Poems & Articles
The old Year leaving
At this threshold, we see the dreams and griefs dragged behind by this old Year, leavinglike an old, old man who leaves home and knows there’s no return. Yet, there is only love in us for the twists and turnings of time passed. And ahead, we see the light and soft head of a newborn…
Poem at midnight
A poem I stumbled across in an older journal, written earlier this year, at midnight. When she ventures too far, the Mother in her awakens with a loud roar that loosens the earth,that frightens roots and bark. The Child is near to soul-ground, but also the edges. Near here, there’s an old womanwatchingwho is a…
Poems from dry lands
Below are two poems I wrote recently that I was never going to publish, that come from the dry lands of my recent mind. In the chaotic shifts and transitions of life, in the high-energy-outward rush of mid-summer, I’ve been in the troughs of uninspired, sucked dry of any creative impulse, my mind too busy…
Descansos
at the end of grief, old love finds you and you’re folded in three like a prayerheld by your thin lace chrysalis this wound -is the door from which you are emerging, soon you will be leaving behind the dry shell that was home nowmake an altar of all the things that broke you place soil from the land that orphaned…
Grandfather, open
This is a poem dedicated to my grandfather, who passed before I was born. May the darkness become the light and in your stillness, may you dance. I’ve carried your dreams in me, a pocket full of seeds.For a long time, I was hungry, but this hunger belonged to you. It was you I was…
Enter the wild with care, my love*
This writing was written from a rock in the midst of the Dartmoor – these words are dedicated to this land, whose moors have captured my heart, whose moors made me hungry for more, for deeper, for something true. ***10 April 2025 The moors are endless and unknown to me. They are thirsty and I…
Sealskin calling
“Like a snake, my hearthas shed its skin.I hold it here in my hand,full of honey and wounds.”― Federico García-Lorca Veil – latin velum, medical c. 1771 “the soft palate”, plural vela; “sail, curtain, covering”; PIE root ‘weg’ – “to weave a web” you wear the veil of illusion well, thinking it will make you holy.…
My lover is a forest
My lover is a forest with rough tree-bark palms, each finger a tiny cone. The river is warm blood and iron. I taste spruce resin, his skin is sticky honey. When he sleeps, the corner of his eye leaks birch sap, sweet tears – I don’t know what he dreams of, what he grieves for.…
Tenmoku heart
You don’t choose to work with clay. It chooses you. There’s better things to do than turn your time on a spinning wheel, so you leave. And even then, you find yourself, on a cold spring morning after an endless winter, wedging clay, kneading it like mother’s bread, your body weight pressing it with eagerness,…
May you land on holy ground
You drop to the earth, open your palms. It’s either brokenness or the heart’s humility that brought you here, to Earth-bottom. The form is the same, the borders of feeling broken or humble are almost indistinct: pain humbles you and your humbling opens you up to your pain, the world’s pain. There is no longer…
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