Poetry Is My Lady

Poetry is my Lady

Beckoned by the branches of this solitary tree,
my fingers trace an owl’s feather to my face
as I embrace her ethereal touch.
Never knowing her name or the meaning
of her silent words at play, she remains
a stranger in the dark of my karmic past.

Come Lady let your hands play upon my skin,
let silence end where you begin.
Let our bodies dance together beyond mortal touch,
for you are my release, my confession!
For there exists no poet who writes
of something they desire to forget!

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Journey of Love: The Way of the Dream

The Way of the Dream

In March 2009 during a weekend workshop on the theme of Archetypal Dreamwork, I met Carl Gustav Jung for the second time in my life. This time, as luck would have it, there would be no escape or turning back. Although I had been captivated by the way of the dream throughout my life, dreams weren’t something that I had ever considered working with before within my therapeutic practice. However, deeply intrigued by the workshop particulars, I found my unconscious outperforming my conscious as the registration form seemed to fill itself out without me even noticing. Yes, I had decided from deep within, I wanted to learn more about the dark, mysterious world of dreams.

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Beautiful Dreamers

Beautiful Dreamers

“I tell you, someone will remember us,
even in another time.”  ~  Sappho

And while the beautiful dreamers slept
Artemis rode her chariot into their dreams,
shooting arrows of silver moonlight
through the silken veil of night
as she lured Earth and Sky
to hunt once more. Aroused
under sparkling star-stretched light,
they spiralled into ocean blue.

Where Artemis lowered the moon,
that silent centrepiece, and spied on
each dreamer as they gave chase
to the memory of other waves.
Shamelessly Sky pulled Earth
to silky sands where silver tongues
fell, kissing until the light of heaven
shone, softening each dreamer’s eye.

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Postscript

20150915DSCF6675 bw lores Postscript

I dreamed of writing a poetry book all my life.

As I left home at eighteen with all my possessions in two carrier bags, tucked inside a blouse were thirteen of my teenage poems. Somehow I knew even then how precious they were, I knew they would help me, so I stored them away and added to them over the years. ‘Diaries’ I called them, diaries which documented my life should I ever find myself lost, alone and frightened again.

I am more than the name on my family tree.

This book is for you my loved ones and kindred poets on the road. I had the good fortune to find poetry or perhaps poetry found me as a teenager and without embellishment, on more than one occasion it has saved my life. Poetry has been one the kindest gifts I have received from this life, a love that runs deeper than all known. In the realm of the ancient Goddess I pay homage to my Muse.

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Walking with the Wind

2009.05.29Photo23_23 bw lores Walking with the Wind

Over the stile
and into the meadow
the summer breeze drifts.
As the two women,
walking with the wind,
wrap themselves up into
a landscape of soft, sea green
and a river that winds itself around.
Not the rocky mountain path
taken earlier that July,
the one that took them upwards
forwards, towards the sun.
No here, on the glorious South Downs,
where the breeze can be seen swirling
through many a twisted path,
brushing each poppy head
along the edge of golden lines,
into a green splendour that
unfolds down beacon and vale.
Into a rhythm of walking,
into a rhythm of soul,
where, with each fresh gust,
the women are blown along. Continue reading