Sailing Heart .
It is the simple act of storytelling that illuminates the darkness.
An image, a string of words, that accesses places beyond consciousness.
It is truth spoken from a damaged soul that warms the heart.
The expression of another’s pain that has the power to heal.
(Book, ‘In My Room’, 2007).
Held On A String .
I stretch to forever with the very tips of my fingers. Way up high to a place where everything falls away. Just me and nothing. Nothing and me. Then I let go. Fell into a place much harder than my story. It hurt. Not from the fall. From landing in things I didn’t know were still there. Now my fingers ache for the place where everything falls away. I fight to soothe fiddling fingers still. Lock them in lap. Far less than the place they long for. Much more for being held in a place I believe I have a chance to hold.
(Reposted from 2010. About addiction maybe?)
Boy Oh BOy .
Oh BOy. The bound up BOy. Crushed beneath the pressure, the grind to be tough and strong. Big. The overwhelming wave of responsibility to save everything from time, to the environment – the world itself. But I’ve seen the BOy dance and cry. Read poetry out loud. Wear makeup. Pick flowers. Speak his truth. Challenge his world. Name his feelings. Play piano and sing. Hug another BOy.
BOy oh BOy I cried…and a dream saw hands on the wheel of change. Ploughing a culture in where the feelings, vulnerabilities and experiences of men and BOys cannot be freely expressed and accepted. Burying the angst that has the potential of bringing BOy to his own end.
BOy oh BOy said the dream … may ideals and expectations of the BOy be reset, redrawn. May BOy be moved and freed from his grueling vigil by the roar for change. The momentum of the march towards it. And the wonder at a way and time when BOy is no longer required to be just one of the boys anymore.
(Clunk & Jam book, 2019).
The Good Man .
Where are all the good men, who see us. Hear us. Touch us with a gentle hand. Tie our bow. Kiss us dryly on the cheek. And love us in our strength.
Where are all the good men, who mind us in our fragile state. Cradle us as you would a broken bird. Not to satisfy a need within themselves. Nor to forever stroke our weakness. But to strengthen the flight they wish for us to take.
Where are all the good men, who can accept without threat, all we invite and excite over. Remain seated throughout the pleasure of each unbridled offering. And protect the innocence of the gift.
Where are all the good men, who safe keep precious pieces we discard. Hear our strange and distant song. Follow notes beyond the noise. And return knowingly without taking.
Where are all the good men, who keep light and air in windows high. Flowers on the stairs. Who hold a mirror quietly to the side, so we can recognise the newness and the goodness in ourselves. Comprehend the whole of who we are. And fear no more the stage.
Where are all the good men, who wait well outside our hiding place. Offer not hand but time. A refuge where within we tend neglected hurts. Slow to a halt from our exhaustive run. And bring to life our dreams.
Where is the good man, so sure and steady in stride, he invites us into our own. Where we unite in all our consciousness with the good man in ourselves.
Where we feel the fearlessness of taking our very first step. And release ourselves from an endless edge.
(Reposted from 2016. Written August, 2015. Pictured: Poem emerged from book read on Rottnest Island, 2015). )
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Hold On .
I held a young soul suffering, and my Achilles heal I bared. I hugged a breaking heart and it punched right through my chest. I held a breath of deep despair and shared a lifeless void. Surrendered to a stolen moment and entered a sacred place.
I allowed words to pierce my guard and a trembling hand met mine. I shed a tear as pain took hold and it softened another’s fall. We sat with silence, moved with fear, and together we returned. We captured moments of relief, and I held the hand of hope.
( Poem written for a young person on a Youth Focus camp. Reposted from 2014. ‘In My Room’ book. Art by Harley Manifold, original in colour.)
Everything is Waiting for You . (By David Whyte)
Your great mistake is to act the drama as is you were alone. As if life were a progressive and cunning crime with no witness to the tiny hidden transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely, even you, at times, have felt the grand array; the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding out your solo voice. You must note the way the soap dish enables you, or the window latch grants you freedom. Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity. The stairs are your mentor of things to come, the doors have always been there to frighten you and invite you, and the tiny speaker in the phone is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the conversation. The kettle is singing even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots have left their arrogant aloofness and seen the good in you at last. All the birds and creatures of the world are unutterably themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
Picture from Dumbo Feather, David featured before, ‘A Different Way To Tread’.
