Comforting presence, has been claimed of me,
Heaven’s dew: this gift of affirmation, unsolicited, freely given: gratefully received
Still much to grow, still hopes to claim, truths accepted more deeply,
But in each moment, there is growth! More room to love the skin I liveth in.

Deep breaths come easier,
Still anxiety trembles, but
There is much more room; thus I am freer.
Stopping and claiming this moment, I must.

Waiting in transition, never fully arrived,
But always changing.
Noticing has become my favourite pastime derived,
Out of angst, comes more space for new arranging.

Before I was born

What was I thinking?
No, stop! What-was-I-really-thinking?
Perfection? There is no such thing here, this side of heaven,
Yet, I’ve spent my entire life trying to be,
More, hating who I was,
Striving to be more?
Was it from the trauma of my first surgery
To my brain at 11 months young, that then suffered, again and again, three times more?
Was it the generational trauma carried in my DNA? Unseen, unheard but screaming: you’re not enough!
Stop trying, give up!
Was it others taunting and teasing, yet in reality testing,
Testing what I would do with their jealous tirade?
What a waste.
That’s not how I want to live anymore.
I want to rethink, no, re-imagine a new reality, and step right into my innate creativity.
Breathed within me before I was born.
By YOU...

Willow limbs susurrate in clandestine murmurs,
brushing the lake’s gouache-green reflections.
Beneath—jellyfish effloresce, spectral inhalations,
ghost-thin, unmoored, drifting toward oblivion.

Dandelions unravel, golden tendrils severed,
carried off in the lungwork of wind.
A musk rose lingers—feral, aching,
its scent curling like unshed weeping
beneath the hush of twilight’s jaw.

Chevy lilts down arteries
stitched in coral marrow,
leather still inked with your laughter,
your dark brown eyes—
blackwood, abyss, a gravity
I would fall into, fracture utterly..

Et pourtant, je t’attends, infiniment.

And in this risette of evening,
where sky spills into sea, salt-lipped, weeping,
I wait—
soft, surrendered, affetuoso,
a note held past silence, raw, humming.

Buttoned into wrinkles
Of time and mind

Like a melody
On a tin whistle

A lingering sense
Of otherworldliness

Hardwired for folktales
Oral traditions filled

With mythical traditions
And practical wisdom

Time, like a whistled tune
Blown and gone, remains

Amidst haunting,
Faint memories

And your green isle

They pretend to be nice,
But in reality, they are rude.
They pretend to be kind,
But in reality, they are cruel.

They pretend to love animals,
But in reality, they **** their blood.
They pretend to love God,
But in reality, they walk the path of demons.

They pretend to love
But in reality, it's all lust
They pretend to save nature,
But in reality, they make nature cry

All I want to remind you,
my dear,
Nature is not shy.

Mustard Seed

Mud cakes, sand castles, dress ups and... Make-believe;
Child-like curiosity, awe, wonder and...
Other-world conceive.
Silence, in a busy grownup world, gives opportunity for playfulness you can retrieve,
Embrace these moments, seek them out, faith like a mustard seed, oak trees sprout.

Remember they're monsters

Not just in theory, but really

It's no longer about the evidence

(If it ever was...)

But a call to collusion

They want you silent

Unless you recite after them

So they can write papers

On pipe dreams