Riding the Edge

Riding the edge
Between consciousness and creation,
Stillness and action,
Being and doing.
Not one, not two. 

Along that edge,
There is an opening inside me,
A letting go and stepping,
Each moment,
Into the unknown
Of the next. 

I don’t want to live
Tired and dogmatic,
Going through the motions. 

I want to awaken to life
And devote myself
To its flowering
And unfolding. 

I want to open,
Like a window,
The sun’s rays
Streaming through me. 

Through pain,
Through pleasure.
The dust motes
Dancing in the light. 

The Wild Inside Me

The wild inside me
lives on the edge
of the stream
where gnarly roots and bracken
dip their toes
in the water.

I follow
my shaggy wolf heart
down
to the rocky crevices
that run
with the mountain’s medicine.

Black fox feet,
all muscle and movement,
awakening to the call
of the poetry
that beats in my belly.

Down here
there is no time
but the present.
And the arrows
that show the way
are drawn with twigs.

The rushing brushing music
of the waterfall
carries my thoughts
to another lifetime,
when I was always
in this:
fully immersed
in the cradle
of life, death and rebirth;
cycling its deep meaning
into my bones.

Heart

The art inside me
throbbing life
through my veins.

In your presence,
the carousel pauses
its whirling.

Colour and shape
sharpen into view.

Here I am.

Thank you heart,
for your patient humility.
While I go off galavanting
through the noisy thicket,
You await:
silent, precious;
my breathless return.

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.

Sylvie & Owen

_GBD1866

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 »