Wednesday, 14 February 2018

A couple of years ago I was neck-deep in a really special time of my life, and I was incredibly aware of it... I would be brought to tears most days with how precious and fleeting this time in particular was, knowing soon it would be gone, along with someone I cared for very much.
I was living each day through some sort of nostalgic lens, as though I had been given an opportunity to go back in time to really notice everything and pay attention; knowing that one day I'd give everything to be able experience it all again.
One thing I always got totally swept away by was the sounds of sirens coming and fading outside my window. No matter what I was doing, I would stop, put down my things and totally lose myself in them.
For a long time since that time ended, I've heard sirens and felt nothing... A few minutes ago, some went past, and my heart just broke out into something, not sure what yet, but I was listening to this song while it happened, and just felt rather overcome and just wanted to tell about it. 🖐️
It reminded me of this life advice from Mary Oliver.
“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind, and much can never be redeemed. But still, life has some possibility left. Give into it. Joy is not made to be a crumb."

Friday, 26 January 2018

Magpie on a Blue Sky

I saw a magpie, stoic
on a bare branch against a blue canvas
watching the world move beneath him

he did not flinch
and nor did I
at the thought of loss he might
be hiding in his dark beak

one, for sorrow

I couldn't help but feel the breeze
and the gentle weightlessness of fear

it does not hold me,


Monday, 1 January 2018

This year is the hardest year of your whole life.
So hard you cannot see a future most days. The pain is bigger than anything else.  Takes up the whole horizon no matter where you are.   You feel unsafe. You feel unsaved. Your past so present you can feel your baby teeth. Sitting on the couch, you swear your feet don’t reach the floor. You keep remembering the first time  you saw a bird’s nest held together by an old shoe lace  and the scraps of a plastic bag. You knew the home of a person  could be built like that. A lot of things you’d rather throw away.    You keep worrying you’re taking up too much space. I wish you’d let yourself be the Milky Way.   Remember when I told you  I was gonna become a full-time poet, and you paid my rent for three years? Best Friend, angel of the get-through, all living is storm chasing. Every good heart has lost its roof. Let all the walls collapse at your feet. Scream Timber when they ask you  how you are.  FINE is the suckiest answer. It is the opposite of HERE. Here is the only place left on the map. Here is where you learn laughter can go extinct and come back. I am already building a museum for every treasure you unearth in the rock  bottom.  Holy vulnerable cliff. God mason, heart heavier than all the bricks. Say, this is what the pain made of you: an open open open road.  An avalanche of feel it all. Don’t let anyone ever tell you you are too much. Or  it has been too long. Whatever guards the feet on the bridge of the song, you are made of that thing. That unbreakable note. That photograph  of you at five-years old. The year you ran away from school because you wanted to go home. You are almost there. You are the same compass you have always been. You are the same friend who never left my side  during my worst year. You caught every tantrum I threw with your bare hands, chucked it back  at the blood moon, said, It’s ok.  Everyone’s survival  looks a little bit like death sometimes.  I wrote a poem called “Say Yes”  while I was cursing your name  for not letting me go.  Best friend, this is what we do.  We gather each other up.  We say, The cup is half  yours and half mine. We say,  Alone is the last place you will ever be.  We say, Tonight let’s stay inside  reading Pema Chödrön while everyone else is out on the town. Pema will say, “Only to the degree that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible in us be found.” You’ll say, Pema is so wise. And I’ll say, Yes she is, And we are too. Angels of the get-through.  

- Andrea Gibson

Tuesday, 24 October 2017


Joan Crawford said that -
"Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never quite tell." and I don't know him that well.
But he takes me, spoonful by spoonful into his arms, his hands, 
and between his fingers 
they knead me, slowly
into butter.

I hate to admit it, but I am softening.
I feel his nudge, and his touch, it doesn't take very much 
just the pick on his thumb 
and his wrist has begun 
to strum me back into tune
But perhaps I've spoken too soon,

or maybe written, or sung 
his lips 
pushed on this
he oversteps into my wild side
and I freeze
and I clench
I turn silently still
Waiting for the moment 
that he gets his fill 
of me,

like butter.

Sunday, 27 August 2017

Rose Pink

The sugar is still fizzing in my bloodstream 
It's 4am 
I'm Rose pink
Slow down girl, slow down girl
Pour some water, take a breath
Cool your hands in the kitchen sink
Sit down girl, sit down girl 

I take off my silver shoes 
Lay them in the light of the moon  
Still catching, still refracting 
the things I no longer need from you

I think about the girl I am laying to rest alongside them
How I wish I could pluck pages
From her book 
Before I close her
Like she was written in invisible ink
I'm fading, I'm fading 

I make arrangements for the funeral 
A trip away, to a man 
who is not her lover
But he has the light
And I have the gasoline
To burn away this sobbing girl 
into a new woman.

The Other Woman
red as a flame 
she burns too
The woman who 
was grilled like a steak
In the burning heat of your hate

In the sweltering grief
The sweet relief you felt
pulling the pearls of innocence 
from around her neck
as she scattered 
across the Living Room floor
clattered and rolled 
into the cracks beneath the door

I let them vanish
My sanity too
from rose pink 
into a crushing velvet blue

Tuesday, 13 June 2017

This Is Not A Love Poem

This is not a poem, so to speak.
This is not a whisper
This is not shriek of a wounded heart
This is just my honesty
Naked, soft and slow
Without any expectation, without a map of where to go.
This isn't going to rhyme.

Love is not chemistry alone.
Love is not the pinning down, the violent orgasm, love is not always suitable.
Love doesn't fit neatly into compatible boxes, remembered birthdays, the promise of time,
Needs kept quiet for fear of being heard
and ignored
and left behind, again.

Love is the declaration of your flaws
And the patience we decide to handle them with.
The aftermath of the party, clearing up the mess we left behind in the living room, that's love.
Love is taking your beliefs, your sneering heart, your book-read judgements
and questioning them,
because this person in front of you is just as real as the experiences that brought you to them.
Perhaps love isn't in the common ground,
or the shared agreements of flowed conversation -
that's just another way of learning to love yourself back home from the empty plains of loss.
Perhaps love is only found in the trying again.
Perhaps love is in you, and love is in me,
and to release the two would be rapture and agony
all at once.

Perhaps the love is in the risk
Perhaps it's trampling the snowdrops
on your way steal a kiss
and land soft into her arms
if only for the moment.

Perhaps tomorrow they won't be here
But my love, perhaps it was worth it.

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

I had a sudden urge to summit the forest
to plant my legs deeply 
onto a stump of dead tree
which lets me see 
no more than an extra foot of sky 
than I already can.

I had a sudden urge 
to take that plaque
The one you shaped 
that I've tried to hold back
And hammer it 
abandon it
to that cemetery of trees
And let you be. 
Let the rain begin to stain it
let the rust begin to frame it
let it finally breathe the oxygen 
that you were denied
because keeping it at my bedside
won't stop this from turning to dust

and I think I need to let you go
a little more
because keeping you tucked
up inside my kitchen drawer
after sobbing on the living room floor
doesn't ever really close the door of a heart
or open a window
or let anything in, fresh
and I miss the breeze.

I remind myself
that doors can always be reopened, if only slightly
and old tree stumps can be revisited, and quite rightly
and conversations can always ensue at 6am
after dreaming of you
But I need to lay you down
a little more, now
while the future remains so unsure
and, while my heart remains unsecured
Laying you to rest 
in my head
in my chest
is like taking apart a garden
and picking each flower 
to be pressed
between the sheets of my favourite books
between the pages of the story 
of Us