Creating Between Worlds

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Creating Between Worlds

Creating Between Worlds

I see,
as I am drifiting
slipping and sliding,
in and out of sleepiness….
an international
” Small Stones: writing our way home”
road show……

We gather and go
reeling and peeling our small stones
up and down the lands…..
we bring the word and the world together,
united in poetic justice,
artistic license for the sake
of the spark of creative vision
in each and everyone of us….

I am in Love with the deliciousness
of sleepytime visions which come
when the house in my heart is
providing shelter for me and others
on this journey…….
Come write with me….
come write our way home.

The Two Sleeps

The Two Sleeps

The chill in the air
as the clock ticks
around three thirty.
Mr Tumnus purring
and grabbing my arm
as I type. 
I used to panic at
three thirty,
being awake 
but now, somehow,
it doesn’t matter anymore.
I read about sleep in the middle ages.
The two sleeps…
with time for pottering, writing,
cooking, eating, making love, in between….
so sleeplessness … well
it doesn’t matter anymore…..
I see it as a gift to be awake when most sleep,
a gift to be with myself 
and maybe do the work my heart calls me to.
Life before the two sleeps?….. well –
just catch me humming,
it doesn’t matter anymore.

 

Becoming

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Becoming

Becoming

The most charming and glorious of mornings,
hosting the showman of the skies,
came swelling up over the horizon
draped in colours softly bold.
Coming up one side of the humpback bridge
I came down the other into white smoke,
the mists of daybreak.
I just wanted to leave my car
to float off on these wafting, bubbilicious clouds.
Like a joyfilled, childlike explorer
I would become one with these silent sylphs
moving through the morning air….
breathing and blending,
beautifully emergent into day.

Canal

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Canal

What shall I do with the rest of my little life?
It elludes me –
rattles me
frustrates the juices in my belly
and keeps me in the stench of struggle.
Am I STILL stuck in the birth canal?
Perhaps the creative seeds need a voice,
finally vibrating them out into the field of life.
Screaming is not very beautiful
but sometimes it is the only embodied voice available
when the fiscal appears more essential than the essence of soul.

Wild Things

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Wild Things

Wild Things

There is a thrill in being
blasted by inclement weather.
The blow, the rush,
the knotted hair
flying accross one’s face
and landing in the most
bizarre of styles……
what does it matter
when it’s the wind and rain?
Look at yourself –
see the pleasure
you give your inner child
who wants to play
with the elements
and wind wizards…..
Waste not a moment longer…
go out,
get wet,
get whisked and weathered…..
become the drama Kings and Queens
who rage and wrestle and moan….
Love who you are….
You Wild Things!