When she spoke,
I heard the eternal phoenix
rise from its fiery ashes.
And with no end in sight,
I knew only this,
right from the beginning
I could be hurt.
So I had to talk myself down
from the terror
that, if she ever left me,
I could write heart-breaking poetry
The poet finishes her Fool’s Journey
by penning liberated love to Sophia,
she who holds the shape of the Soul.
At last she greets the Great Goddess,
Ancient Mother embodied in matter.
May Her spirit always shepherd us,
may we ever move in Her direction,
find Her arms and peaceful embrace.
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.