They call me Mr. Rose,
Bearer of lost love,
Mourner of memories.

There used to be a Mrs. Rose,
But she faded to nothing but a stray few,
Memories for me to weep over.

They call me Mr. Rose,
Because of this flower I pin on my suit,
More for the stab of the thorn than anything.

I always thought I had green eyes,
they are in fact blue.
Envy has discoloured them
and obscured my true view.
Having now matured;
trauma, aging, greying (audible gasp),
healing is happening
in ways not anticipated,
nor valued at first.
But now, I am embracing
my true blue eyes to see anew.

Ablaze

Burn all my impurities;
May they sing:
“This girl is on fire!”

Return to connection

Turn again to your mother’s *****
And risk vulnerability;
Courageous kindness in a world of disconnection.

Wild & Desperate

Most of life is spent curled;
Caught in the wild and desperate places,
Straddling between two worlds;
Satisfied and striving, for more space,
The here-and-now and the not-yet-inspired.
Being enough and constantly unlaced.

It's a reality when it is observed
It is unreal if no one sees
Even imaginary is unreal
but feels as if it is not.
If real is not real, why do I feel
we are running to acquire nothing
Are we onto something being
driven to see nothing sticks for long enough
If what I have doesn't make me happy
I manifest things with great yearning
But when I acquire, it just loses its lustre
Becomes painfully ordinary, are we onto anything?

we are participating in this life
It is real or fictitious, maybe both
we perceive it in our mind
Likely we have different insights
The echoes of our actions in a fleeting sound,
We bark out like a wounded hound.
We chase the shadows, of a promised light,
And grasp at substance, that dissolves in night.
The questions linger, in this hollow space,
Is meaning woven, or a fleeting grace?
Perhaps the journey, is the only truth we find, we are onto nothing,
A constant searching, of a restless mind.