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.
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!
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.
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.