Far From the Tree

appleblossomkeyhole.jpg

 

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.

 

 

Advertisements

Genuflection

peony.jpg

 

She bends,

broken;

life has stripped

all illusory

.

power and prestige

from bandaged

eyes. She knows

now how poor,

.

blind, pitiful

and naked

she has been all

along. So

.

she does

what she should have

done long ago –

genuflects.

The Superhero

frayededge.jpg

Even her loose ends are frayed.

Splintered,

unravelled,

messy –

real.

She’s finally discarded the cape

that gave her missions impetus,

along with her illusions

of  being able to save anyone but herself.

She walks with a limp,

but the scars scab over

now that they are allowed air.

Her gait,

like the end of her rope,

is damaged –

but a new authenticity lends

dignity to torn edges,

beauty to fragmented spirit.

She owns not just her strengths

but her brokenness;

its tangles are a net

spread over troubles seas,

catching unexpected graces

too numerous and astounding to be named or counted.

Chaos has lent her courage,

counted her among the genuine,

labelled her approachable,

and that makes her

a Superhero.

Bag It and Tag It

You thought you’d get away with it,

brush your issues under the carpet,

bury the bloody hatchet

under leaves soaked in denial.

But

baggage has a way

of popping up at unexpected ports,

velcro to warm woollen socks,

 giving away your egress

with a resounding crunch.

That rake in the corner of your garage

hasn’t seen much use;

it has your name written all over it.

Time to wear off your summer snacking

and take a good hard look at

what lies all over your lawn.

Bag it and tag it,

and the snow will find

softer landing.

Pyjama Hopes

Another evening,

another night

in pyjama hopes

waiting with bated breath

for the measured step

that will not come.

Which friend should she call this time?

Which bar?

These ‘listening waits ‘tear the years from her heart

and add them unceremoniously to her face

where angry crows stamp them into place.

How long has she lived

listening, waiting?

And still her Prince does not come.

A new thought jolts her upright –

is she waiting for the wrong thing?

Will Life creep by while she

listens for fairy dust?

Perhaps the sound of  Freedom

is no different from her heartbeat.

Perhaps bated breath

is better spent on

the Living.