on my arse.

I slip into those quiet places
Where broken parts meld and mend
And in lost-ness, I find a friend.

The Game

brown tiger in walking gesture

The frustrated tiger paces the river bank. His padded feet imprint the sandy earth. A walking stick, polished and lifeless has been left where the water meets the land and two leather sandals, placed side by side, point to footprints that spring off into the stream.

The black water mirrors the foliage that fringes the passage it carves through the jungle. Somewhere in its depths, a naked body slides like a fish, feeling the smooth play of wet along its limbs.

She lies amongst reeds, waiting for the sunset and shadow body of the tiger to disappear back into the forest from whence it came.

With a final sniff of the warm air and a humming growl, the tiger walks back between trees in search of another game.

The swimmer emerges, hair, wet and long, hanging in strands to her shoulders. The droplets drip off her as she salutes the sun, each bead magnifying the sunlight on to the surface of her skin.

The cool, velvet silt of the river floor squeezes between her toes.

She sits on a sun-warmed rock and waits until the ripples still and the river becomes a flawless mirror once again.

Germinate

The afternoon so warm and damp.
If I were a seed, I’d germinate.

Years’ worth of hours stolen-
owed to my solitude.
My naked dance with the muse,
casting her glitter on blank pages,
scattered like golden grains.

I curl away from tasks outside of me;
retract inwards
to the red cave
where I burrow deeper into mystery;
declare myself Ancient Woman
beholden to noone.

The sharp scent of cloves,
spicy, potent,
like the witch I carry inside me
who flouts rules and niceties.

Maybe a song will trickle out
between the gaps in meaning;
where the words sit beating
their wings like tiny hearts.