I make the space for the brains to thrive
Being a peripheral part
of the excited buzz
Of the hive of minds
as they pollinate each other
Witnessing their outrage,
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
I have to leave the house for stupid errands
Call when ready and we’ll see what works
I look out the window
Is a wall
How do I crane my twisted neck
To find the freedom
That I know is in the sky
I keep my loneliness warm
With the blue light
Scrolling for the jolts per minute
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
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
Mum, I’m gay,
I texted her.
That’s nice dear.
As in you’ve renamed yourself, or like two poofy men?
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
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
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
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.
My queer little heart opens in bliss.
Life really does love me!
And I love her right back,
most Sapphically indeed.
And with that
The dahlias are suddenly finished.
My only consolation
The wry knowledge
of just how quickly
next year will come round
Poetry will save us as it has and always does It's poetry who catches us falling in and out of love A resting tent that nurtures us while our souls replenish, touching the universality of our own uniquely fragile stardust... Stroking our foreheads, breathing peace into our hearts, illuminating the beauty in everything and stitching it into a cloak of light, draped lovingly around our shaking shoulders; whispering cogently to us of its impenetrability, of our own sovereign safety, so that we may rise refueled our furnace stoked charged by the life force now burning outrageously bright in us to face the world and all its oddly timed surprises with the optimistic courage of a rising sun This day is mine! Poetry has saved me. Again.
In the forest
alone I stand
by the held wisdom
and cool release
of all my fellow trees
Our shared experiences
touch us differently
but the sky calls us all
as our roots reach
to nourish us
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.