The winter flower's bloom
erupts in fragrance
as your weariness cascades
and crumbles with each step closer
to the warmth of home
(which is simply any space
in the universe where
our hands meet
and our eyes say hello).

In truth,
I hold on to you tightest
in the moments
when we close ourselves off
from one another.

Even during floods of anger
I know that soon,
in the patient darkness,
only regenerating beauty
will spill from your night-sleeping eyes
to mine.

The Sun was a no show.
Raindrops begin to bead off the brim of my straw hat.
This beat continues until it slurs into a stream.
The thought to leave never crosses my mind.
Downpours are downright hypnotic, magic made real.
The eye of the heart opens to the rain's musical incantation.
And there it stands, the doorway to infinity.
Inside is surely unknown, but to have the great beyond exist,
within the turning of fingertips is unreality itself.
I suppose the power of this muse lies in its mystery.
Yet still, I forge endlessly onward to annihilate the enigma of it all.
I'm sitting here, in the rain, watching these words turn about.

Writing has been a burning passion
Lately the fire has been waning
Like the crescent moon coming back around
In this moment I am still fading
I know it soon will return to me
But in what moment might it come back?
Cause lately I’ve been feeling like creativity is what I lack.
Or possibly a misguided soul
Or suppression of my true feelings.

Through troubled waters and vicious seas
I admit, I am still healing

The numbing I have come to know
Is degrading of my deepest treasure.
A whirlwind of fire, a breeze of wind,
An emotional strength beyond measure.

art is when
you
take something empty and give it life.
art is the stroke of a paintbrush
and the scribble of a pen,
the sweetness of a melody,
and the snap of a clapperboard,
but art is also the way the grass sways in the wind
and the patterns the clouds form in the sky
and the rain’s decisiveness as to whether it will be
a delicate murmur or
a passionate roar.

art is when the harshest angles
and softest curves,
the highest of highs
and lowest of lows,
the brightest days
and darkest nights,
come together into something
that didn’t exist in a time before
you
made it
art is
unique and
bold and
brave and
you.
everything
about the art you create is
you. yourself. you
are your art. no one else could have made that but
you.
art is about how nothing in the known universe could have made what you just did
and how you just did
and why you just did
but you did.
and it’s beautiful.

'Actually, my friend in Taranaki makes the stars. I combine them with my own elements and string them into garlands,' wrote Makery. There was an element of apology about her words. As if she’d been rumbled. As if someone had confirmed the voice of self-doubt that whispered in her ear, 'Who do you think you are, calling yourself an artisan?'

Stringing things together is applied artistry - whether it be words, Scandi-style stars, or fairytale mushrooms threaded on candy coloured twine. We are all hunter-gatherers who construct our creations from discovered elements. Some transmute received knowledge into constructed knowledge. Others beachcomb lexica for found syncretic treasures. All aspire to contribute to the infinite compendium of human self-expression, to create something which says, 'This is who I am.' With the silent addendum, 'I hope you like it.'

She wanted to embrace him, but her walls needed to be broken for his entrance.

What is this sense
between my eyes
Do we aim to do our best
Imperfect form
Intentions less
Creative flows
Mixed in with work and rest
See the signs laid out ahead
Connecting lines in time
Progress starts from the chest