Saturday 21 May 2016

The Awakening


Woman of substance, sophistication, world-weariness
The woman who knew it all
The multi-tasker, the doer of all things that need to be done
The lover of lists, the lover of checkboxes and checkmarks
The keeper of neat piles in neat stacks in neat boxes
The woman who knew how to manage it all
Who took things in her stride
Not a hair out of place

Then there came a day
Just a day like any other, one of many black figures on the calendar
A little special ‘cos she would go to the beach
A childhood sanctuary, favourite first place on one of her lists
She stood there on the paved walkway by the beach
Watching the boats in the blue yonder
Bobbing like puppets doing a dance
Directed by an invisible hand

A breeze tickled her ear
Wisps of hair came undone from her careful topknot
The breeze gathered strength
Something stirred deep within
She gazed at the sea
Was it calling to her?
The breeze was getting uncomfortable now
And yet in a way she was strangely cosy

Off came her slippers
Tossed aside in an uncharacteristic move
Locks of hair slipping out
She stepped out onto the still-warm sand
Watching the sun begin its descent towards
Its routine yet bewitching dip in the deep
Hesitant steps soon broke into a run
The wind embracing her lifting her hair as she finally let it loose

Now like a benign Medusa she stood
At the foamy edge of the shy waters lapping the shore
The wetness tickling her feet
She saw the high tide build up
And she walked in letting the wave wash over her
She fell back onto the shore drenched
Rivulets of salt running off her
Marking her with sand and bleached remains of seashells

The breeze enveloped her now
A gutsy wind unafraid of her steady gaze
Goosepimples bedraggled hair wet lips
The taste of sand in her mouth
Dirty she was and yet strangely cleansed
A freedom to be herself or even to just be
Delicious in its newness and as comfortable as an old worn blanket
She let herself go

The waves washed over her again and again
The breeze made unruly love to her
Her checkboxes lay unmarked
This woman who suddenly did not know it all
Did not have all the answers
But who had awoken from a long sleep
To soul-quenching, soul-stirring Life
The staid figures on her calendar laughed as they danced


Sunday 15 May 2016

The Spirit of Midnight

Lines of thought
Jumble themselves up in my head
Like woolly yarns of pastel,
Knotty, and tangled, crossing each other
Over and over
Till one knows not beginning nor end.

They slip between my fingers
Like glossy globus pearls
Pitting themselves on the floor,
Scattering everywhere, crushed underfoot.
On all fours, I scramble to gather them in,
My fingers slick with a sweat that seems
Precipitous with the end of reason.

Sleep, the slayer of mundane demons,
Lies forgotten on the crumpled bedspread
Moist with the drool of my meaningless dreams,
Where I still wander in the hope of finding an answer.

I know not what I write
But write I must.
There is a spirit in me that scorches,
Curls tendrils of my hair into feisty disobedience
And demands my obeisance

There's no letting go
Even when the soft threads tighten around me,
Biting into my body to leave dents
And the ravaged pearls take their revenge
In bright spots of crimson red that smudge my fingerprints.

I write, a farewell song,
An elegy, an ode, a hymn,
In desperation to be remembered
Or as a channel for the Unnamed that knows not the limits of Time and Space...
I know not which, but I write.

Saturday 21 May 2016

The Awakening


Woman of substance, sophistication, world-weariness
The woman who knew it all
The multi-tasker, the doer of all things that need to be done
The lover of lists, the lover of checkboxes and checkmarks
The keeper of neat piles in neat stacks in neat boxes
The woman who knew how to manage it all
Who took things in her stride
Not a hair out of place

Then there came a day
Just a day like any other, one of many black figures on the calendar
A little special ‘cos she would go to the beach
A childhood sanctuary, favourite first place on one of her lists
She stood there on the paved walkway by the beach
Watching the boats in the blue yonder
Bobbing like puppets doing a dance
Directed by an invisible hand

A breeze tickled her ear
Wisps of hair came undone from her careful topknot
The breeze gathered strength
Something stirred deep within
She gazed at the sea
Was it calling to her?
The breeze was getting uncomfortable now
And yet in a way she was strangely cosy

Off came her slippers
Tossed aside in an uncharacteristic move
Locks of hair slipping out
She stepped out onto the still-warm sand
Watching the sun begin its descent towards
Its routine yet bewitching dip in the deep
Hesitant steps soon broke into a run
The wind embracing her lifting her hair as she finally let it loose

Now like a benign Medusa she stood
At the foamy edge of the shy waters lapping the shore
The wetness tickling her feet
She saw the high tide build up
And she walked in letting the wave wash over her
She fell back onto the shore drenched
Rivulets of salt running off her
Marking her with sand and bleached remains of seashells

The breeze enveloped her now
A gutsy wind unafraid of her steady gaze
Goosepimples bedraggled hair wet lips
The taste of sand in her mouth
Dirty she was and yet strangely cleansed
A freedom to be herself or even to just be
Delicious in its newness and as comfortable as an old worn blanket
She let herself go

The waves washed over her again and again
The breeze made unruly love to her
Her checkboxes lay unmarked
This woman who suddenly did not know it all
Did not have all the answers
But who had awoken from a long sleep
To soul-quenching, soul-stirring Life
The staid figures on her calendar laughed as they danced


Sunday 15 May 2016

The Spirit of Midnight

Lines of thought
Jumble themselves up in my head
Like woolly yarns of pastel,
Knotty, and tangled, crossing each other
Over and over
Till one knows not beginning nor end.

They slip between my fingers
Like glossy globus pearls
Pitting themselves on the floor,
Scattering everywhere, crushed underfoot.
On all fours, I scramble to gather them in,
My fingers slick with a sweat that seems
Precipitous with the end of reason.

Sleep, the slayer of mundane demons,
Lies forgotten on the crumpled bedspread
Moist with the drool of my meaningless dreams,
Where I still wander in the hope of finding an answer.

I know not what I write
But write I must.
There is a spirit in me that scorches,
Curls tendrils of my hair into feisty disobedience
And demands my obeisance

There's no letting go
Even when the soft threads tighten around me,
Biting into my body to leave dents
And the ravaged pearls take their revenge
In bright spots of crimson red that smudge my fingerprints.

I write, a farewell song,
An elegy, an ode, a hymn,
In desperation to be remembered
Or as a channel for the Unnamed that knows not the limits of Time and Space...
I know not which, but I write.