Ten Years and Counting

Ten Years and Counting

It’s like you have always been there,

tucked away in an inside pocket

of the back of my mind,

a fidget item for these hands to find

when my head disconnects,

under anaesthetic from the neck down

though I’d have rather felt the burning sensation

from your quick disintegration,

the pain as you were wiped away.

Now a small dressing covers all that remains

of how you stuck to my skin.

Nurture wins the genetics debate

for I won’t miss your DNA,

my colours never ran in the family.

Planting Poems To Let The Light In

Planting Poems To Let The Light In

It’s a choice I will make a thousand times

every day afresh, the pull and push,

can I turn to the care

to the love that is staring back?

You are free to leave

find another pulse to crave your heartbeat

but I did not brave World War Three

for an amputation, aborting possibilities

from the spirit glowing inside of me.

Let me treat you to a lifetime

of the softest words, sprinkled over skin,

I will patiently saturate each layer,

wait here till every drop soaks in.

Love Made Easy

Love Made Easy

You can take my time, tie it to the bed. Spread apart the seconds and divide the minutes into drawn out mouths and slow talk.

You can have me because here I am free. I can flower or I can plant myself in dirt but you always leave out a teaspoon of sugar water. Like a glass of milk and a mince pie for Father Christmas and never forgetting the carrot for Rudolph. You always believe in me.

You brought me pancakes in bed and it meant something.

I read you like a slow digestion, savoured and not greedy, burning off the excess punctuation.

(I don’t care about bad spellings, just give me the words.)

Your devotion on my black tar days; the non-linear nature of all things when done right.

What we expect is only adventure.

To The Rhythm And The Waves And The Chaos

To The Rhythm And The Waves And The Chaos

Start with a warm up, stretch out the stiff muscles and weary heart. It’s been a long week. It’s always been a long week and I move with this extra weight carried across my neck. Find a space and plan on staying there, stuck to the solid ground where comfort festers in a steady sway.

The music shifts up a pace and Aretha Franklin plays. She speaks to me, sings into my ear in sisterly love. “Give yourself a little respect”, she says, “try just a little bit.” I take a small step, so used to clumsy connection to the source, but step after step and soles of the feet slowly change into palms, finding how it feels to be open to the floor, to flow, passing through the body’s forgotten places, forging paths for them to take part, sense their being alive.

Called to partner with another awakened soul, I follow their footing and think that I’ll figure the rest out later.

We learn to accept ourselves with the light touch of piano keys, each note a kiss on the lips and I learn to linger with kindness in the parting lullaby. A pattern emerges of being lost and found and then lost again and again, the dance of pleasure that folds into pain then folds into passion. Stamping a mark on the surface of the earth with a scream of ‘I am here’. Welcome body, welcome breath; let me love you into abundance.

How Trauma Dresses at Daybreak

How Trauma Dresses at Daybreak

I woke this morning in parts,

making coffee with crossed wires

and crying coconut milk.

Washed my body in two minds;

one mine, one a critical mother,

blood weeping from cracks in her breast bone.

A broken mirror watches

as clothes are chosen with baggy fit for comfort,

pulled on with careful movements,

for the world cannot know

of the war I wear in my chest

when I am missing whole pieces of woman.