Hand
Do you ever look at your hand
Really look at it
And think
Whose hand is this?
Page 3 of 9
Mirror
The mirror reflects my state of mind. Not the truth. Not any singular truth. The clarity of my heart shining through my forehead The scowl of my worries curving my shoulders My love of self embracing the most excellent styling of my perfectly filthy hair Or my mild blue afflicting my perception that the very same hair sees me unfit for human contact... Naked. Some days I scrutinise that reflected body as if it owes me something, answerable to all the erroneous demands of our superficial culture - what is that curve? That hair? Why has gravity been allowed here? Other times I find the beauty of it breathtaking, wishing I was someone else so that I could hold it in my gaze and reach out with tender touch to feel its perfection tremble with pleasure. When the mirror tells me harsh truths, if it is a lucky day, I can remember that the mirror reflects my state of mind and I make some time to soften my thoughts until the mirror reflects love to me once more.
Copyright 2021
Teacher
I make the space for the brains to thrive
Creating safety
Encouraging fun
Being a peripheral part
of the excited buzz
Of the hive of minds
as they pollinate each other
Witnessing their outrage,
their passion,
their determined agency
in the wryly augmented world
that they know to be theirs
Celebrating the brilliance
in every one of them
In all the manifestations it makes
As it shines through
via their unique and essential imprints
It’s like resting in a forest
As I survey in wonder
the miracles surrounding me
All these perfect human trees
Growing amongst one another
I am in awe
I am humbled
May they thrive
I whisper in my heart
As I meet their eyes and say their names
Text message poem
I have to leave the house for stupid errands
Call when ready and we’ll see what works
Bloody wind
Wall
I look out the window
And there
Is a wall
How do I crane my twisted neck
To find the freedom
That I know is in the sky
Cigarettes
Can you go buy me cigarettes
She rasps from the dark cocoon of wherever she is with her demons
On the mattress on my bedroom floor
I take my school uniform off and change into civvies
Put on some mascara so the 7/11 guy will sell to me
Come back with the goods
She’s still there
Deep in her turmoil
But also she sees me
As I bring her lighter
I was raped
She drops it
Like a bowling ball through a glass table
My feet beneath.
I feel the impact
On my childhood
On my innocence
On my place as her daughter
As she discloses
For the first time in her life
Nearly fifty years old
Her vast history of horrific sexual assault
In graphic detail
Of the violence
Of the humiliation
Of the insidious threats to silence her
A suite of stories
That I now see as almost universally thematic for so many women
But her first telling
Was my first hearing
And already I had my own
Silenced stories
Tucked away inside so many poky corners of my soul
She draws on her dart
Exhaling putrid smoke
Into my asthmatic face
She’s feeling that relief
Of no longer carrying it alone
Meanwhile
My feet feel the bruise of the bowling ball impact
My soul is writhing with the discomfort of being made the listener
She looks at my face
Hers switches up and she blinks
Dons the facade of adult
And says
You’d better put your uniform on and get to school
Copyright 2021
Warm
I keep my loneliness warm
With the blue light
Scrolling for the jolts per minute
Craving connection
Without wanting to get dressed
Or move from the couch
I know I am ok alone
But if someone said
Hey let’s play
I might say
Yeah ok
Love
Today I fell in love
With the enchantingly intriguing
whorls of my left index finger
My own fingerprint
My own uniqueness
Finding new things to love about myself
What a beautiful daily habit
Out
Out.
I’m out.
Mum, I’m gay,
I texted her.
That’s nice dear.
As in you’ve renamed yourself, or like two poofy men?
Homphobic bitch.
Out.
I’m out.
Striding through the Autumn morning in my walking shoes
Seeking solace in the beauty outside me
from the rage that churns within
The grey blanket of the pre-dawn sky warms me not,
but offers me great comfort,
with the reassuring reminder that I am
at once
infinitesimal
and as expansive as the universe
A blush emerges as the sun comes back from the other side of the world, busy tart
A suggestive apricot, fuzzy and without edges, and with the optimism of Alabama Whitman
“She tastes like a peach”
how truly did I want to taste her mouth
Still I stride, breathing through my swirling truth
And now, somehow, streaks of pink and blue
Audacious as those marine creatures that you think have surely been exaggerated
in the artist’s depiction
I can even forgive my ancestors for believing in sky god
Out.
I’m out.
Here under this cracking morning sky, remembering to notice the beauty of the universe.
Mary Oliver eat your heart out!
Savour those juices as they stream down your chin
Rivulets forming in your cleavage invitationally
for another lover
of life to slurp at
Yum.
Mum, I like to lick life juice off the tits of women poets.
Still I stride, rounding the corner, home comes into view.
And in the valley beyond, down over the town to the west
The sun, my current favourite artist, has invited the morning mist to dance.
A rainbow!
My queer little heart opens in bliss.
Life really does love me!
And I love her right back,
most Sapphically indeed.
Copyright 2021.
Ancient
gnarly
filled with seasons
my stories and experiences
infuse me
travel with me
make me who I am...
All things I see, touch, do and feel
come through me and are transmuted
gnarly old me
and all the things I've witnessed
I know that I'm
old as rain
and
fresh as morning dew
just part of something
going along
letting go with easeful acceptance
inhaling what changes the seasons bring
connected,
yet self-contained
aware of the value of the precious glimmers
brought about by togetherness
ok in my solitude
seeing the same stardust in you
as I know is in me
see
breathe
sleep
my business is to simply be
allowing my experiences to wash over me like the light of dawn
gently, transiently
holding on with intentional love
to the aspects that nourish me
releasing with gratitude
the aspects that teach me
celebrating my ancestry,
descendant that I am
of the women they didn't burn
solid,
yet flexible
and permeable
open to the return to myself
of the love that I have released to the universe
Copyright 2021
“Old as rain and fresh as morning dew” is from fierce Australian feminist poet, playwright, and novelist Dorothy Hewett and is part of one of the poems in her play The Chapel Perilous
I honour her.
Spritely Musings 