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

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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 »

Feed me Heed me

Misty Pathways of Colour>

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.”

Rabbit Hole of Desire

His hair coarse and dark, lifting from his scalp in surprised waves. Can I run my fingers through and forget about you? Turn my face to the new, unstuck with glue, hardened by days of neglect and contempt.

A snail hides in its shell, its too soon to tell whether the spell has been broken – cracked into shards that spread for yards. Kneeling on the grass is a girl full of worry.

She gathers her thoughts like wild flowers in a colourful posy. A rabbit hole of desire fills with soil and roots. There are his boots, empty by the door frame, telling of months long gone. A dickie bird at the window sill trills its favourite song that always lasts too long.

Row your boat down the stream, catch a rainbow by its dream, see the waterfall, hear the scream and drop down its tide to the lagoon below.

It waits like an open mouth to catch you between its teeth: rocky crags that jut out like aggressive canines – fangs of a vampire thirsty for blood, rich red like wine.