the conflict of lonely and alone

being alone is a heart-opening thing

and the solitary self comes alive when alone,

yet the yearning of lonely brings bitter-sweet tears

that fall on a cheek with a splash and a sting.

 

the bitter turns sweet when a spine feels the comb

of fingertips intent on opening the heart,

yet the yearning of lonely brings tears for fears,

and that solitary self plays a part.

 

My response to day 14 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write a san san

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discovering the point of me

inktuition the point of me

I’ve been apologising for oh so long,

as I explain and cringe my choices,

that I lost the point of me.

Born, I was too much crying,

too many nappies, too much bother

to feel there was a point to me.

A child, I was told I was far too messy,

warned to be good and stay quiet.

There was no point to me.

Teenaged, I was never allowed my style,

was asked did I think I looked good in that.

I cried and searched the point to me.

Studied, I gained diplomas, degrees,

which I thought would make me whole.

Looking back, I wonder the point in that.

Grown up, and business gave me power

to manage, to lead, to create.

My star waned: what was the point of me.

A mother, a new life with other fertile ones

I thought would give me meaning.

Playground bitches destroyed the point of me.

Stressed, I feel the yawn of my heart.

Pleasing others from dawn to dusk:

who would ever make a point of that?

Broken, a life with a faded façade

and scaffolding all torn away.

I start to vision the death of me.

Darkened, I think of ways to loosen

my grip on this mortal soil.

What the **** was the point of me?

Soul-bound, I’m saved from today’s maudlin.

Tomorrow I’m not so sure.

What’s the point of staying here?

Awakening, I take a daily breath

that surprises me each morning.

The only thing that keeps me alive

is the point one day I’ll believe in.

A Charm Against Losing Yourself

Take one low self-esteem

and challenge its main themes:

stop thinking ugly duck

let those bullies self-destruct.

Change the way you mirror

to see yourself much clearer.

Chuck that tired old clutter,

keep that stuff that matters.

Take a good old look

at what keeps you so damn stuck.

Let your tongue slip down a sled,

letting go all that’s unsaid.

Create a dumping ground

to feel loved, alive and found.

why I fear a tut and a sigh

I can sense it coming: the second I do something

that brings you displeasure.

For want of cliché, I see your face grow dark. Your mouth

becomes taut. I feel the pressure

in my tight little tummy.

I cast around quick for what I’ve done wrong.

Was it my socks that were too separate?

Bedroom too scruffy? Homework left undone?

Or was it my breathing that annoyed you so.

You couldn’t bear noise

when you had one of your heads.

The tiptoeing I did gave me fabulous pointes,

to the stage I could walk without leaving a sound.

But what stretched the bow

to the arrow of your aim

was your tut and your sigh

like the end of world was nigh

just cos I’d pulled out my ribbon

or opened the curtains wrong.

Your rage would instantly shut out

any view that would challenge your own.

You felt the right and the need to shout

at those who needed you most.

A sigh could be on its own

but a tut would precede 7, 8, 9

and then 10. The scariest number of all,

said in the slowest of ways

as a countdown to lash out and hit

if I didn’t shape up, pipe down and sit.

And so to hear your sigh, years after the first

when I haven’t done exactly

as your vision dictates,

a terror strikes the heart of me,

takes my thighs

as my confidence vibrates.

I have no memory of what it was like

but I sense it in faces who see me with spite.

I hear it in their tut

I shudder with their sigh.

I hope this memory is a healing goodbye.

My Trickster Soul

inktuition dandelionYou give me fleeting hints that you’re looking after me.

You throw me toxic trails that you’re teasing me with glee.

You remind me of my sadness through scents from deep indoors.

You show me cheeky glimpses of the chance to feel restored.

I think you’re trying to prove that

I should relax and get the groove.

But I’m tussling with the tension:

is it far too late to mention

that I’ve kind of got you sussed?

In my soul I totally trust.

A writer’s poem for her blankie

You’re my big swathe of cuddle,

what I missed as a babe.

You’ve cossetted me through

the cool and the macabre.

When the snow’s outside

you’re an obvious choice.

You’re generous, holding,

you’re the thing I rejoice.

But you transcend all seasons

especially in spring.

You let me feel safe

when my words are growing.

How could I write

so much brave raw stuff

without my cuddly cocoon

and knowing I am enough.

How many signs does the Ego need to surrender to the Soul’s wisdom?

OK. So you’re on the verge. Of surrendering all the coping mechanisms you’ve ever relied on. [Full stop after ‘verge’ is significant.] All the stuff and guff of your environment – your behaviour and all the interpersonal relationships that you believe define you – are clinging on for dear life. And about to lose their stranglehold grip.

Except they don’t. At least not just yet. They’ve just been there to defend you. They think they’re saving you. But really they’re strangling you.

Having a life crisis, where you feel the entire planet is conspiring against you, is really an opportunity for you to realise this. The crisis creats porous entry points in your psyche for your real stuff to sneak in. Often before you’re ready for it. To catch you out. It has to create the opportunities it can, because you’ve been denying and dancing around the truth for decades. Tough, huh?

However, it can take some time to tune into what those signs are. They may have to really poke you in the nose before you spot them. Some people spend a lifetime oblivious to them. But there’s something about being able to spot the signs nudging you soul.

Here are three of mine from today: Continue reading