Let It Fall

bare

Lay them down, let them slip

From bone-white anxious fingertips –

These pseudo-hues, these not-true-yous,

The ways in which you daily choose

To dress your soul in binary,

Faux your skin in finery;

When fiction’s tarnish falls away,

When forgery is let decay,

Your backbone rises plumb-line strong,

Authentic in its truest song.

So let it fall, remove that shell –

You’re beautiful au naturel.

 

 

 

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Ready, Set, Grow

hoarfrosted grass

Where tears met the fog,

Your armour grew –

Negligee wrapping

Pain in more palatable form,

Deflecting eyes from

Bones brittle as death.

If you allow the Light

To strip you naked

(Sinews and seams

Bruised and bare)

Your genuine

Can grow.

Upon This Rock

leaf on rock

 

Upon this rock I take my stand,

I shall not stand alone;

I feel a strength beneath my feet,

A strength that’s not my own.

I feel a coolness in its shade,

A balm for flitting breast;

I feel the pulse of holy heat,

A place to sit and rest.

.

Upon this rock I build my life,

I shall not build in vain;

It anchors me to solid ground,

And lifts me up again.

A sure foundation, set in stone,

An anchor for life’s seas –

So blow and bluster, autumn wind,

You shall not conquer me.

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

Knowing and Believing

icyorb.jpg

Dates and calendars herald Spring’s approach.

She knows it will come –

she believes in the Oracle

who promised Winter’s demise.

But knowing

and believing

leave her cold today,

in the shivering places

where soul must hang in the tense balance

between what is and what will be.

Reality is,

while her rescue is certain,

her ‘now’ is cold,

her present wrapped up in ice.

She must find a way

to keep her hope warm

until she can sing

Winter’s dirge…