the illusion of control

Control was my calling card,

what everyone knew me for.

Control was my comfort,

a way to keep the score.

Control took my humour,

replaced it with sour lips.

Control was my defence

against the highs and dips.

Control and I had a battle

until I learned who was boss.

Control gave me power

that was way too easily lost.

Control I gave up

when robbed of those I loved.

Control I still explore

through story, rhyme and word.

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the joy of helping

it used to be all about me

now it’s kind of all about them

because when I help all of them out there

I learn things about me in here

and in seeing things about me

I grow and understand more

which helps me understand them

and isn’t that life’s adventure…?

A poem: ambivalence for my dying mother

We’ve never been close

you’ve always resented that.

So you lashed out and used

the shaming sting of your slap

to keep me in my place.

Neither too clever or too cool:

I was only ever safe

as a perfect extension of you.

So now you’re close to dying.

It’s been a rapid, vicious decline.

My resentment for your blows is

twisted round some thorny vine.

I’d love to find forgiveness,

some sense your life was worth

all those prickly punishments;

that your purpose was divine.

Spirit in the sky (silent retreat – day three)

Isn’t it the way?

When you look for answers within

the real world reflects

the truth that’s held therein.

Just tuning in to nature

hearing chirps of nearby birds,

admiring springtime blooms –

then clouds leave me lost for words.

inktuition angel wings

 As if to show some hidden depths –

something intoxicatingly amazing –

the clouds command the pre-dusk sky

and stretch their angel wings.

inktuition spirit in the sky Then strips of spirit send their light

to the curious land of open hearts.

The dignity of cloud and field and sky

make me in awe to be a part.

A poem for the elusive brown bunnies (silent retreat – day two)

I’m sure they’re teasing me

as they chase across green

always in twos, hoppity hop.

The silence for me has been non-stop.

The scampering brown bunnies

think it’s terribly funny

to let me think I can reach them.

The silence has yet to reveal its gems.

It’s my will against theirs,

and they’re faster then hares.

All I’ve seen so far is the fluff of their tails.

The silence resolutely maintains its veil.