approval isn’t a prize; it’s capture
Feelings are
risk coupons
of lurking megawatts
ready to charge
at a moment’s notice;
holding their ground.
Grief is ache,
a witness to the temporary;
knowing that it mattered.
Enter whakawātea,
calling to create space
for feelings to begin their journey,
for room to allow
the risk
of a new beginning.
When beats pound rhythm,
I tap tiny covert steps
as eyebrows raise
in public;
alone,
music owns
my dancing strings.
There was a woman
who saw the world
as unprotected,
sensed people’s pain,
and gifted them
the quiet place
they deserved.
She understood
some hearts
need space,
so, she would …
be,
stitching a length of days,
watching silent moments
let
breezes through,
sunshine in,
and rain cleanse
only
what was ready
to be washed away.
I strain to see,
how my feet will land –
on solid ground, wave, or zephyr.
One person
who is two,
the outside / the inside,
one is
guarded to defend,
the other
hidden to protect.
From the outside looking in,
camouflaged smile,
practiced handshake,
pleasantly interactive,
affable but aloof
woman;
from the inside looking out,
observing, detecting, data collecting, analyzing survivor.
I shared my troubles with a woman
who lead me to
a shy little child
hidden
inside me.
I thought, ‘this is crackers,’
but played along.
Turns out, the girl was there,
hiding
all along.
I tried to run
from her,
from myself,
but in the end
I had
to protector her.
Laughter pealed from me
unintentionally escaping,
while observing
a mundane exchange,
shot into space
without warning.
It burst from me
unbounded,
with irrational duration,
and returned for a second encore,
then a third.
I lost her
my friend
my baby
my solitude mate.
Her aloofness was a perfect fit
following me everywhere,
while keeping her separate self;
her thoughts were her own,
unless there was food,
then she’d gladly join in.
She didn’t enjoy company;
kept it to herself,
she was kind that way.
Because, illusion
was all there was,
painted over empty rooms
that feigned their promises
of a life
inside
It’s just a story
It’s not who I am
It used to the have power
to make me believe
that story was who I am.
But I have forgiven
And grieved
And let go
And now I begin with just me,
before the story sidetracked me,
and who I was meant to be
all along
silence
is space,
for breathing,
for calm,
for reflection.
It’s absence is cluttered with noise
that distracts from knowing
what lies beneath, and drains the spirit.
silence
is time,
is being,
is renewal.
I am my own 