Poetry samples

self-shadowed

the real work

is being your own best friend. 

​

making peace with the dark and the light

dancing in the dark, like Springsteen, only limblerly

​

there is enough in this world to fill up a life

he said,

after we spoke

​

and the crack that I heard

was not just the penny dropping

but my heart bursting wide open

again. the moment I had ben waiting for.

I'll take it from here

the light said o the dark

inside of me

holding hands and sweetly leading

them dwon th egarden apthand up the dancers

brushing peggies

adn tucking up tight

this dark self

this naughty inner child

the rebel who seldom thinks before she speaks

there is time for you 

little fighter

I'll take itfrom here

​

-a morning conversation from my higher self, to my inner child (who was playing up a little!)

​

(add some irish proverbs and language)

​

petals unfurling 

unraveling 

whirling to the Centre

a manifestation of our journey to within the centre of the Circle

un-layering, shedding 

as petals of ego form to the ground

all that remains

is unwavering faith

trusting tenderness

a giving of oneself over to the Greater

knowing that to be only one single flower in a blooming garden

growing in reciprocity is the only way.

what is this Rose of mine that expands at my chest?

unfurling itself.. offering all to the Divine.

Raised on beauty alone, you will starve.

We must feed our girls 

three square meals a day 

food for the soul, mind and heart.

power for breakfast. knowledge for lunch 

self-appreciation for dinner 

with a side of gratitude 

of course, 

you can snack 

on the mango seeds of beauty. 

throughout your life ~

your body, 

your dyed hair, 

your kaleidoscopic clothing, 

are part of your fabric too. 

what makes you, you. 

these snacks can be costly, 

not essential to the self.

always remaining secondary

to the art of the mind. 

the essence of 

who     you      are.

Raised on beauty alone, you will starve.

I found you today. In our garden of weeds

next to a hedge. Carving. You wore

your concentrating face. I sensed trouble

There you’d stood. The ground had inhaled

your doc marten boots. Made permanent

marks in the earth.

You’d spent five nights

and days. Light and dark. Dawn passed.

then I saw it. The masterpiece.

You looked proud. You wanted to show it off.

It was a sculpture. It was a sculpture of me.

But you had spent so long moulding it

into what it was not. Trimming. Fringing.

Shearing excess. The bits you could no longer desire.

But darling -You did not see you discarded

the lushest bits of me, the magenta dahlias, cobalt pansies,

the sweet essence of flowers centre, honey dripping, 

all carried away, the bees left to weep in mourning,

these were not the root of the problem.

The angry hedge staring back

was not me at all.  It was you

in a reflection, a terrifying

beautiful imitator

of all the green I once was

now seething yellow and red.

no longer to be seen 

by anyone but you.

Then began, the snake-like-shedding.

I didn’t want your skin choked

around my throat. Needed to feel air fill*inhale*

empty,        lone,      lungs again. Uncoiling myself from you was gruelling,

at first light, I was rid of you.

lungs open, no longer strangled by scales,

I could breathe.

During the last week of us

you chopped the hedge off whole. Dragged it into the hallway

like a Medusas head. Dripping leaves and waste 

instead of blood. Dumped it on the centre of our table 

and called it Art.        

There are few finer things in life than

silk paisley shirts

alarmingly pink hair

rings made from rusty old metal spoons

the sweet pain of walking barefoot on rocks

devotionally singing in circles

and women. 

​let’s make love to life                                                           as the moon does the sun, darkness honouring light,                                                      hope meeting hate with all the distant longing of fate                                                                 waiting up until morning, for our meet-cute date                                                                    cyclical by nature nurturing like no other experience  to be                                                              felt by and on Mother Earth. as above,                                                                                                            so below unioned in appreciation                                                                    drenched in luvi seasonally settled within our own cycles                                                willing to aid one another's growth. force-les.s kind, even,                                               in anger, all colours of the rainbow, welcome here                                                                    leading with feeling    feeling our way                                                                                                           to the flow we recognise the core of existence                                                    lives within our very cores Power in Love form                              Luvi becomes us                            we are feather-light. 

Third-toes rooted 

in sand

The middle is always my favourite place to be

Indecisive in nature

Never firmly submerged 

Self digging into sad softly 

Sinking 

ship-like...

As I become aware of the lighthouse ahead

This could be 

Newcastle 

or the French Riviera, 

or Benidorm.

Everywhere, the shells speak to me.

Whispering half-truths 

“They’re looking at you, 

laughing, 

mocking, 

judging, 

You are

the underclass 

embodied”

Sea tide comes in

Snaps me back to body

Back to me, 

Still in the middle 

Of classes, 

of love, 

of life.

My time seems to be up

The tides out 

On whether I’ll make it

If happiness will continue to be 

An elusive butterfly

Reserved for the middle classes’ 

larkspur garden plants

Or whether 

We underclass

can have some of 

the happy opportune butterflies too, 

To even out the nectar playing fields, 

and dance together, 

hand in hand 

barefoot fairies, 

class-less.

Here they beep when they zoom past you,

screaming hello as you muffle su-sdai back at 5am.

the sun has not risen yet.

here they squat on toilets and shower with spiders.

they cook for strangers 

and dance in the monsoon rain 

you can forage for snails in rice paddies

and wolf down scorpions with a crunch 

nothing is a big deal, no harm here 

here the Cambodian women are the glue 

affixing the family together 

with sticky pumpkin rice pudding and fried cauliflower sak-bon 

you don’t eat dinner, rather haub boy (eat rice) 

The concept of au bou (vegetarian) is foreign, 

they’ll cook half a dozen vegetables for you anyway, ‘no problem’

the lady fingers bananas are intertwined in bunches here, hanging from the rusty advertisement-lined wall

Chaa-nang, where every meal time is full to the brim of pumpkins, like our bellies

the beer here is named simply Cambodia,

printed in a proud saffron red on every fan and billboard, even the side of houses! 

keeping chilled in saffron red industrial-sized refrigerators alongside soy chocolate milk

the children play in water, fishing and laughing fearlessly 

a place where play is work and work is family 

where it is regular to see, a family of eight, welly-clad wading through rice fields, all in a days work.

on evenings where the air seems stained by the sporadic downpour,

and your bones ache for a Cadbury’s hot chocolate and an Aero bar, 

you talk to your new mother in tic-tic Khmer, while waiting for the water to boil, for your Earl Grey filled teapot 

to taste home, at last.

you have carried the tea 6,210 miles 

so you drink with fried banana biscuits and Shakuera that if you close your eyes, almost taste like Oreos.

where a pagoda is never far away, nor is a monk 

though not as pious as they may seem, cheeky when hanging from the back of motorbikes because ‘boys will be boys’..

where the cows and water buffalos walk themselves, no need for a lead

and the dogs don’t need walking at all.

all are one and stroll together in Kampong Thom.

Here, in The Kingdom of Cambodia, 

Here, in Kampuchea, the golden land,

Here, at home.