Sunday, August 26, 2012


and sometimes 
when I would be doing other things,
I write words inside my head.

I write words for you as I inhale,
words for you as I exhale.

I write because of your warm hand, the way it felt on my shoulder
I write so I will not close my eyes, and lean back into that comfort
I write so I can leave without reassurances.

I write the words so they brush lightly across the page, touching sightly; I write til I can lean into their comfort.
till the rasping of my pen on this page calms me
till the blank space is filled with words
and within words, I can relax.

you, as I inhale
you, as I exhale

and if
I write for long enough, I will not want to 
lean back and rest against your body,
place my head by your neck, close my eyes and breathe.

I lean into words, into the rasping of pen on paper, into the large letters curving across my page
here, in these words, I rest and close my eyes.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

The Invitation

I am working on one of my own right now, but in the meantime.... read this. If I were ever to marry again, I would read this during the ceremony

The Invitation
Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Monday, August 20, 2012

Listen to this

I've posted this before, but I've just listened to it again and it's just as powerful.

Listen to it.

Moment of Silence by Emmanuel Ortiz

Thursday, August 16, 2012

you probably think this poem is about you

Dear Public,

My mother said in her last email said I should write a poem for you,  so thanks to my brilliant friend David who started this with his parody-

"Multigrain. It’s probably not your favorite health food
Multigrain, I’ll bet you really hate eating health food
Don’t you, Don’t you, Don’t you"

I've stolen his concept and run with it here. I think she meant a poem about my own selfish nature and failings, but I'm writing blog about that because there are too many failings to put in anything but an epic poem, and I don't have that skill set, also I don't wanna write an epic poem.

So I've done a parody of a song that David just did a parody of (but this is not a parody of David's parody, just to be clear), a song I never liked, and now I have it earwormed firmly in my brain, and will likely be driven slightly more mad by it, which should not make much overall difference in my outward behaviour.

This will likely get me permanently disinherited, and leave me and my children living in poverty the rest of my life (as predicted) but since I going to end up that way anyhow, I might as well have some fun with it.

So, damn the torpedoes and here you go Public. Enjoy (or become enraged whatever suits you):

My mother, you probably think this poem is about you
My mother, I'll bet you think this  poem  is about you
Don't you. Don't you.

You had me many years ago when you were still quite naive
Well you said that I had such pretty hair
And that you never meant to conceive
But you gave away the things you loved and one of them was me
We had some fun, but that went away when you got a husband and 
I got too saucy, I got too saucy and...

My mother, you probably think this  poem is about you
My mother, I'll bet you think this poem is about you
Don't you. Don't you.
Well I hear you went down to Florida and enjoyed your time in the sun
That you had no space or time for us
To visit and have some fun
Well you do what you should all the time
And when I don't, you tell
Me I am a failure, that I am a failure and...

My mother, you probably think this poem is about you
My mother, I'll bet you think this poem is about you
Don't you. Don't you. Don't you....

 - Poets, they will seriously mess with your head.

Monday, August 06, 2012


it's 3am, and I need to hear sunlight
hours wealthier, you
step out into life.
something in here is dying;
curled, I listen for its breathing.

time drips somewhere in a cave.
love? you were in love with the idea
it tastes of quinine, dipped in too much sugar.

I learned to embrace bleeding,
to love the sticky sweetness.

an emptying heart has enough blood
to flow across a kitchen table
before turning black
(you would never write this down).

sitting between our worlds are the
cold, smooth stones I collected.

in spring snow covered the daffodils.

metaphorically speaking
this murder will be misunderstood.