Mastication:
My affairs of the heart and my writing have become inextricably intertwined. Although I refuse any attempt at ownership by another human being, I gladly sink my teeth into the very heart of the word pictures I create, hanging on like grim death. Who is feeding what?
cold, dark, proprietary heart
like an anglerfish
mating
After too much pushing and tugging the heart becomes stretched and thin and develops tears, rents, holes in its own story. Perhaps it is this which renders me incapable of accepting a lover’s words at face value.
after the butchering
rendering down the fat of love
into tears
Chewing up terror and spitting out words the heart seeks meaning in emptiness. My greatest fear is that the words will be, ultimately, senseless. Nothing comes from nothing.
now the sky is quiet
grey light filters the sound of thoughts
into dreams
Assimilation:
I think I was a druid in a past life. Trees are essential to the heart of my writing and so I waver between guilt over using so much paper and the absolute necessity of writing things down.
core of the tree
the foliage of my poetry
piling up dead
There’s something about the quality of light that can change the mood of my poetry at any given moment from elation to despair. The cold white sky of winter continually brings me up and then lets me down.
my heart fading
I reach for the sun like a venus
flytrap, preying
The wind and the rain tempt me to take shelter wherever I can but the fires of human nature force me back out into the teeth of the storm to try and write myself warm.
the heart lies bruised and rotting
overripe fruit
fallen far from the tree
Rebirth:
My fountain pen writes shimmering words on cheap paper while I sip my beer and inhale stolen cigarettes. Cold foam, hazy smoke-filled darkness, borrowed conversations – all grist for the poet’s mill.
many-colored tigers
leap from imagination
soft as the sun
Gaia slips out of the darkness and guides my hand to the edge of a creek. Dipping into waves I weave the words of trees and fish.
I swim lightly through
word’s leaves on sun-flecked rivers
like a speckled trout
The summer solstice swallows the moon and lights the fires of the sun and of my imagination. I scrabble in the grass for the words – the heart of this madwoman – seeking sanity.
consumption of darkness
brings forth light
I shed raiment and wear the sky
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