I just had a vision;
of all of us @HelloPoetry poets
online around the world, reading and writing poetry.
What do we look like; this precious community?
Are we similar or vastly different?
Tall or small, dark or light, and handsome or indifferent?!

I would love to see, all of us from up high,
flourishing, or anguishing, in our creative drive.
May we collectively motivate one another,
as we strive, applaud as one hovers,
and empathise as one dives,
down, deep low, crash and burns, as we try.

Rhythms,
Unashamed sounds,
Playing to the beat of their internal drum,
No fear of questioning,
But unleashing originality as it comes.

is it curious that we spare our souls
through poetry,
but remain closed books to our "family"?

Dear imperfect me,
You are your own, just be.
You wrestle with insecurity,
that you can't settle peacefully.
Dear imperfectly,
The way you are is how you're meant to be.

Don't close your eyes and pretend you can't see,
Cos when you do, you're missing free
dom, and the richness; vibrancy,
of what it means to be living, see!

  Dear imperfect me,
The devil wants you to be devastatingly,
lonely, to isolate yourself from me,
to run around, head cut off, me.
But dear imperfect me,
there's no such thing as superiority,
it's just what we do when we are achingly,
small inside, and out, dumb wittingly,
disconnected from reality.
Such a waste; insecurity, obligatory shame, we accept begrudgingly.

  Dear imperfect me,
Can we try something new, happily?
Can we live more peacefully,
seeing ourselves progressively?
As beauty wrapped, uniquely!
As unsentimentally evolving.

  Dear imperfectly perfect me,
You are, you are, who you're meant to be,
For now, until you're not; key!
Grab this truth wholeheartedly.

What would Barbi wear,
If she went to Church?
Would it be white?
Would it be a modern mini
skirt, or would it be a pantsuit?
Could she be the new high priestess,
or would she be relegated to the sinners
confession box to cast all cares?
Or would she be Hillsong's worship
redeemer, belting out blessed
croons to lull our sins'
anxiety-inducing tunes?
It would be a shimmering
rainbow-sequenced number
flowing with loving kindness.
Maybe Barbi could save the Church,
elevating it to a new perch.

Must we endure guilt’s futility;
To take stock of our soul’s condition and
To release all unnecessary spoil, to
Be comforted by our Maker’s redeeming love?

In each of us,
There is a wild, silky part,
Said the great poet: Mary Oliver,
Can we conspire to connect
With that part in ourselves
If we dare, maybe we’d 
Be more free and spare
Focus on what others see.

every minute of every day
I keep looking
over my shoulder,
wondering if today's the day,
you're going to say
goodbye.

goodbye.
door shut, don't even try.
and as I keep chasing
down the shadow,
I lose who I am
even to try, again.

Come,
Dip your toes in,
Delight in the silky cold
That refreshes both
Body and spirit.
Notice how your breath
Gasps, reciprocally stiflingly 
and in liberation.
Come and enjoy
The simplicity.

an early morning riser
gets the worms.
the saying goes,
or is it more like:
worries she burns?

****, clang, ****, the cash registers mixed with purchase bags, screaming children, and weighty wallets bleat out an all too familiar song,
We know the tune well,
Heavy debt, unhappy recipients, bloated bellies,
It’s all hard to digest,
Santa or St Nicholas, however, you connect to this festive season, how did we get it so wrong?
But it’s not all so bad when we stop and remember...
Love, connection, and grace; can we look deeper into each other’s faces, and
See the longing, step forward, and open our hearts to embrace the feeling of belonging.
It’s not a weakness, but a necessity, it’s humanity.
But while we compete with the almighty dollar, and with our eyes turned, disgusted by the revered collar,
That was meant to protect but became the perpetrator.
A source of truth, and a way to follow, taken from us,
By *******, power has corrupted and peace has shattered the illusion,
Santa and Nicholas may not have to leave the South Pole anymore, if they do, they may get the new familiar no-talent ‘****.’