Open eyes of a child
scanning the sky,
looking for rainbows,
breathing ‘why?’.
Light dancing
on the stream.
Frog on rock,
the mossy dream.
Animal language,
fingers in the earth.
Celebrate,
unlearn,
return,
rebirth.
Author: Roshnii Rose
I am a mother, writer and doula, passionate about creativity, spirituality, connection and birth. I bring these elements together in my work with women and the community.
Birth
In animal darkness:
half light of flame and fire,
the ache of onset makes way
for the gush and rush
of release.
Moan, groan,
moo, howl.
Shit, sweat,
blood-striped thighs
The breath,
the push,
the miracle cry.
Then skin on skin,
waxy, wet, we lie,
in slippery grip
of love.
Sylvie & Owen
She fell into his arms, soft, crumbling, like grains of rice tumbling from a split sack. She fell to pieces and assumed that only he could gather her up, put her together. He could not. He gaped and stared at the trembling wreck she had become and though his heart meant well, he saw not how he could gather every last fragment of her pitiful, weeping being; so far spread and wrecked was she.
So he held her for as long as he felt he could, then he got up to go and left her to ponder the shattered pieces of herself and to wonder how to fit them back together like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle with no picture on the box to guide her.
She struggled for hours, days, lifting up each tiny shard, watching how it glinted in the light, what message it held and then absorbed it into herself, flinching with the sweet, sultry pain as it reconnected with the other hidden parts of herself.Read More »
Rustle
Rustle of love,
Catch me closer
To your beating heart
Of autumn leaves.
Feed me Heed me
>
The Creative Voice says:
“Feed me, heed me.
Sing me a song,
String me along
Over hills and shadows.
Delight in deliciousness
Of words curled together;
Lyrics that make
Your skin prickle
With anticipation,
Spoken through tender lips
Of children,
Tasting their flavour
Between giggles;
Fingers fumbling
With beads and buttons.
Those precious fleeting moments
You crave in the melée
Of life and cornflakes.
I am the true you
The Queen in sovereign rule
Of yourself.
The witchy wanderer.
Autumn’s fallen children.
The dewy light of Spring.
I am what leads you down
The forgotten pathway
To magic
Over and over again.
And I can be woken,
Even after a lifetime
Of slumber.”
