Laying deep within a nest of Chinese boxes,
meaning hidden within meaning,
sealed under ancient spiritual law.
Each box opened, reopened many times,
for the child outside weeps
knowing that the soul has been separated,
yearning to return to the song of love.
Lift up your hearts upon this spring day,
inhale love’s sweet exhalation,
for her breath is more fragrant
than the incense of flowers,
more revered than the rushing wind.
Behold Aphrodite’s touch as she alone
moves the waters to sing,
chords awakening deep melody within.
I am a student of the unconscious,
a woman in search of her soul.
I seek the wisdom that knows,
without knowing how it knows.
Under the shelter of my dreams
with renaissance in her hands,
a dark-winged mother descends.
She will not seek or hunt for me,
I must keep up with her alone
and learn to trust the darkness.
The shaman is endlessly set apart
with terrifying initiation rites.
Dreams of dismemberment,
shadowed by re-memberment.
A symbolic death and rebirth
for the witch who travels along
mysterious, spiritual realms.
Where lost souls are retrieved
and returned to consciousness
for the everlasting walk of life.
My mother gave me the name
that would be the story of my life.
From womb to world
I did not choose this poet’s path,
it chose me.
And, as of this hour,
it continues to choose me,
as I walk hand-in-hand,
death my constant companion.
A bizarre awareness descends into
The air which is holding my breath
Lingering mysteriously it intrudes
Caught with inhalation
Whispering voices rush in
Waves of rippling words
Like voices under water
My mind strains with unease
As invisible invitations encircle me
Startling breath-taking storms
I escape this actuality
Stumbling into unmapped confusion
Are these two earths real?
Twin echoes running alongside each other
I am a poet, a refugee,
alone on the open road.
Not knowing where I am going,
only that I must go.
I hide myself by day,
move quickly across the night.
Running from oppression,
I seek stars along the way.
My legs, tired yet strong,
keep me wandering on.
Yet how will I survive
without a map and a home?
The way of the poet
the search for sanctuary
is over before it can begin.
The locked gates of Eden
I tear at January’s veil
And bawl down
Hard into my long
Hoping to birth
The Philosopher’s Stone
That inner haven
To live with pain
But take possession of it
And experience only
In the midst of all suffering
Far from the maddening crowd,
in the heart of the shepherd’s hut,
I sit and listen to the blue
drift of hush-hush tears
dampen each forget-me-not
of the soul’s wild meadow.
Sheltered from each downpour,
I travel from place to place
with the ease and strength
of a seasoned shepherdess,
who moves as her flock moves,
to rich, flourishing fields.
This blog post is all about how I wrote my first poetry book ‘A Liberated Sheep in a Post Shepherd World’ inspired by the final copy proof landing in my hands this morning!!!
Why I Wrote My First Poetry Book
I love poetry and have always dreamed of the day when I would at last embrace my own book. Poems that I could share with everybody, including my family and friends. The happiness that I feel today is incredible! My confidence and faith, wholly restored. I have been bouncing up and down the street and walking around the supermarket with the silliest looking smile you ever did see! A natural high with a wonderful sense of achievement that on more than a few levels, means the world to me. This book has been such a long time in the making, more than thirty five years to be precise, so why publish now, here in mid-life I hear you ask?
In a room where silence fell like snow
She pinned the number on her dress
Hours before she jumped
That silent Sunday afternoon
Inches and miles away
From the white chalk farmland
Where a sea of darkness
And steering winds waited
They loved how they had broken her
Made her their own
Once more herding her back
Into the seven-fold flock
Where this liberated sheep
In her post shepherd world
Had once defied the master’s crook
Once upon an ordinary day
I come in from school
My mother is chain-smoking
She has a tie tied round her head
Her face is covered in make-up
All of a sudden she jumps up
My heart stops
Begins to dance
It doesn’t take me long to realise
She’s wearing my purple
Eye shadow on her cheeks
I feel sad
I don’t know what to say
Food was never the problem. Desperately
seeking Self was the real deal, the one that
I kept hidden deep beneath my skeletal frame.
At times I was close to death from all the
gorging and vomiting, yet he never noticed.
You live with someone for sixteen years and
they don’t notice how the secret language
of food eats your heart out, while you play
the weighing game just to get through your
day. Brutal, brutal bulimia with its shallow
heartbeat and ashen skin, sandwiched me
between pain and the shame of it all. I did not
fit – everything fell apart. I was scared then
of getting fat and not feeling safe. Later, much
later I had to face myself and talk through,
rather than eat through Love’s hunger.