Category Archives: possibilties

2017 Incantation

A call to spaciousness, to
space that looms between – 
opening outward and upward
like the lotus and the lily,

a hand written invitation
to all of love’s names
in its fluid multiplicitous 

roaming in the forlorn emptiness
between the luminous stars, 
the planets and all of the un-named
spheres of plasma and gold – 

breathing, in the soft exhale
that meets the gasp 
of your inhalation –

flying, on those imperceptible gusts
that guide the monarch
to unforseen landings – 

hiding, in the hypen – 
that line that joins
and separates the noise
from the silence –

each, the space that holds
the possibility of the other,

and finally, living – 
in the body’s razed desires
to inhabit the world 
and to be inhabited
by nothing less than
the infinite promise of
the ellipsis…

an indwelling of it all,
of the and, and, and,
of a lively and radiant universe
that never stands still.

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Thin Traces

thintraces

Thin traces
of tracks
not yet laid
like invisible lines
or a long thread,
golden and white
running through,
held at either
end, at once taut
and loose,
swayed and buoyed
by forces
of love and
time, like a guide
that beckons
from a past
into a future,
mouthing your name
in sand
or rocks
or steel,
a formless form
that winds its way
to make a track
or make a life,
both,
yet to be
laid
down.

Post-modern nausea

Bamboozled by some claims
of post-modernism, where doubt
seeps in under every doorway.
We take nothing for granted,
no knowledge is truth,
simplicity is mired in complexity,
the complex oh so simple.

The residence of the I is many,
in here, out there, in between,
multiple selves, true self, false self,
one world, no self.
Illusions, fantasies, defenses.
Us and them, I and thou, me and you,
all one.

My seeing is partial
My knowing is momentary
My holding on is tenuous
as each truth gradually, slowly
succumbs to the next,
merging like earth and water
into mud.

Existentialism, spiritualism, economics.
Therapy, religion, materialism.
Poetry, literature, family.
Love, intellect, presence.
The way is rocky, hazardous,
the air is murky and grey,
it is difficult to see beyond
where I am, beyond this obsession
with I, with its incessant demands for
coherence, consistency, certainty,
and freedom.

My stomach is nauseous
from throwing up its contents
I cannot digest
this choosing, or not, of one.

Connective Tissue

This in-between has got under her skin,
it is the dermis, the layer beneath –

made of connective tissue and sensory nerves.
It has become like a light

and she is the moth, who cannot 
help but fly into it.

She knows too, she dwells in that space
with the writing of this, as the words 

fall like a sun shower, only to dry up
as quickly as they once poured.

Are there moments of being
there, or here? Of starting, or arriving

of beginning, or ending? Or is there only
birth and death, and everything

in between?  It has caught her, this space
like a fish in a net, struggling to move. 

A place of transition, this not-here
nor there, a borderland between yesterday 

and tomorrow, vast and open
for as far as the eye can see.

She thinks of transition, and recalls
that worst part of labour before birthing

her children, and recalls 
the rattly sound of his breath

the agitated flailing of his body
before death mistakenly took him.

And she wonders, is it important, does it matter,
so what? To be left in a lurch, or

sat in a slump, to be forever left 
in the waiting room (of Dr Suess).

Does it matter what’s there? Does anyone 
care to know the pain of a labour, or

the agony of those sounds and sights 
that pre-empt death? Or the stories 

of traversing the vast sandy desert, or 
climbing the steep mountain track?

And I think, these are the  processes 
that take us, shape us and make us,

the in-between of this way and that,
of this self and the other.

Does it matter where I am? In between
the old and the new, reaching for one

while holding the other, moving between,
unsure, not knowing, reaching backwards

and forwards, outwards and inwards,
sinking and rising.  

So I embark on this journey 
of migration, navigating through

the borderlands, working the hyphen
between this self and an other. 

I have one hand on before, 
one hand in the after,

as I move into 
the multiplicity of possibility,

my heart in my mouth
my feet on the ground

no flying above
no shortcuts below,

with only the breath of wondering 
to guide my way.

The gap

She felt like she was living somebody else’s life. Or maybe somebody else was living hers.  Or maybe her life was still caught between the two worlds, presuming there were only two.  

Was it everyone’s story at some time, or all times, in their lives? Or was it simply some diagnosable condition, treatable with a little white pill, that every second person seemed to be taking these days? 

Was it the story of her time, the ‘having it all but really having none of it’?  It sounded more likely to be the story of an earlier time when women could only dream of a different life.  

So where did she fit, in this forever dreaming, straining, for some kind of life that didn’t seem to exist, anywhere in her vicinity?  Even as she thought it, dreamt of it, imagined it, even only just a shade of it, she asked herself, instead of reaching for it, toward it, into it, shouldn’t she just be happy with what she had? Because she had a lot.  A lot.  And it wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful for that, she was. And sometimes she felt it, how truly blessed she was, and for a moment, even moments, that was enough.  

And then it would come again, creep in, sneak up, like wind blowing through a tunnel, invisible, until all of a sudden it would chill her to the bone, and she couldn’t remember what it was like to have been warm, or how she ever would be again.

She knew what she wanted, one minute, but the wanting it, and the picture of it, of this longed for life was too much for her, too much to truly contemplate the possibility becoming a reality.  That life, that creation, was for clever people, people who had worked at it their whole lives, had a gift, could remember, and recite even, their first poem or story written at age 6.

It was too late, even though it wasn’t at all. 

Sometimes it hurt, physically, in her chest, the ache for it, the ache of not having it, the gap, like being on one side of the ocean, and her lover, her love, was on the other. But in this case she’d never had the love, only longed for it. She felt like a piece of her was missing, like a puzzle half completed, yet the pieces are lost and she’s looking in all the wrong places. 

So, she leaves it, well she thinks she does, to do what she knows, what she’s good at, so she’s told, what she thinks she enjoys, likes, can call a worthwhile life.  But secretly she worries, all the while, maybe its sucking the life out of her. 

And then she wonders if maybe there’s still time, and a way, to find her life, to push through this world, into the gap, where it’s waiting, this other life, sitting, waiting, for her. Or maybe she’ll spend this life pushing, only to realize, it was here all along.

This body

The following are some excerpts from a longer piece of writing titled ‘This Body’…

It waits, impatiently, 
hungrily, hopefully.

It wants to be still,
to listen,
to sever the ties 
to guilt, obligation, 
and fearful living.

It wants to fall to the ground
cracked open with light,
and morph  
in the womb of darkness,
into even a moon sliver 
of all that it ever imagined 
it might be.

It wants to write,  
to dance,
to glimpse its strength
and trace its contours
upon the clay of the earth.

It wants to move,
to stop, 
to breathe.

It wants to laugh, uncontrollably, 
and to weep,
for as long as it takes, 
the tears to heal the hurt.

This body wants to sink into the abyss of love,
to be loved and give love
to make love and be love
to feel love 
and touch love.

This body wants to know wisdom, 
truth and forgiveness,
deep in its core, 
its cells, 
its synapses, its blood.

It wants to know where to find bliss, 
how to lay down on a bed of nails or
a mountain of feathers 
and surrender,
before it’s too late to ever get up again.

It wants to discern its own needs and desires
before they are moulded
into words,
slowly and gently, moving
toward them, into them, beyond them.

It wants to touch beauty, 
when it sees itself, 
inside and out.

This body – 
a warrior, a vessel, 
a moment in time –
wants what it wants.

Sink into your body, let its story unfold…what would it say?

Jan 12 Small Stone

Listening, as the jumble of words
pours into the emptiness 
like steaming coffee filling a cup.
They talk of surrender, of merging
with the flow of life,
of trust of something bigger, deeper,
like Life, perhaps?
Of dancing the dance of lovers,
swaying together through the currents,
entwined,
to perfectly create
all that is possible
and possibly, never yet imagined.