I am an interdisciplinary artist, poet, educator and folk musician. This page is for my poetry. There are some strong themes, some funny stuff, some sad motifs. Just letting you know dear reader.
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Gently fold me in your arms
Rest my head in the crook of your neck
And let me slow-dance the blues away
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Victim and victimiser When the whole world is at peace When night has fallen there is God’s face In the stars of the sky In the silhouetted land In my minds eye On the one I love On the one I ignore On the one I give On the one I give not On the one of my children On the two of my children On all of the children Is it my lot to wander gardens Walking barefoot asking pardon? I’m given a choice. Look inside Don’t be blind And Listen. Very. Quiet. Very. Hard. Concentrate, attend, be present. The victim and the victimiser Are just words and split factions States of being irrelevant to God So forget victimhood, being a victimiser God’s love dissolves, he is the great atomiser Exploder of the false self and selves Clear the decks, throw books from the shelves. God is all in all I am who am Yahweh.
Yellow Bunny Frances was born in 1969 at Leeds Maternity hospital, (this is going somewhere, I’ve got a plan honestly) and was given a yellow rabbit by a lady from Ann’s jewellery evening class. (Those ladies loved mum.) Ann had two significant car crashes in 1968 and 1969 and had broken her pelvis and back. Right before the birth she had a blow out and flipped the car right over on the way home from Harrogate. Ann says her shoes were stolen while she was unconscious. (This is relevant It’s all part of the story). [Sometimes a story is slow in the coming like Frances was being born.] Ann suffered terribly at the birth Still recovering from her injuries Ann was unable to sit up or hold her new baby. Frances and Yellow Bunny went on a trip to Huddersfield, with Uncle Bobby, Aunty Susan and Cousins Philip, Janet and Rachel. Hours, days, weeks, months went by. Who can tell how slowly of fast they passed. She was a baby. {Not yet conscious o...
The Change part 6: In the Fall-Out of Chernobyl, Black is Inapposite She is in her black as usual. Black coat and bag Black bra and knickers and slip Black dress All black, every day. Saying – he is dead and I am sorry The semiotics of the outfit. She is in her black dress at the doctor’s waiting room In the hospital Surrounded by women like her. Some crying silently, anxiously, some dead eyed, exhausted with an IV of nuclear-ness drip, drip, dripping into their bodies. With husbands With women friends With mothers, with daughters. She is alone, and happily so she needs a break from the well intentioned baggage of others. She looks at herself And she says “This narrative has to change”. This event marks a way stone, a departure from the path she thought she was going on. Her agency in this new reality asserts itself and says, “Dump the black, Live. This is your time now. He has had his slice of mourning, ...
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