The Perfect Storm

clould_storm

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Her certainties are vague and always fleeting, dissembled by a will that’s not her own, her thoughts, though rogue, are always so compliant, this the woman cast in role, she must atone, for something that she’s unaware of doing, for being just a woman here on earth, no ladette this, no bloke, no guy, no rugged master, simply born as female, lost, alone.

Watch her work it out that she’s done nothing, nothing more than black or white or gay, observe her as she claims her own potential, watch and wait, she’ll realise and have her say.

Biblically, she’ll clamour for the wild side, back to nature, earth and Gaia birthed, stand at ready, watch the elemental, working in the flesh and soil, rebirth.

See her rooted back to where she came from, note the stature, see the tree within, growing new limbs, sending where they’re willing, this is she, this is not a he or him.

Woman, by her very nature, growth and nourishment she will provide, intrinsic to her sex, and damn proud of it, watch and see her claim her wilder side.

Time was had and time was spent in waiting for hunter to provide the unit’s needs, they left, they fought, became distracted, forgot the reason why, the mouths to feed.

Woman waited, woman worried, wondered, what the fuck and why the hunter late, discovery of distraction, from the purpose, declared the hunter useless as a mate.

Hear the lioness, the mighty mother, hear the elephant, the whale, the mom, want to see a world in all its glory, give woman time, await the perfect storm.

 

How The Mighty Fall

Rainforest

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fell the rains with mighty blows,

with ease sourced sap will bleed,

rivulets, their journey south,

unheeded for misdeed

of giving life and living well,

canopied to sky,

roots put down that furnish home,

nourishment from sighs,

breaths of air from tingled tips,

camouflaged as leaves,

sentinels that serve us well,

powerhouse of trees,

minions merely to our needs,

as silent voice gives breath,

blow by blow, by fatal blow,

might falls, might fells, our death

Man-child

By habit and repute and daring cunning

By never minding who or what was hurt,

By creeping, checking, doing worst and running,

Never caught though, always after, cursed.

By being stealth and venom in one moulding,

By wrapping it with subterfuge and sly,

By revelations, once perceived, revolting,

Never sought and always wond’ring why.

By hands that first turned fists to malice mischief,

By feet that rarely led but to astray,

By numbing all the sense he once was born with,

Never cared and always went own way.

Antithesis to good, I knew the boy then,

No one could get round or through or near,

Sixteen years have flown, I still recall him,

Man-child nurtured, natured in all fear.

 

Perfection

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Many times in

dewdrops’ globuled poise

impossibly balanced

on iridescent filaments

webs caught in shafts

in the rising

or setting of

sun-stained skyline

smearing qualitative 

palette in random streaks

into midnight blue’s depths

where fires lit higher

than my imaginings

stars calling attention

to glimpses of the glory

reflected love here

in every drop of blood

ever fallen to give life

in eyes awake

to first light

from chubby kisses

skin smoothed 

by loving hands

tender smiles 

bestowed unselfishly

from nature born

to nature birthed

I see perfection

taste it with my eyes

where wonder

never falters

at its constant

renewal.

Pluck And Fuck

There’s a weed grows wild in my garden,

I kill it but it still survives,

No poison or potion imagined

Can quell it, it lives though frequently dies.

It buries beneath to find nurture,

It spreads out, could take over the land,

But I prune it with shears every morning

Or else it would get out of hand.

It’s a bugger that haunted my growing,

Taunted whenever it could,

I bought all the pellets, I cropped it,

I did what I was told that I should

To stifle its errant persuasion

For no one can live while it feeds,

It sucks all the flavour from living,

It thrives as can only a weed.

I looked again, freshly, one morning,

I hated its sight in my eyes,

Recognised world and its worries

And my nature combined fuelled its lies.

I wept at the weed, strong despite me,

Forgave it its nature and face

But begged for the chance to grow flowers

In most of the wide-open space.

I became gardener to flowers,

To roses and riots of blooms,

I decreed weed was unwelcome,

I accept it but it gives me some room

To be all the me that I can be

For inside of the weed there’s a charm,

Understanding its nature, accepted,

I refused to be controlled or be harmed

By the power of depression that fixes

Into crevices, people and place,

I chose to be happy, I still do,

In spite of the weeds that I face.

Its not all a garden of roses,

It’s not all a wasteland of weeds,

I plant what I can, where I can,

How I can, and hope is the best of my seeds.

Now I see gardens where both grow,

Possession is nine-tenths the law,

I pluck them, I fuck all the stranglers,

Rose-tinted with a hopeful hacksaw.

 

I recognise that there are many types of depression and that not all can be addressed by a shift in perception. For me, it worked. It was either that or live on anti-depressants. The world depressed me and is still capable of doing so. I choose not to let it as best as I can. With hope and fight. And every tool at my disposal – sharpened.

 

Inducement

Sipping nectar deep in stamened flower,

Erect to galvanise and to entice

Penchant of the butterfly that hovers

Tasting once, enjoying, tasting twice,

Offer savoured, sweetest delectation,

Concubined to heady flower held aloft,

Inducement of the rainbow borne on wingspan,

Partaking of the dewdrop silken soft.

 

Constance

Constance moved by light of silver moonbeam,

Closed her eyes, face raised to the stars,

Danced a passion, wild, in throes abandoned

Paced her rhythm to a beat afar, 

Gave herself to sky and earth around her,

Hummed beneath her breath as on feet flew,

Elevated heartbeat kept the tempo

On heath and hills, in harmony, she grew,

Became the sky, the stars, the earth, the planets,

Became the dance, the heartbeat of the all,

Constance whirled and thundered voice at climax,

Believed the force around that to her called.

Constance fell and lay upon the summit,

The distance far below now too far gone,

She stilled the dance, the voice, exhausted, worn out,

Silenced heart attuned to severed song.

Thrummed the earth, a chorus deeply beating,

Constant in its whirling, in its turn,

Beat to beat the constant earth and Constance

Recommenced the dance and life went on.

Life Is Brave

Living on the edge, near rivers churning,

A quake away from heartbeat shocked to still,

In sight of Etnas, fleet of foot no saviour,

Threatened on all sides but stood, by will.

A bomb away from end in messy graveyard,

Bullets hailing fast as driving snow,

Yet we live, rejoice in what’s around us,

Still we love and risk as on we go, 

Belittling fear, unworthy as oppressor,

Aged in ashes fallen all through time,

Better yet, we weather all, endeavour

Unity, resilient, we’ll be fine.

Disease away from death as on time marches,

Detritus around, we veer and wave,

Hope eternal, risen from the pyres,

Onwards, ever onwards, life is brave.

Stasis

You left me there beneath a frozen fountain,

Shards of water’d glass to pierce and wound the softest heart,

You bled the air of heat, my one protection,

In blistered cold, interred, I watched us part.

Immovable in flesh, my blood still coursing,

Sluggish but the time in stasis sealed the wounds and healed,

Glazed eyes stirred and savoured early springtime,

New birth awaiting, death repealed.