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

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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.”