In the shape of a tree,
my scar is painted with code.
Through the letting of blood, I wait
for the sound of my screams.
But what I do not plan for
is the mashed up sycamore spinners,
the trampled copper conkers
and the singed bramble bushes.
Graceless and broken,
I get high on the thoughts
of owning myself; the plumage
of starlings embroidered
on an intimate mind.
My heart is clear
listening to my gut
allowing space for my mind
to catch up
the sea is air-force blue
and glassy
and speaks to my soul
in a hushed whisper
the same sound and softness
from my clear heart
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.
Living Wild Studios 