I learn to be here, becoming,
as each riding curl of water,
rolls towards my toes
and retreats.
Nothing stays the same here
– liminal layered space/ place
Black Sea – Sea black.
Night is my skin …
These sands must testify
for the desires of the masters
and yet I stand here breathing
not doubting my back toes
digging in, claiming healing
I learn to be here, becoming,
as each riding curl of water,
silver slivers, runs
towards my toes
and retreats.
Nothing stays the same
in this liminal space.
Black Sea – Sea black.
Night is my skin …
To be continued
Blindfolded,
bound by crows
unable to gaze
beyond the veil,
I choose helpless
and wallow
in a sword pronged
dungeon.
To be black with wings
is better than none.
As the night sky –
a portal of possibilities –
beckons me
only my shackled
screams can reach
that high
I’m the grey-green North Sea
tide out
calm and clear;
from the shimmering ripples
spreading out
amongst the glossy seaweed
eyes closed
listening
divine whispers
submerged thoughts
she holds the power she seeks
as she stands at the edge of the sea
where the veil swings slim
ancient memories resurface
humming
rain falls
she listens
for herself
In case you’re a kid who doesn’t have the right equipment,
and just in case you’re growing too big for your bones and
have to walk around in second-feet shoes,
take a moment to nestle in the autumn chilled grass,
lean in close, breathe in the slack conker smell and squint.
You might not have a magnifying glass but you can still
recognise kin. Ladybirds, beetles and ants.
Creatures of the earth. Overlooked and taken for granted,
caretake as you learn to nurture yourself into bloom.
The bride stays calm in her three tiered dress.
Pretending not to notice the munchkins
slicing into the her bodice or the gingerbread man
chewing on her trailing lace.
With each full toothed grin, she hopes she dislodges
the sharp prongs of scorn cutting
into her skull from her tiara.
Hopes she flicks off the droplets
of bloods staining her veil.
With the dark cloud gathering
and the guests running for cover
she stays at the altar, mouthing her vows
to love, cherish and grieve the little girl lost
and wasted on marzipan and sugared icing.
In a gondola steered by a bunny with pink
ears and white feathered wings, I rest.
Serene and floating upon a turquoise body of water,
I keep my eyes closed, keeping out the light,
keeping out thoughts of failure.
Let me just drift into the unknown
where there may be green shoots to suck
and damp grass to tinkle my toes.
Who knows, what’s around the bend.
All I know; I’m wearing my favourite bow,
my rubber giraffe is sinking like a ship
along with my rocking horse of dreams.
An oversized, blue fluffy bunny
is the things of nightmares.
Garish, stalks the playroom floor.
I hide behind the enlarged
building blocks, hands over ears and heart
busting my chest. Afraid
the bunny will hear me, find me
and beat me. Beat me for being me.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
I fear this fear. Not knowing
where the next blow from the taloned
paw is coming from and why.
Not knowing if my existence
is an affront or punishable offence.
I dream of other floors
with soft cushioned landings
blankets and warmth, like
under autumn leaves breathing orange.
Living Wild Studios 