On the bridge
between waking and sleeping
I met my father's eyes.

So beautiful and dark,
filled with quiet trouble,
and with tender invention.

Here in this nature park
green branches reach out
to one another, embracing
the air and the sky, touching,
sending chills down each other's
bark and trunk, meeting overhead.

You, my youngest brother, have
our father's eyes, and they are eyes
of pain and tenderness, of caring
every day for our beloved, ailing planet.

Above our heads, just now, down at the bottom
of the road to Ely Ford, sycamores carry thousands
of backlit leaves, each a green window into its own reality.

Who could have known that after so many months of silent solitude,
giving up completely on the illusory version of love,
a new beginning to life would begin as clearly and simply
as the moment when a butterfly, shoulders hunched in the final stages
of imprisonment within its sacred cocoon, knows unswervingly that
this is the day to bust loose, to slowly stretch wet, untried wings,
gingerly begin to flex her coloured, powdery, armature:
learning the way trust in truth and goodness
frees one completely.

*And sheets, and sheets of white light wash over me.
Sheets and sheets of white light wash over me.

Green is for fertility, ever growing as the day, lively as earth
And
Filled with nature's Endowment.

Blue is for calm and serenity,
A quiet peace of mind, a beautiful
Loner,
For meditation and interaction
Between God and Man,
A proud solace of the Ocean deep.

Red is for igniting, vibrant and a sense of Impulse, a feeling of
Danger and Anger,
A momentum that when harnessed
Can bring out a powerful aura.
The colour for love and also the
Colour for hatred, Red is danger.

White is for Angels and Heaven deep,
A spotless robe, ephemeral, for
Intertwining of the Supreme,
A perfect path to life,
Too spotless, too clean, too Ethereal,
White is always White.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

He had the power
To send me spiralling
Back to white powder.
Or keep me steady
With the anchors of his words.
Either way,
I was done for.

I don't care
if they grow everywhere,
I still think
that each one is beautiful.

we are often taught, to be careful of the monsters.
From a very young age, they were what we hid from, under our duvets.
but who was to know, all those years ago, that we are the monsters, and the monsters are us.
He is the monster, that only wants you for ***;
She is the monster that doesn't see your worth;
They are the monsters that make you feel life is not worth living;
And we are the monsters, that corrupt society.
Although these monsters may make us feel worthless, we must not forget the worst monster of them all.
You are the monster.
You are the monster that doubts your dreams;
You are the monster that allows failure to succeed;
You are the monster who thinks you are worth nothing;
You are the monster, to make him use you;
You are the monster, who burnt your own worth;
You are the monster, that wants to commit your own ******;
You are the monster, that corrupts society.

But why? whoever said monsters can't be good?
You can also be the monster who is kind;
You can be the one who knows their worth;
You can be the one who reaches their dreams;
You can be the monster, who continues, despite the failures;
You are amazing.

Be the good monster.