I never meant to be a housewife

I thought my life

Was not about this stuff

in my head

yarn and dandruff and bits of timber

a tangled knot of inadequate kindling

all too ready to burn

and i

always looking for the nearest

fire extinguisher

(ah dear lover,

did i not tell you?

your gaze is as good as the spray of baking powder

on the flames of anxiety - for a while.

Even you

can't keep them subdued

forever)

I thought my life

was about the Poor

or at least the Planet

doing something (anything) useful

for these Burning Times

and the Great Imbalance

between carbon and oxygen -

the graves of the Sacred Dead

Mighty dinosaurs and Great plancton

have been plundered

the thieves rich in property and fine cheese.

Now the living butterflies

who took eons

to learn the art of transfiguration

(to kill their own caterpillars

then fly with grace)

are driven into the exposed graveyards

by greed, short-termism and other human sins.

i thought I

would come up with something (anything)

to help such precarious precious life.

instead

i've become a good baker

without sugar or wheat;

well-versed in onions and bones

making nourishing stocks;

i'm quite competent

at running a healthy clean kitchen

on a meagre budget;

skilled at listening to storms of abuse and fear

and saying a few kind words

to the shattered mind and the hungry heart

of people I sort-of know.

I never dreamed of

such humble housewife abilities.

They came about while

i was making

other plans.

Still my nightmares

are of caterpillars

turning to maggots

and rainforests

stripped to deserts

and a dark-hooded stranger

from palestine

knocking at my door

because there is no room

at the Inn;

and I

might be so worried

about the raising rye flour

that I may not

offer them

a warm bed

for the

Night Within.

May the deep waters fill you

May the deep waters

enfold your daffodils

So their bouncing heads may lift to the sunshine

their petals open to the bees and the wonders of children

who know that they themselves (though made of clay) are just spirits,

dancing in the wind;

May the bounded rationality of your 7.5 lb head

rest into the warm seas of possibility

and discover that it is attached to none other than your own body

which still knows how to float;

let your gaze rise to the heavens

the stars that brought you here so long ago

and breath

May the ice cold fears in your belly

be exposed to the warm sun

running into rivers

that will smooth the sharp rocks of your muscles

loosen the terror in your gut

nourish the dry stream beds

around your eyes

so that the King Salmon of your soul

may come alive

and remember

how to swim

(even now, even upstream)

with such

bright shining joy;

May the deep sea

where all is dark

bring forth its mystery

into your being

breaking the ice sheets

that for too long have paralysed you -

and may they

in their melting

be gentle,

not too hard in their crackling

but instead bring you to new

stable shores

where you may find such beauties

fit for the king of the lillies

who needs no gold cloth

just his own honest

shining

beauty.

Stock

On our last day together

I bought beef bones from the butcher

thick red and white angular bloody joints

raw meat still clinging to them

You watched me

envelop them in water

flavour them with onion and garlic

then nestle them onto the quiet back burner

for a long slow simmer.

On our last day together

I made a stock

you would never taste,

Plopping thick spoonfulls of the cow's life

Into soups and stews -

This stock -

my bridge

from one life to another

from our past to (my?) future -

that this body

you stroked grabbed caressed held loved

into health

might be properly nourished

on this

blustery dark cruel Febuary night

when I

must

eat

alone

those rare questions

there are very few questions

that have the weight and heaviness of a stone

large enough

to change the course of the river.

there are countless little questions

that we run over

smoothing them with our burbles and our chatter

those stones at the bottom of our rivers

those questions create

beautiful ripples and eddies

and ways of sweetly running together

but then

there are those questions that hover

above our waters

with a presence

thick and mighty

a gravitational pull

that forces

the stones to re-arrange themselves

that forces the waters

to undergo choice

to find a direction

a form a shape a pattern

new and different.

Those questions

are posed at a distance

we feel the shadow of them

looming

for quite some time

but we skillfully

avoid them answering

by rushing

but they will come again those

words

when we are ready

(and when we are not)

again and again until

one day

becomes today

the question is posed.

i did not see this stone.

was i hiding from it? no, i just

wasn't ready to hold it.

such stones - they need careful holding.

but then i rounded the bend.

and you saw me.

and who you saw -

it startled you, too.

so much so

that you let go of the stone you had been slowly polishing

will you...

(how did i not see this moment coming?)

all i could do

was laugh

as the fishes in me

swarmed

as the octopus

came to attention, tentacles suddenly poised

as the clams and oysters and mussels

snapped closed

and the little barnicles swam quickly through my arms

the stone was dropped

the waters parted

there was nothing to do but

sit in silence.

will you....

Never have I been asked.

Gratitude amazement the light shined brightly

on foam and wave and current - looking back -

i have come such a long way

we have traveled so far along the banks of these shores

and now this, this invitation

just as I thought I would go the other way

the swarms of fishes, they looked

they saw such a vast beautiful lake

familiar yet utterly new

we had never been here before:

I have a thousand yeses for you.

But the octopus

she has just come out of her cave

and the mussels and oysters and clams

are only just learning to open

to feed on proper food

not just sand and grit and plastic -

(I have only just begun cleaning

the damages of the oil spills)

And there is an ocean!

The octopus needs a very large ocean

the mussels will need fresh food from far distant shores

the barnicles

are seeking.

They are seeking

a whale.

You my love

you my love

you my love

You do not travel as much as you used to.

Were it just a question of fishes:

perhaps.

(maybe in the future?

after some high sea traveling on my own?)

but really

the barnicles

need

a very strong young whale

to take them deeper

than they have dived thus far.

I have only

just discovered

about leaving the harbor.

Just for today

I choose to trust that there

are other Stones

that might someday

be dropped

into the deep silence

where the whales sing.

And so these questions

come to us when we are (are we?) ready

and they hover

then they drop

embedding themselves into the plates of our souls

changing the shape

of our oceans.

You, you are so bright.

a silver diamond you shine

as your question sinks itself down

nestling itself into the soils at the bottom.

My question still stands

you whisper as you walk out the door

So does my answer

I murmur

when he leaves

the fishes protest.

i am left

gasping for air,

drowning in myself;

these waters are not yet calm.

but the mussels practice opening their shells

the barnicles are beginning to look

for that whale.

and the octopus

oh the octopus

she has not

returned to her cave.

raining, today

it is raining today

i give up all semblance of working today

instead today

i surrender; today

i can only practice feeling (my way towards myself) today

the rain dances lightly on the skylight in the day time

white clouds, white water, white wind

the day when all i can do is listen

a few cars, children at school, soft breathing

the day all i can do is sit here

somehow i am still breathing somehow

despite everything because of everything today

i let the rain be the tears

that still cannot fall

as i sit and stare

today is the day you

asked me

the question you have never asked

oh, how we've talked about it

words gently falling around one another, all sides

like the rain

white words, white laughter white answers.

but then today

you opened the skylight.

the rain is wet

the wind is cold

the whiteness quakes the soul -

you

asked the question.

Water

is so sacred.

yet we

who hide ourselves in houses, behind windows

so rarely drink

so rarely feel the rain.

speaking of fear, softly

face soft with kindness

wet with tears

we spoke gently of fear.

fear:

of not being able to 'do it' alone

of loosing my best friend

of causing irreparable hurt

of the longing ....

fear:

of never finding a love like this again

of the meaning being taken away

of the light disappearing

never being lit again.

separating intertwined paths

untangling thick webs of relation

leaves

weak legs, soft boundaries, constricted throat

so much naked vulnerability and long silences

comforting hands and murmuring 'my dears'

tears and sighs and long-distant stares.

i am forced to believe

that there is, somewhere, a light

that can not be turned off

no matter who, or when, or how

the door closes shut.

from behind fig trees

he knew

When he asked the question

he knew the answer

he must have known

that is His perogative

to Know -

to Know us better than we know ourselves

Where are you?

(Oh, how many times I have asked that of Him!)

but in the Garden he asked it of them

who had tasted good and evil

and suddenly

knew shame.

The shame hides me

i hide in the shame

from the shame

around the shame

I will destroy the glorious fig trees

in expression of shame

creditors, debtors, debtees

invoices bank statements unopened letters

bottles relationships colleagues unfinished

broken promises

boxes of cake, scores of chocolate eaten at midnight

carbon footprints, oil addictions, squandered lives

self-starvation, stealing, manipulating

viscious laughter, unacceptable and unacknowledged pleasure

warfare, germany, rwanda, china, bosnia, columbia, mexico america

who is the real abuser

rapists mascurading as security guards and (their) women cast out -

cast away -

grown victims of pedaphilia hang their heads

(as if the victim is at fault) -

our shame

litters this precious planet

a plastic island, a thousand species dead,

the mourning of silent springs

sounds like the whistle of wind through dry weeds

where once was lush pastoral land

before the oil was stolen from its burial chambers

and the climate changed

He said,

Where are you?

But he knew, he knew!

Why must he ask us to come forward?

Why must we of our own accord

step forward

from behind fig trees

and announce ourselves

clothed

announcing our shame and our bodies

such naked vulnerability

the girl who did not want her father to see her

the boy who did not know how to be a man

the fear of being cast out

(if you see me you will surely inevitably reject me)

the fall

An invitation:

Where are you?

To be seen.

To know good and evil

and to learn

that actually

you are good

that really

you are loved

and all that stuff

is just stuff

because we have already

survived the fall

we have already

been known

as beautiful.

To be broken

and discover inside

the sweet pink flesh

of figs -

this too surely

he knew.

it must be true

it has to be true.

in my disbelief

i am cornered

into believing.

between this wall

and that field of flowers

are the demons

the dogs and the monsters and the Overwhelm

the parents and the teachers and the administrators

the older kids who had hips and breasts and waists

(I, meanwhile, was a rather tall lumpy orange)

the girls who turned their backs

the men who could not be reached, could not be touched

the smell of alcohol on his breath

the sound of the refrigerator door opening

the poisonous sweet-sticky honey

of a home i still struggle to leave behind

an ocean and a continent away from here.

between me and that field of flowers

bars cold and rigid

the elephant who needs no chain as an adult

for it does not know it is no longer a child.

Memory and neuronic pathways that bind.

between this corner and that field of flowers

i have seen

a drunk man fall

into Fellowship

and Recovery.

I saw him crawl

and learn to walk

then to break the chain

and give it good burial

and wade his way

through those demons

and now he sits

across from me

in that field of flowers, smiling.

it has to be true

i in my disbelief

thrust against this wall

see a field of flowers

i, poor as i am,

am not as poor as that drunk fallen beaten vomitting man

who is now laughing

so even i

even i

even i

there must be One

Big Enough

to carry

even one such as I

Through

to that field of flowers

oh to feel the spring sunshine

in that field of flowers.

It has to be true.

the great discovery

she laughed when she found it.

Such giddy relief

Nine years, three continents, therapy, prayer and poetry:

so much work

for its discovery.

it had been there all along

shining and bright like starlight

but wrapped around her eyes

she could only see the strands and the threads

sometimes crossing one another

she kept swatting at it

as if was a swarm of flies

or dense fog

she clawed at it

not knowing where it was

she dug deep red stripes into her own flesh.

eventually

after being swirled around

only seeing strands here and there

she cast it into the middle of the circle

of friends

(she could not do such a thing in solitude

some thoughts are too big

to think alone)

finally

it was there

and it had a shape, a size, a name:

her Knot.

Ah, and what a Knot it was!

Silver and blue

glistening and shimmering

a Celtic Knot

with such a bright golden light coming from within

bouncing, lightly hovering above the ground

it had its own rhythm.

Watching it

she knew, suddenly, that it was not her:

she was not her knot!

Relief flooded her.

But that tangle of cords

that pulsed and breathed of its own accord

it was bound to her and she to it

a thin golden thread

umbilical cord

it was her gift her curse her love her construct

when loose

it could give off such light

order out of chaos

beauty out of and even within darkness

an ancient rhythm to call her home

but when too tight

there was only the chaos - it would swallow her whole.

Tangled inside, where was He who Hovered over the Waters?

What a dangerous Companion,

a peculiar Avatar, such a daemon

this spirit-guide that could kill her

how keep it loose?

how let the light through,

so she could trace the path inside up and upside down

through different sectors and faiths and geographies

to find the threads that held them together

to create the connections and hear the world's sweet song

to flow on that endless wandering river

where the devil despaired of finding the ending

for this is just the beginning.

Keep it in the circle

of fellowship and friendship and Words

Keep it in the circle -

for there are two golden threads

one to you,

and one to the Other

to the Nameless Shadow Light

that

somewhere between the in-breath and the out-breath

is always

breathing Her Own way through.

skeletons and candlelight

Skeletons and Candlelight

i told him the skeleton of the story

just the shape of it:

the meeting the injury the slow healing

of the hip and the thigh bones.

I left out

all those stories of tendons and flesh and the sweet softness of the skin.

In a candle-lit pub on a monday night,

skeletons were enough.

but then he

leaned forward, eyes a-fire and said,

my dear

what the hell

were you thinking?

where have you been what were you doing?

Throat closed tight. I would not answer him.

no need to shed so much blood.

Gripping my hands together i couldn't really feel their bones

just the muscles and soft flesh.

i keep my newfound silent boundaries,

but story-teller me wonders - how to explain?

how the tendons had held the break

how the walk may have been limping but it was still a walk

how only now i begin to realise

how far I came with those broken bones

how slowly did i travel? I still don't know.

But his face was alive.

(life is so much more than skeletons - eyes and mouth and ears and nose; i get so captured by these senses, and your taste still lingers on my tongue.)

smiling into my quiet he said,

you have so much living to do

you don't even know how much living you have before you

Maybe. My skeleton is still not set straight.

bones not yet perfect allignment

tendons

don't know the proper timing of flex and easing,

muscles

weak - they complain at this exertion.

skin -

has it always been so soft? I feel everything.

i didn't tell him the full story.

of how the flesh was so beautiful;

the heart beat, so strong.

but who can i be without the skeleton.

Now, breaking bones to set them right again;

structural change takes honest strength and such discipline

the tendons can re-shape themselves

the neurons learn a different pathway

the breath find a different rhythm in the lungs held by the ribs -

still - i won't ever forget

the sweetness

of your flesh

and the gentleness of your breath.

still - now

i must attend

to the discipline

of setting bones

for a strong skeleton.

In the Candlight

his eyes laughed.

he seemed to See into the skeleton

You have come far

On such broken bones

Now with the mending

Where will you go?

Such conversation

On a Monday candle lit night

Is good medicine

For a healing skeleton

i would throw stones

I would hurl stones at thee

oh Great sea

harsh pointy rocks

into your vast calm waters

throw them in long curves

to reach your depths

to perturb your stillness

to vanquish this inner fury

i, who am not vast

who can not walk on your waters

who can not calm your rages

who cannot reach your dark depths -

where the giant squid

and octopus and whale

keep their secrets and their pleasures

and not even these stones

would disturb their terror and mystery -

even so:

I would throw stones at thee

i would throw stones

but the ripples

what little impact those ripples would have

quickly washed aside by

waves, currents and fishes.

the pull of the moon

the whisper of wind

mean far more to you than I

oh Great Sea

i would throw stones at thee

but instead i sit

behind desks and computer screens

while your gulls circle, cry and mock me

reminding me

of how far

i am from your salty

stinking, biting, freezing, growling, howling

- cleansing -

Breath

In other people's houses

If you spend your whole life

in other people's houses

you don't know

it isn't your house

until you loose your set of keys

and you've left the oven, the heat, the lamps on -

but the locksmith

is legally prohibited from opening the door:

it would do too much damage

to someone else's property.

In other people's houses

I have lived my life

Father, mother, friends, sisters, lovers

universities, landlords, elders

strangers, travellers.

The guest who did not leave

the young woman in need of help

the figure caught in transition

The victim of circumstance

the reality of radical, off-the-map pathways.

Many masks, one form:

other people's houses.

Pleased when I could entertain guests

give lovers (who for some reason could always fix things)

a place to stay

friends and ministers food and drink ....

even if i payed the rent

it was always

in someone else's house

if this act

was political:

defiance against ownership and property

against rules of society

constructs of reality

then: more power to me.

or if I was a gypsy

a nomad, a wanderer, a cattle-herder - then perhaps....

but really

none of this was born of critical consciousness

or purposefully chosen global exploration

simply a default modus operandus

Expressing a particular construct of how-to-get-by

as if this form of survival was the only option

under-earning

debting

to the kindness of strangers

and the needs of markets -

Temporary accomodation

resting spots

no roots here.

Ensnared by short term thinking:

Financial markets, unsustainable societies, and me.

In other people's houses

I entered their minds sometimes their hearts

Living out their dreams and lives.

father's rules, mother's hopes

compliance compliance laced with defiance

Camilleon: I can do this and that and that as well

but is this mine

when is this mine

where is this mine

who is this

who is this woman

who lives in my house

my body

who tells me to go here and there

who feeds me and nurses me and clothes me -

who is this woman?

living in my house

my body

placing it in his arms

on her floor

shaking

who is she? surely, this woman, she is not me?

sometimes

i go out.

to the House i discovered

a long time ago.

the house with no walls.

just stars and wind and the call of the coyote.

pungent earth and grassy wind.

i know i am home.

But these days

in this country

of dark nights and rain-soaked days

walls, floors and ceilings

to care for my books and my papers and my heart

seems to necessitate

learning the art of architecture

electricity and plumbing

of building

a structure meant to last.

or so i say.

but my hands

are soft.

those hard skills -

not yet mine.

Some whisper Promises.

that i can find the keys to my own house.

that it is already built.

but first i have to remember

where i hid them

back when it was not yet safe

to come home.

lessons on fire-making

he danced with his hands

or was it has hands who danced with him

birds rising and falling

one torn one worn

grip as powerful as an ape

swinging through the trees

the boy who climbed to the top

and reached for the stars

and laughed

even when he fell out the window

blood going everywhere

mother desparate: bind the wound

tendon broken

but the boy lived

and had himself a giggle.

He grew

mis-shapened

by the whisky on his father's breath.

Still he grew, tall and thin and straight.

but so much was crooked

bent to compliance and defiance -

a string of women, several failed relationships -

bent until he almost broke

but those hands

they knew how to grope and reach

to thrill and excite and bring to life

they brought so much to life

art and music and other people's creativity

hands moving over fabric, making things anew

his hands knew how to laugh

and when he broke

they knew how to be still

to rest on his lap

fingernails filled with dirt

nails unfiled

calusses from laying bricks, designing gardens, playing with dogs

holding nothing here

but his own heart

in the silence

he reached out to the trapped boy the lost one.

he built a foundation at the base of his self

his hands didn't move

as he filled the holes burned by papa's whisky and this-is-just-too-much

with a new kind of healing soil and then - warmth -

in the quiet after the fall

he discovered: fire

his hands showed me

lessons learned amongst trees:

How to make fire.

Smash stone against stone.

(fist against fist, knuckles scraping one another).

the spark.

slowly feed it with moss and sticks (miming, one atop another)

small ones

dont go too fast

go slowly.

blow

your own life force

breath

is needed

blow

gently

focus your attention.

(hands cupped to face)

focus on the fire

not on the howling wind or the cold night or the bright stars

focus on the fire

(hands a circle, holding, containing the brightness, shielding the spark)

let it grow

soon now

soon

there will be roasted sausages and sweet potatos

(hands splayed wide, fingers stretched out, an exploratory adventure)

but first (hands drawn in, close to chest)

slowly

nurture the spark.

(hands cupped together,

as in prayer

with space between

or as if he held

a tender bird

almost

ready to fly

to dance-

almost).

and then his hands

laughing, warmed: resting.

(11.15 am - a prayer)

This is how I need you

In this present moment

To be seen

To be heard

while I am silent

just typing

just reading

just working

to know that you see me

when i am working

that you are not leaving

the door is not closing

the window is secure

the house is closed

you are here

you will not leave me

you see me

i keep reaching for the false-yous

crackers cookies cups of tea

fb friends, family members

books banter bullshit

ex-lovers, ex-partners, ex-colleagues

dinner, drinks - distraction

meanwhile

time passes

life energy floating not caught not captured not used well

seeking focus and a future

in this present moment

i reach out

teach me how to reach within

before it passes me by

this precious life

reaching in reaching out

the dance of the world.