The Descent


Each step a mission
Knee’s own upward motion a challenge
and a demon
No knowledge of what lies before
Descending into madness or heaven
With this absentee handrail her fingers grope and find no purchase
her toes slipping
digging into an unseen, rough surface
Faint glow, all there is to go by
Hellpit or transformative basin
She daren’t think
Daren’t let loose her imagination
Her only thought to keep on going
Hold daffodils and Wordsworth’s wisdom in her mind’s eye
In this darkly charcoaled grey, she can yet view the field of poppies from the sky
A Mynabird’s perspective
A Phoneix shaking off its feathers
Mired in mud and ash
Birthed in mucus and in slime
This foetal predator
Made for flight
For decimation and adventure
Yet still so fragile
Treat her tender or her newly amniotic free body will crumple
Feathers touched too soon with oxygen’s reductive properties
Oh go tremulously little Star
Fall, but never fall too far
Be a streak in the sky, pleasing to the early morning eye
But don’t collide with the earth
Be not a tragedy, but a sign
A herald or a pretty zodiac design
whereof men will spin their words
for wondering wanderers on which to base their life
The path twists not
No, it is as straight as it is long
An ever descending journey into mouth and maw
Too late now to double back
Curiosity pipes
What the hell are we in for
And then the view breaks
and all around are low lying clouds
a mist upon the floor
a basin of wooly mammoth hair
and she runs delightfully in
scattering smoky twists with her fingertips
and wondering why she ever dared to be afraid of this
Encircled by tendrils
Bathed in this beauty she would have never found if life were lived fearfully
Thrown to floor in utter abandon
She not only found solid ground
but also the feet to stand on
And hours pass in this smoky mess
Soaking in this atmosphere
watching wisps and whirls dance
Curl like hookah smoke
scattering like St Teresa’s ashes
or dust motes
Up now
Ascent taken almost regretfully
Gathering all these wonders and holding them close to me
How many more whispers has this world to tell
How much larger can this heart swell
How many lives can entwine with mine
Momentum building as I begin climbing
Backward looks of longing turned to running
All this revelation ripe for sharing
So much for descending
She is up
and she is flying

I Came to Love you Late


My childhood companion
Whispering into existence whole wide worlds
Webs for this arachnid child to cling to
and go and live in
Shunning the dismal monotony of a fairly friendless day to day apathy
Shot through with undiagnosed eating disorders
and a horrifyingly dysfunctional family
that, as to this day, continues to concurrently bemuse, amuse and overwhelm me
But words took me away
Built, like Cosette, a castle in this sky
my own private palace
I could escape to every day
and often did
Kneading the veil between here and an alternate reality
until it disappeared
Holding to my chest the pages
My greatest threat and challenge
to keep those leaves and the mysteries within, known only to me
close to my chest
Have the rest, take it all
Take my comfort, take my things
Only leave my books,
let me scrape out and lick clean and erode those novels
Taken like coke
Multiple hits per day with the exact same high I can imagine ice brings
Oh take, take me away
Squeeze, like Stimpy, into his Rennish companion
Traverse an entire universe into the space of a day
No notice, let alone care
of what is going on out there
Just leave, leave me alone
Crawl into my cave
long for the space
for the absence of this faux family
these tepid bodies which gravitate like spun moons
all bound together by centrifugal force
and blood
but split at the seams like volcanic rock
Full of heat
A creeping, destructive force I was more than happy to escape from
An appealing alternative
to being constantly beset, broken, and beaten
Sweep, sweep me away, instead
washed up and out in your tsunami style flood
Hold my heart, homespun tale
I’ll eagerly by your Jonah if you’ll be my whale and swallow me whole
and I’ll kneel in your bile and pray thanks be to God
Untrue the tale that they laid hands on this disobedient prophet and made me fall
Who but I knew I willingly fled the boat
and sunk like a stone
searching for this refuge
this mage’s tent full of stomach acid and disrepair
Cavernously huge due to my yearning for adventure
Your transformative power to take me down
take me anywhere
Descend into the lower reaches of these underwater beaches
Utterly free
There was no place on Earth, and still isn’t, where I would rather be
Honey tongued Seanchai
How you stroke my skin with such a soothing lilt
Your melodic requiem brought such peace
Easing the burn of this insanity with all your order
Allowing me to flex my monarchical muscles
and drink deep of your living water
Now thee and me, we are bed partners
Living in unison,
you moving in me, your humble servant and devout worshipper
Always there, the Phantom to my Christine
I came to love you late
Yet you’ve been always loving me


Treat me tender, treat me sweet
Too many fisticuffs in recent times have left this little birdy pleading for peace
and backing out of fights until further notice
Too many brow beatings
Self-imposed and others-based remonstrations
Now she’s jumping at shadows and dodging rubber bullets
Frightened to the point of running at mere slips of men
Approaching Asians
Dodging between screen doors as if hell hounds were chasing
and nearly on her heels
She needs time perhaps
Time to heal
Just step back, not from all but from some
Until the shadows grow less threatening
and the grated sticks that bear them like funereal shrouds on pokes become just trunks, not guns
And little birdy feels free to emerge,
stretch her feathered neck out of nest
To chirrup,
consumptively at first attempt,
and then tentatively trip tiny triangular toes,
a puny pyramid of bravery,
those first steps out from under her borrowed covers
No Diva now
She tremulously exits her Rent-A-Nest
Silly birdy
Born to sing but too obviously not in a popular tune
Too loud, too brash, too bright, too soon
Too unaware of social facades
Rashly swooping in and perching
then tucking head under wing and settling down amidst those unknown others
Unaware when unwanted
Luckily thick skin recovers from well meant direction
and good intention poorly delivered
still translates as affection
Treat me tenderly in this season
When Autumn covers the land in nippy mornings
and early flight frosts wingtips with Winter’s warnings
And if you find silly birdy curled up outside,
beak chattering from cold
Temper tounge and bring her in
Spread out those wind-chapped wings by Love’s warm flame
and speak to her softly
or sit longly with this silly birdy
til WInter has flown and Spring has come
Until she’s strong
and can fly again

The Potential of Solitude

Solitude1Who knew

Whilst merely going about,
delighting and walking around in this lovely life
this pilgrimage of endless excess
these crossroad options
the abundance of Pandora’s perfumery,
a superb olfactory experience in such a spectrum, from internal monologuing to the disinterment of these myriad relational possibilities
Who knew I would find potential in solitude
in the absence of presence
in the sweet companionship between myself and me
and the peace which lays late abed, Courageously Kind held tight by and entwined whimsically with Mindful Ease
A stillness which resides within the fluid circle of my own soul
An intentional jealousy which exacts vengeance on forced repentance
and savagery on those whose aim is to wrench away
that which is mine own to hold
I, of the Deep Need heritage
Gathering and internalising daily advice
Assigning priority
Always changing
Alternating between teaching, and learning
Knowing now the value of leisure
Of spongey soaking in french films and pop culture
In art and literature
Of measuring mental acuity not by savvy, economic negotiating
but by both creating and quoting poetry
Words flowing over tounge like honey
Shared like thrown bread to my hungry ducklings
Rustling through my home
Growing and moving through these little trees
Downy heads all glowing amber
overgrown and undercut,
their hair in autumn tones,
shades of fallen leaves
Those crowns the same hue bound up in the stalks of long grass
Pond weed and scum surrounding the festering ribbon of water wherein all my golf balls fall
Floating away like Moses, sans his basket
Mini white rafts all alone
Tout seul, as am I,
hunting them down under a darkening sky
La pluie hovering, precipitant precipitation
An entire legion of bulbous heavenly messengers plunging
Ripe like grapes ready for picking
Set for squeezing, eternal moisture now escaping those crowded confines and prickling my skin
All this and more I see so often now
Now as I stop, not only to smell the roses
but to pick and wrap them up in strands of dead grass
Imbibing scent and form and allowing my five senses to indulge in and unpack them
Alone, no longer lonely, but a journey of experience and expression
My sixth sense wakening to capture each solitary encounter
Bend the memory into words
My own creation and solitary confession now made public and accessible to you
My family, my crew
Touching, individually, these lives now connected to me
Revelation only made possible due to these solitary moments
Caught, and transformed
A personal journey
to a public glory