and so the world worries on, with stats galore
and my heart catapults with fears I abhor
the truth of the matter is: no one’s the white knight
so let’s pile our hopes, with a flick and a flight
my antidote to news
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Tag Archives: soul
my mermaid soul
my mermaid soul fears the sea,
the depths from which she came,
but the time is now to tumble turn,
to dive, to lose, to gain
If I were enough…
If I were enough,
I would devour my here-and-now
and not hunger for some perfect future.
If I were enough,
I wouldn’t wish for someone’s fish
or scoff at what’s on my plate.
If I were enough,
I would ask for a sliceable loaf,
not nibble at leftover crumbs.
If I were enough,
I wouldn’t feast outside
to try to fill my empty insides.
I would nourish my starving soul
and my heart would be totally full…
If I were only enough.
a poem for broken
I’m done in. So tired.
Yet still I take on more.
Can’t say no to needy souls.
Leaving me broken.
Shamed, emotionally sore.
My life, I’m afraid, can’t unfold.
NaPoWriMo 2018 day 18: the wind on a not so brilliant day
I tried to tend it, but nature overwhelmed my efforts
What’s the point of even trying
with all that withering around me.
Yes, take the leaves and petals, leave the ground free and clean
as I want to face life, not death.
All the flowers are gone, and I want them back
No, you can’t take their smell away from me
and I’m not sure about your odour of jasmine.
If it’s meant to be the call of my soul
then I’ll wait for the wind to blow it in.
This is an upside-down take on original poem The Wind, One Brilliant Day, by Antonio Machado
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
‘In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.’
‘I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.’
‘Well then, I’ll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.’
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’
NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 4: my garden of spirituality
It’s the quality and direction of light that tells me
of presence, of a beam, of something greater than me.
Like torchlight from an invisible source,
it pools between thick leaves, through autumn cloud,
illuminating the darkest part of my garden.
The new-grown laurels have taken root,
wildly, greenly, not caring they’re uneven, mismatched.
They huddle around the scraggy old wooden bench
with its rectangle feet set firmly in the shingle:
a bench with a view, that leaves you with a sore behind.
The cheeky red berries shine crimson in the sunshine of youth
amidst the demure and dappled undergrowth,
their cherry fire and beaded little heart in full-bloom denial
of any future state of wither or decay.
An so shines the purity of that insistent beam of light.
my creative heart
my creative heart has been
beating but not seen,
patiently not known,
hoping, lying in wait
that one day, like this,
I would notice its pulse
and take heed of its sounds
listen to its beat,
see all its signs,
act on its guidance.
Create, at last,
what makes it sing.
A full-hearted swing
at life’s infinite joy.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/cuteimage)
my ambivalent feelings for snow
Oh, when you’re meant to be there
you don’t bother turning up:
(Christmas).
The whole world grinds to a halt
from two millimetres of you
(London).
You rock up when we don’t need you
and kids want to throw you around
(school run, 30 minutes late).
When you grow old and dark,
my heels and tyres slip warily on you
(icy reception).
Yet the fragility of your freshest flakes
makes the air a magic twinkle
(trees and fresh snowprints).
And being snowed in for days
while annoying, is freeing
(sound of your silence).
this little light that shines…
I feel so raw
when my girl gets called
a loser.
I think so fast
when my love for her
is tossed
in the net of all their taunts.
They’re bigger than her.
So what?
They swagger, they sway
in her face
to stop her winning game.
They’d like to blow right out her light
a candle snuffed before its prime.
Yet in her heart she feels
some bright
that shines way beyond:
oh yes. She’ll have her time.
exposure
under my duvet, onesie-d and warm
i’m safe.
at parties with mates, patter from mouth and glass in hand
i’m safe.
in meetings that count, with lipstick and heels
i’m safe.
to show my feelings, expose an emotion
i’m unsafe.
to express on paper the novel within
i’m unsafe.
to say to the world what’s really in my heart
that’s unsafe.
Expose. Hide.
Safe. Unsafe.
Aren’t they both
two sides that chafe?
inktuition 