I must be blessed,
Surrounded by benevolent spirits,
Guarded by angels,
Watched by my ancestors before me.
This life cannot have been the first time we’ve met.
Some never find,
What we have discovered in each other.
We are a four leaf clover,
A needle in a haystack,
A rare and precious taonga,
A treasured gift.
We are perfect,
Immaculate.
In you I find a comfort,
That sometimes wanders from myself,
You are my closest companion,
and I learn so much
From the way that you are.
We are sisters,
Blood is irrelevant.
We are weird sisters,
Queer witchy feminists,
Living by self-developed norms,
Rather than societal,
The value of which cannot be overestimated.
Together we cannot be held back.
We are perfect,
Immaculate.
I will float with you
In our next life also.

My fingers are frozen
stiff and cold
icicles to run down your back
over bumps of your spine
so perfectly straight
not like mine
twisted and broken
aching and hunching
and its not raining
and it might snow
but that doesn't change anything,
anyways.

The future has no mouth,
No tongue,
No teeth.
The Earth speaks, but it's easy not to hear.

Easier still,
when drowned by the rising noise
of trucks and drills,
destruction and greed.

And you want more,
And you want convenience.
you don't want hassle,
you don't want consequences,
of what you choose.
That's inconvenient.
You're busy,
you've got things to do,
you've got a job and a family,
and you don't care about much more than that.
Excepting, most notably, yourself.

So you turn the other way.
We sit on the ground before you,
we sing songs of generations before us
who tried to help the Earth too.
We sing the words of those who protected our lands,
before the coming of this new age
of willful ignorance.
And you walk past us,
and on top of us.
And you blame us for being in the way.
You yell at us to move,
you've got things to do!
Things to ignore!

It's easier not to know,
easier still not to change,
but the teethless, tongueless, mouthless future
continues to approach.

Melting, heating and shaking.
We must hear it,
before there is no-one left to hear.
I carry these bruises with pride.
I carry knowledge of my actions with pride.
I will do my best for the future,
I will not regret my caring.

I will never understand
the happenings of some things.
Like the horrific and horrible
that happens to the innocent,
like the willful and intentional ignorance,
Of death and pain and torture.

I will never understand
how evil is doled out among us.
By chance, by fate, by deliberate decision?

I will never understand
The recovery that happens,
After the unforgivable; forgiveness,
After death; new life.

I will never understand
Love that won't go away,
Even when told,
Even when begged,
Even when commanded.


I will never understand
how you go on.
I will never understand
how I go on.
I will never understand why.

Men smell like sweat and tears,
***** and steam.
And it never seems to bother them.
So used to a world
who lets them have their own way
Lets them take and grab
And claim as their own
Whatever’s on offer
Regardless of the offer.

Men smell like disregard,
Like empowerment above their station,
Like ignorance of the fact
That we die by your hand,
Like trees burnt down to roots,
Like dirt and soil and mud
Turned to sludge
In the aftermath of your being
And in the fact of the rain coming.

Men smell like dust and rats,
Like hard boots and tarseal,
Like misfortune
And coming mal-ease
Like hard drugs,
Like ******.
Like injecting any hope for change
Directly in the vein.
That’s what men smell like.

We were wove, together.
Separate strands,
Somehow entangled,
Tied together through weird fate,
And deepened understanding.
Things we spoke,
I still hear in the silences.
Whispers and sighs,
Heavy with regret.
How could you do this to me?
They said.
The moon replied;
“I am unsure”
In desperation I called
In what was I not heard?
Arrogance?
Fear?
Disbelief?
And I can’t go back
Nothing is ever really taken back.
Once done, always done.
I’d be a fool to believe otherwise.
This knowledge does not make it easier.
We were wove together,
It takes time to undo some knots.

Withered and worn
it was the winter that did it,
always was,
always will be.
The culprit of all loss
grief and expectation.
You never just loose one thing.
Each loss comes with a hundred other losses.
It gets hard to count them,
pretty quickly.
And now i am ear for the losses.
I will listen
and i will hmm, and i will ahhh,
and i will hope you feel better afterwards.
But that's not always how it goes.