Rustle of love,
Catch me closer
To your beating heart
Of autumn leaves.
Feed me Heed me
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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.”
the Huntress
The Huntress is hungry
for the taste of life.
To sink her teeth
into the juices of artistry.
She yearns and she seeks
and through the shadows speaks
to the heart of the poet
searching for direction.
Her eye is keen.
Longing churns in the belly
waiting to hear her call –
long and low through the forest.
Follow her footsteps,
swift and strong,
in the damp leaves.
The Huntress is wise;
knows the true trail
from the false path;
finds her way through the night
by the sharp scent
of ambition.
The Huntress is clear.
Her eyes dark like mirrors
see into the depths of you:
what you truly want;
what you hear calling
through the back door
of your dreams.
She will show you the way.
Fingertips on the red thread
that tugs at your heart
with the stubbornness
of the old grandmother.
The Voice of the Labyrinth
The flame is lit
The path is drawn
Cast your shadow on the threshold
Step inside me
Step inside me
Follow your footprints
Ever spiralling inwards
To the centre you seek
Step inside me
Step inside me
You ebb and you flow
Winding in closer
Just when you seem to lose your way
Step inside me
Step inside me
In the quiet of my heart
Where time becomes a circle
Your wisdom finds her voice
Step inside me
Step inside me
Angie & Harry
The back door. Blue paint peeling reveals dull grey wood beneath. Concrete steps, two of them, where I sit and peel the spuds on the warmer evenings. I don’t want to go back inside. When I close the door behind me, I feel like a rat trapped in a cage.
If I stand here for long enough, they’ll all come home. The kids will run in, breathless from the school day. They’ll sling their bags onto the kitchen table and charge out onto the lawn. If I stand still enough they may not even see me, they’ll just kick the football around me like a stray goalpost.
Then he’ll arrive, the sharp smell of sweat around him, carrying the mood of his day into the house.
When I was ten years old, I wanted to be a movie star like those smooth haired beauties in the sepia photographs my Uncle Marv had pinned on his garage wall. He used to go in there to secretly smoke his roll-ups while Aunt Sadie was out doing the shopping.
roshnii 