Posted on 

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.

Posted on

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