More honey
It’s so good
I’m
Rifling through the freezer
In search of any bread
Melt into the hot Lurpak
Delightful fragrant syrup of our bee gods
Let me feel the beauty of flowers enter my internal networks
Honey I’m yours
(C) Zoë Xanadu 2021
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
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.
Rain
How can the rain be without symbolism? How could it ever be that it is simply raining? How can I be calm when this water is surrounding me without relent? My heart's lament. I'm damp. Damp in all my organs. I want to whinge in protest I want to register with some authority, officially, my dissatisfaction with the appearance of mold on my timber chair Actually? Really? Truly? I'm to put up with this now as well? My heart is harbouring mildew. Black soot haunts my kidneys. My liver is beset by wet dust of the kind that causes hives in some young children Smoke it out, this ominous damp! Cleanse me of this creeping moisture... Smudge, Fire, Hot coals... I don't care. Just let me be rid of this soggy curse. I would rather that the workings of my brain crackle like dry forest twigs or a lively fire I would rather that the air in me felt light and crisp as sunshine I want to be crunchy to feel like a spark in me could easily ignite Yes! I want to be flammable or at least warm like a pocket potato or a passionate embrace... This damp suits me not. Enough rain. Enough.
(C) 2021
