Poem: Gratitude

Life. Singular.

Too vast to quantify in plurals.

Universes clumsily composed in the percussive discord of a heartbeat.

The chiseled sculpting of mountains in the flimsy mists of breath.

Each iteration a spectrum of wonders.

The most perfectly mundane of miracles.

As cadences intone avalanches.

And our personal phoenix re-imagines itself from dust.

So much from the ashes of so little.

The ripples continue long after the stone settles in oblivion.

I am a Writer

I write because writing is the frayed rope that secures my tenuous grasp on the shared delusion we call “sanity”. I write because I have things to say. I write because I have marks to make on the world.

I write because I have so, so many words somersaulting over each other in the troubled, challenged, foggy recesses of my mind – and they need to find their release. They need to fly, and to land, to take root, and to trace their own silver-spun routes to their homes in the fertile minds of others.

Words are my music.

But when I speak, those tricksy words are treacherous.

They don’t play by the rules – and the effort it takes to get them out in the chop-chop, twisted syncopation of speech, then to play helpless “catch” with my hands tied behind me; as equally tricksy, piercing, bullets are fired back at my exposed flesh, is almost more than I have within me. Sometimes, it is more than I have. And the words tumble to the ground and drown in tears.

The blood coursing through my veins threatens to engulf me, and the icicle finger tips, and the desert-dry mouth rob me of connection with self-expression.

But the leaden, weighty, black-white-black of words on a page is reliable, and safe, and free, and forgiving. And it contains my home – my refuge. It silences the tumult, and makes time stand still.

The time to write is precious – those gold sovereign seconds on the clock. Such magnificently treasured currency that it can be stolen from beneath hawk eyes. It is mercury slipping through glass. It is the hovering, shivering, silver needle in the sneezing haystack of bureaucracy – of fear, and panic, and endless impatient, entitled, fist-thumping demands.

And when that happens, I lose my “self”. It slips down the plughole with the waters of stolen time. And I find I am hopeless – homeless, and helpless; vulnerable, and drowning.

But those eternally vigilant, endlessly benevolent words on the page have always proved salvation to me.

And that is why I write.

And that is why I am a writer.

Poem: The Telling of Riches

My worth is not to be teased out in the sum of my earnings

Judge it instead, by the contents of my bookshelves

By the thoughtful seedlings

That I collate and curate

Nurture and germinate

Budding into leafy life

On rooted branches

Know me by the prose and poetry

That feeds the fertile field of my mundane existence

The blooming, sensual buds that pepper my soul

With erotic wickedness

Know me by musicking fabrics

Those collages as flighty as birdsong,

As winged hopes posing side by side

On leaning branches

She is to be trusted

Who lines the heart of her home

With an armoury of intellect

Who fashions from the fragile triumphs

Of another’s best endeavours

A virtuous fortress

Mounted on the head of the mountain

She is generous, who,

As her fortress rests

On the rhizome of its foundation

Beckons you across the threshold

She who sits

Who shares

And who grows with you

Until, with the seasoning, seasoned waters of time

You are

Both the richer