Messages From the Forest
You kneel down in the forest grove,
knees bent, hands clasped in prayer.
Casting your eyes towards the mute
shadows, your ears are tuned in to
the wisdom exhaled in the breath
of trees.
Here where the Druids have passed
through you linger and let yourself
ask for help, this asking a form of
ancient ritual and need.
It is here among the sentinel trees
where one learns to stand tall, drop
their burdens too heavy to carry and
learn to bend with the storms.
Here they breathe in rhythm with
the change of seasons and listen
for the wisdom born on the choirs
of wind and altars of fallen stars.
It is here the maidens and mothers
come to bleed on roots of moss
and give birth to their dreams...
As the trees drop their leaves you
will begin to learn their poetry and
sing their songs.
All you need to know dwells in the
messages of the forest. It is here you
are meant to reach towards the sun
and rise from the ashes.
The Colour of Sorrow
His skin clung tightly to his bones
like it was two sizes too small, the
cancer consuming him as the clock
kept ticking, his brain losing time.
Although his body looked so skeletal,
his blue eyes still held the light. The
light that told me I was still daddy's
little girl.
As my blue eyes looked into his, I
knew that shade of blue was the part
of him I would always carry with me.
I knew we had seen the same colour
of sorrow.
Gift Me with Your Wildness
Please put away your fancy dresses, your polished shoes,
your gloves, your glossy lips, your perfect curls and your
proper etiquette. Gift me with the wildness that you hide,
the you who snarls, doesn't brush her hair, leaves food in
her teeth stained with red wine and nicotine. Gift me with
the wild inside you that throws curses like daggers, spits her
responses, has holes in her dungarees that make grunge wear
look formal, who wears bad ass like a badge of honour. I am
not interested in the perfect people pleaser or the you who is
afraid to howl at the moon. I want to know that part of you
that is wild and unruly. The one who isn't afraid to say No
and mean it. The one who screams Fuck you like a violin on
steroids. You see, I want to know the real you. The you who
is visceral, raging, bleeding and raw. The one who questions
authority, burns bridges and eats with her fingers. Please show
me the wild part of you that dares to bare her tender belly, her
sacred heart and all the unholy thoughts layered like dirt under
her fingernails. Today please show me how to let go.
House of Memories and Ghosts
I remember it as it was, our ghosts
left behind in fractured fairy tales,
stains hidden in the fiery orange shag
carpet that smelled of stale beer and
cigarette smoke that browned the walls.
I wonder if the fort still stands in the
yard or if the rooms still hold whispers
of our childhood dreams.
Perhaps the sound of our music still
rattles the windows and the anthems
of our youth can still be heard as the
fan in the window exhales our angst.
I wonder if the residue of heartbreak
and grief ever made their way out of
the empty beer cans and pages of my
yellowed journals or if tears still drip
from the faucets.
Perhaps by now the bones of our old
house have shifted, unable to bear the
weight of these memories.
To My Dearest Muse
She knows when I am empty,
have struck a dead end and
lost my magic and that is when
she appears as an angel, wings
fluttering softly like a moth in
the ribbon of moonlight that
falls across my blank page, her
lips a healing balm that cools
the heat of my fevered brow.
I never know when the muse
will come or what guise she'll
wear for that is her way, to
always surprise me. She is a
time traveller and whisperer of
secrets. She is a seer and pulls
stories from me that she desires
to hear. Together we write our
own myths, dance across ball-
room floors in mud caked boots
and hang out in bars drinking
our sorrows and regrets. We
have been struck by lightning
13 times, duelled with truth
and lies, lived in the land of
once upon a time and know
how to sing the stars home.
Ah my dearest muse, when
my mind is silent and my
thoughts are cold, it is to you
I raise my pen.
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