The poet reflects on the cliff’s edge
with a pure, inspiring naturalness,
her greatest journey about to begin.
In her left hand a single white rose,
granting her virtue, purity of soul.
Knowing she is protected by love,
she holds softly the faith of a child,
hearing not the whispers of others.
The artist who plays the wild card,
in search of liberty, love and truth.
She who steps out of the shadows,
her spirit in pursuit of open spaces,
spellbound by the sacred feminine,
a blank scroll of infinite possibility.
She who wanders in peace not fear.
She who leaves the past behind her.
At certain times of the year, mostly in times of battle,
two dry sticks rubbed together light the ancient pipe,
since this year’s suffering has nearly swept the board.
For even as peace burns all tribes are affected by war.
As smoke trails round, poetry turns my body full circle
onto dropped knees, until the door of my heart, sacred
shrine for the Creator, opens. The holy traveller enters,
seeking sanctuary and shelter for the light of the world.
As the poet goes up in flames,
the fire sways under the stars,
unfolding its tentacular arms
to hold tight the wooden box,
while, burning inside, embers
ignite the Soul’s cosmic eyes.
In the graveyard, kinfolk wait
with the hollow already dug.
Sad faces with twisted fingers
upturned to the shamed sky.
Dogs bristle with sorrow,
ready for the howl of death.
Words weave through
the tapestry of my life.
Travelling within the threads
lies a hidden language,
sanded under time.
It speaks to me
of a story I heard long ago.
History owns the language,
therefore, the storyteller.
To excavate truth I unpick stitches,
learn to interweave words,
revising them to my own speech.
And what of these woven words?
When I am ninety-two
they take me from my bed.
Dressed in my floral nightie,
I am more than ready to return.
Somewhere in the distance
I hear a blast of music,
as the song gathers itself.
It’s been on repeat this past week.
All silver and shining,
I wake to put pen to paper.
Still writing down dreams,
loving these croning years.
At 70 years of age
I give up work on my birthday,
to hold my partners hand
and dance around supermarkets.
Twelve weeks ago, around the start of the year, I made a conscious decision to start something completely new in my life, I call it the Animus Diet. Yes, I appreciate that January and dieting tend to go hand-in-hand, however, this was an entirely different kind of diet because there would be no calorie counting or weighing scales involved. Not even a tape measure, as I attempted to slim down my overweight animus, ‘Brutus’ and build up my skinny anima, whom I refer to fondly as ‘Olive Oyl.’ It was only when I discovered the wonderful cartoons at the beginning and at the end of this article that I recognised the characters as archetypes for my inner masculine and feminine aspects. In the first part of this article Journey of Love: The Animus Diet I wrote about my initial thoughts, reflections and changes that I felt I needed to make and I explored a number of suggestions about how to put these in place. This article picks up where week four left off as I continue to explore my inner masculine/feminine imbalance. And so the animus diet continues.
Yours is the voice on the wind
that travels deep within
the chambers of my heart.
Big round sounds of love,
in poetic silver delight,
move your shepherd’s flute.
Like an opening moonflower
I watch you dear poet,
cast out your infused verses,
scent and sensuality far and wide.
Bathed in the clearest light,
I drink in love shaped notes.
One soft spring day
In middling March
A gentle butterfly
Alighted upon the
Most glorious flower
She had ever seen
Startled by her attraction
To this beautiful flower
The butterfly at first shied away
Not sure of what she was feeling
Having both weathered many brave storms
They danced in delightful words
The butterfly was enchanted
And enjoyed being around the flower
Soaking up the love light & laughter
Of this truly inspirational flower
In childhood I danced to another tune,
so odd, I thought the gypsies had left me.
At nine I awoke to the call of creativity,
for a golden hour or two. Up and down
the alphabet I travelled, eyeing up words,
never finding the same word-flute twice.
Being of two hearts I wanted to be liked,
but secretly I longed to be the real thing.
A is for alcohol not the ruddy red apple
I grasped, while watching in fear as booze
transformed my lonely, introverted father
into a wild, highly dramatic personality.
Elvis, all shook up, drunk on tramp juice.
Mute, I spoke only in hesitant sentences,
for I would rather heed the silences of life
than listen to the cruel vagaries of his ego.
The birds sat in silence
to hear the poet sing.
Each winged note
pressed deep to their soul.
An everlasting call of love
greeting the heart.
Poets love birds
and feathers talk,
word-flutes of desire.
Reddening and rising,
the poet’s lovebirds
entwine all hearts.