She Dug

Dig

It wasn’t her mess.

She never asked

to be buried alive.

She didn’t even own a shovel.

But her desire to see sunlight

grew strong,

flexed hope like muscles

rippling, horses straining

at the foreign taste of metal

on tender tongues

with dreams of churning hooves,

tasting island sun

likeĀ Freedom

coursing through wild veins.

She dug

until bare fingers

left rivulets of red

on bunkers of blue steel.

She dug

until she ached with cold,

fatigue festering like ulcers,

disillusionment stalking

in blizzard’s cloak.

She digs still –

for, having seen a glimpse

of sapphire sky,

her soul will not

consent to being

buried.

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Cosmic Battle

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Night admits defeat,

Melts into forest shadows –

Broken by the Light

 

The Star at the Top of the Tree

potentilla frost

 

O Morning Star,

You who fell from heaven

to take on flu and scars and walk

within weather and time and disappointment,

illuminate this frigid Dark that consumes my blighted soul,

that I might be released into my Destiny, to relay Your reflection as

moon to your sun, declaring brilliance in my lineage, decorating Your tree.

 

 

 

Where the Sun Don’t Shine

Stella D'Oro gold

 

Stiff upper lip and thick skin

blocked some of the blows,sure. But

they also blocked something she

needed more than oxygen,

more profoundly than safety,

more urgently than bars.

.

And now that she’s finally

transparent, those places where

her heart is the thinnest let

by far the most sunlight through.

Daybreak

sunset dazzle

You live in the land of the Dawn,

the place where Light is being born.

Darkness grips you still, as labour

pains begin. You exist in the

Between, the not-yet, the middle

of the fairytale, where witches

cast spells and evil triumphs and

your happy ever after has

no power – but your story

is not over. Not yet. That dawn

breaking leaks words on your pages,

penning resolve, perseverance,

hope, courage into existence

and you, awake in the dark, see

stars before they shine – prophetic

promises – with your eyes of faith.

Far From the Tree

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When Apple first fell

from the Tree, she bobbed

along on her sea

of forgetfulness,

oblivious to

the bruises on her

backside, pockets of

pus hidden by a

polished red skin. She

named her world Stunning,

and made plans to suit.

.

Tucked in the shadow

of those gnarled roots, her

gnarled senses labelled

sickly vapours ‘air’,

decomposition

‘bed’, insect-breeding

swamp ‘home’. Belonging

lulled feelings into

a caricature

of the love she read

about in novels.

.

But the day she rolled

outside canopy

limits, beyond the

reach of Eden’s bite,

sun-seared retinas

peeled the picture bare –

twisted trunk and sour

fruit and warped world-view

became as glaring

as raw contusions.

.

Now she rolls, rolls, rolls,

far from the madding

shroud, far from the reach

of branches carved like

talons from deformed,

wormy wood. Far from

the Tree, in a patch

of pure light on grass

greener than life, she

sows a single seed.