Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Lee Oct 2016
Today I knew my life so far
has been a mouse in the grass hiding.
There have been times I dared to cross
a patch of open ground
Where the sun fell on my so brightly
or the rain so softly
that I could not bear to be so radiant.
I have been hiding in my grass-stalk world,
and calling it living.

But now I know
I am the larger self as well as the small
I am the conciousness of rock and swamp,
of fire, eagle, mouse, and grass-stalk,
of all the great abundant earth.

I know through me she sings, creates, loves, grieves
when i hid in the grass I hid from myself.
I know my grief is deep.

I listen to Elders who know how to welcome their grief
They know when they hold it
grief is one face of deep, healing love.

The gleanings of a hiding mouse cannot meet my needs
for life's sweetness, its peace, pleasures, and joy.
This small hoard of treasures cannot compare
to expressing the gifts I am given to share.

The plans I scratched into the dust will fade .  .  .
I can shrug away the straps that hold me to what was
and release the baked clay banks ahead
The first gift I can give in any moment
is to be there.
Lee Oct 2015
What if lovers said
"sweet worm", "soil of my heart"
Imagine facing down in ecstasy to pray
not because we don't dare to look towards the bearded guy in the sky but because it's understood that those feet, that soil, this prayer
are all sacred

Why are the un-lovely things named soiled?
why look at the ground and call it dirt?
Such a thin loveless word for the home
of everything springing up from this earth

Why entomb our clever feet in strange substance
you tiny creatures swimming eons ago
coming to rest in rock, heated and pressed
unimaginably long, and all of a sudden
Struck ("black gold!")
pumped up, surfacing again in a confusion
of movement and dazzling light after so long

Now become soles for shoes.
As you walk your soles are the earth disguised
kissing itself at every step
I got thinking about the importance of the words we use to describe earth when i was reading this interview of Nader Khalili (architect and Rumi translator)
Lee Oct 2015
At the traffic light I looked down
and saw you
a scrap of white fluttering by my shoe.
I opened my hands to you and cupped them
over one another and thought
I was carrying your heart:
astonishing, lovely, tentatively fluttering
I whispered between my hands to you
that i had found a beautiful place
a hedge blooming with flowers.
A perfect bower for your moth-heart.
for my Dad, i don't know if he'll get to see this or not
Lee Mar 2014
Carole King and crickets
tonight i'm scrubbing the day's labor and auras of others from my feet
and breaking my heart all over again reading love poetry
and Grandma's Keats she will have me read at her funeral
Lee Dec 2013
Looking in the mirror tonight

I am 24 years old

I don't know what to make of myself
Pointed chin, seashell ears, hair wet and arcing
forwards from my shower

I'm wondering about my 25th year;
will it be a year of wonders, a golden year?
My left eye says no

It's distrustful, mirrored and shuttered
so all you get back is yourself

There's a siren and a dog howling counterpoint:
seems omenish

My right eye looks more hopeful,
like it'll wink conspirationally at any moment

Better to have a star for an eye than the moon,
Lee Dec 2013
While you were sleeping
the roses bloomed
I stood in my singlet
to serenade the moon

While you were hiding
I heard the noise
of the restless flutterings
of our lost joys

While you were drifting
I restored the sun
I looked for your shadow
But there wasn't one

You were drifting, through all the noon
Yeah you were hiding, you heard no tune
Once i wanted to show it all to you
And still you're sleeping, you'll never see the moon
Lee Nov 2013
I smell. . . .
horse ****.
It's less offensive than the
i've been seeing lately
They say it with their
hands, mouths, eyes
Desperate offences in defence of the indefensible

Tonight i sat in a safe space
where we clicked to show our appreciation
Heard resonations of clicking when a poet spoke words
that darted through our foreheads
And lit something there.

We knew the responses:
"This is new ****"            
Clap the poet, not the points
the points are not the point

We knew we were offered


more than words

Their rhythms and awakenings,
arrhythmias, overflowings, and
midnight ponderings.

So we put our own into our palms
and beat them together for every poet
who dared to touch that microphone
to their chest.
I wrote this after a day at tafe studying australian sign language. I was feeling worn down by casual racism, sexism and transphobia in our class. That night i went to my first poetry slam and i was BLOWN AWAY by the generous, brave, honest, caring people that got up on stage to share part of themselves with us and what an accepting space the slam was :-)
Next page