Looking Past,,,me,,, too,,,



no more will I feel the shame
you have imposed onto my brain
too many thoughts full of fears
no longer will I hold them near
the keys are found upon the ground
no longer lost no longer bound
with tearful handkerchiefs holding them down
a chest of drawers
camouflaged with items I adore
holding too many secrets
of contaminated spores


the power I now take back
gone is the life of an amnesiac
my  mouth will scream with words of defiance
while my hands  become my alliance
there is no end
to this story, my friend
as time helps us heal
to the very end

sometimes openness can only happen in a crowd
no one wants to broadcast things that have been done to them, but until we all have a forceful reaction as our default, the piranhas will continue to hunt us.

Mixed Feelings and Thoughts

Hard to imagine
a year has been
a year has gone
lying by the window
feeling the wet air
flying over my skin
life coming towards me
I extend my arm
from under the warmth
I open my hand
imagine the day
a day to speak the words
my new life has come
this is where
I want to be

In my hand I see
a woman sitting
a wooden table
a window
 with a view


dear fogo Island


I wake
the sun rises over the cliffs behind me
waking all the little white houses that have been sleeping for the night
as if from a bad dream I wake
my heart feeling a little less buoyant
hopes a little deflated
is it the reality that I am half way through my retreat?
is it last nights artist talk
perhaps both,,,
I found the talk to be very inspiring!
the artist has such a exploitive attitude in his art.
he leaves no rock unturned
I may have to find which studio he is in and invite him for tea
when a different art form ignites you
that is communicating through your art!
I wish the talk were longer
so there could be more discussion with the artist
my time is slipping through my fingers like the water I try and hold

remembering my walk up the long path to…

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Remembering Fogo

dear fogo Island


My mind remembers
the slight concussion
the burning behind my eyes
my back, slides along the wall
as I step sideways down
an unfamiliar narrow staircase
did I wake in a dollhouse
is this a dream

Feeling my eyes budge from their pockets
as I strain to see
an image of soft greys and misty whites
merge from across the room
my feet move my body
no consultation with my mind
I feel, no, I am possessed, hypnotized
entranced by what I saw
no words I find or create
can put you the reader 
in my mind on my footprints
that first morning on Fogo Is.


Did I die
had I fallen into a coma
I could not remember a disaster
yet here I was, in heaven

With pyjamas still on 
I pulled a big white sweater over my head
drew my rubbers on my feet
I stepped out the door…

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How Do We Protect




This week has felt
like walking on marbles
every step, every word
unfamiliar, off  balancing
like learning a new language
like losing one’s hearing
the deafening silents of a room
not one breath could be heard
my ears ache from the strain

This week I wore an armour
a deflector of evil stares
their acid scented breath that lingered
walking into a den of wolves
with their matted manes
their yellowed teeth
their foaming mouths
their torn hoofs
how can one feel protected
when evil drips from the rafters
like molten tar, black, thick, all-consuming
a den, void of any life

How have we forgotten?
the child so young, so trusting, so innocent
abuse does not easily fade with passing years
the child remains hidden
in a protected place
the subconscious mind

I am compelled to extend my hand
to open my heart
to create a secure place
for that child to return
my mind spins as I sit and listen
words and images fight for space in my head
breathing does not release the throbbing
hands tighten, knuckles whiten
anger grows with the frustration of legalities
‘To prove beyond doubt’

A child’s memory is so delicate
so different than an adult
yet, they are expected to remember
to act as an adult should
a child’s mind protects
for survival is an instinct
how would we react
with our many years of age?
nothing can erase
 the horror that has been done to them
victims will always remember
like a shadow following them to death
forever marked, like a tattoo engraved beneath the skin

I listen to witnesses
unable to move my eyes
my ears can’t comprehend the words
leaving their mouths
one after another they speak
as if reading from a script
I feel hollow, everything echoing

But what I feel  is nothing
compared to the continued rotting
they will experience of their soul
no way will they sleep
soundly again
no way will they feel happiness

In time, they will turn on each other
like wolves in a pack
fighting for the same bone
the sub-conscience is a vital component in our construction
it will not release them of guilt
or the empty words they spoke

As a person who draws lines and assembles words
my focus is the child that became an adult
I can only offer comfort and support
to deflect as much as I am capable
to ease their sorrow for an hour
to communicate belief in their memories
to support with open heart and arms
I myself will sleep well

If I can bring attention to the uneven justice
create a path for victims to feel comfort
I may then return with a little ease
to my own mind and art
so I may again
look to things of beauty
and things of love
for we must never allow the evil that lurks
to control the good we know to be




My Book Blue

Photo on 2017-09-20 at 8.37 AM

I have held this book
I have read this book
I have sought clarification
I have sought guidance
It has never let me down
It has always shown me options
We have been friends since 1998
I have mended its falling pages
I have duck-taped it more than once
My book has never complained
I have drifted on occasion
My eyes, caught by the new and younger
With its cover all shiny and slick
It’s pages so white they reflect the glare of the sun
With more sophisticated explanations
More adventure within its lines
I only drift for a short time
Tiring so quickly by the new
I may drift but I always come back
I come back to you my dear blue book
You, having been shoved in every bag and suitcase I own
You, my dear blue that never demands a thing
You have always flown through customs without a hitch
You never get tired to fly
You have never spoken a lie
Are the shadow that watches my back
Never have you left me hanging
I will continue to tape your pages
I will always come to you first
You have explained
stairs, eggs, ladders, and bees
You are my confidant and never tire of my thoughts
My book of blue
You know me better than I know you
My dear friend
My Book Blue


At times it’s the strangest thing that pulls us back in history. My book of dream definitions has seen me from when I first started to sculpt. It has been with me through my husband’s illness and has helped me explain my paintings for shows. I have duck taped this poor book so often that now it has its own personality. It has its secrets and its own life.   My book also has my husbands handwriting on the inside cover, this gives it, even more, importance as I continue to walk and talk and create my way through this life as a widow, a widow without a manual.
Can a book become your friend? There are days when I think YES.




elbows weighing heavily on the wooden table
bearing down in the palms of my hands
held captive by
words, thoughts, images, sounds

are the waves crashing against the ancient rock
the ocean, filled with memories of time
is the cello that moans with the wind
quenching my parched heart

I fill my ears with notes of Glass
the tapping of ivory keys
vibrate through my skin

my skin
my skin
that has been holding a million tears
holding, like some golden treasure
an illusion that I have created
a place that I run to when the world feels foreign

Glass fingers keep tapping
causing my heart to swell, expand, expose itself
music eclipses sorrow
holding and slowing time
I pause 
allowing my breath to penetrate
my heart to go quiet
allowing myself to feel the rhythm

One note
a continuance of notes
all are the blood that nourishes
my mind and heart
it can be heard everywhere
it can also be seen
as it touches  a leaf on a tree
or skips along the water’s surface
the motivation of life

september 12 2017