The Power Of Music



I stand with left foot firmly placed on the matt
right foot bent at the knuckles and placed on the other foot
my belly leans against the counter before me
a typewriter sits, waiting
a white ceramic countertop
fingers move across the keys
holding thoughts from my mind
to the right,
a thin stemmed red wine glass sits half full
within easy reach of my right hand
the room fills with classical sounds 
violins, piano and cello
with its deep tones that are able to lift me off the floor

Right-hand reaches to pick up the glass
tongue creeps past my lips 
moving back and forth 
to moisten
to prepare
to be seduced by the fully aged red
that tastes like a burgundy
like rose petals that have fallen
and left to soak in the sun
enticing the sugars to dance
the first sip has all those qualities
it lingers and speaks
only, to the insides of your eyelids

As I lean forward
still with eyes closed
I wonder what the point would be
to take a second sip
for the second will only pale to the first
no more will there be anticipation
no awakening of the senses
the map will have been drawn


Sit back and listen
to the movements of the violins and cello
let the spirits take you
to your inner world
that only awakes 
when your eyelids are drawn
when your heart opens to the song





In The Night…

Photo on 2017-11-09 at 4.34 AM

You know it,
that feeling when you roll over in the dead of night
I know you know it,
when you keep your eyes closed
when it feels as if you have a weight on your head
when your mind starts having a conversation with itself
keep your eyes closed
or you will break that sleep connection
so, you lie there pretending to yourself
I’m still asleep, I’m still asleep
if you don’t say the words
you will remain in slumberland
don’t look at the clock for that will make it official
there is a tug of war being played
two figures with a rope in your head
one is smooth and white
the other muddy with cracked skin like a dried river bed
each holding onto the rope
tugging it back and forth
not a one winning or grabbing a tighter grip
your eyes have had enough they open
sleep is now officially over
the membrane has been broken
you swing your legs out from under the warmth of the duvet
pulling yourself up you make your way in the dark
a packet of strawberry and apple tea
what a combination, you think
who decides that combination?
water fills the porcelain white cup
into the microwave it goes
you listen to the engine roar and wonder how the water boils
watching the timer you quickly open the door to stop that horrid beeping
could we not have Beethoven’s 5th instead?
two minutes to wait
you decide to roll strange velcro type curlers into your hair
why would you not, doesn’t everyone?
it becomes obvious that midnight logic is different than daytime
the tea bag is lowered into the hot water
you begin to make your way across the room
passing two lamps, but you decide to do it in the dark
till you walk on the birch tree bark you left on the floor
fumbling you reach for the table lamp
a glass of water is knocked over
you hear it thump onto the floor
how did it not break?
still in the dark
it becomes apparent that functioning in the night is futile
sipping the second cup of strawberries

november 9 2017
‘in the night’

Photo on 2017-11-09 at 3.50 AM #4


Cup of Coffee?

A cup of coffee?


IMG_5372 (1)

before my world wakes
I stand watching the espresso pot
waiting for that sound
compressed steam escaping
dark, magical aroma
to fill the room and waken my mind
the mornings’ first pot of coffee

‘Mama used to say that if you stand over a pot of water it will never come to boil. As a child, this intrigued me, and caused me to develop methods of watching a pot without really watching it.’

camouflaged with the doorway
only her eyes could be seen
eyes directly aimed at a pot
a pot of water on the stove
she waited for the sound
of bubbles rumbling and dancing

Doorways are not for standing in. It will never boil if you continue to stare at it. My mama was right, she knew what she was talking. Feeling exasperated I would slide down the wall and sit with my knees up to my chin.’

her young mind began to wander
watching an ant walk across the floor
following the fly as it swooped past her nose
curious eyes of a child are never bored
she begins to imagine a parade
ants marching one by one
ladybugs flying overhead
dragonflies with the banner up front
frogs hopping along with decorated hats
inch worms slowly tagging along side by side
tree frogs hitching a ride
on the backs of turtles
as they played the drums
diddy ummm drum-mm-rum

I told you, mama would say. The moment you take your eyes off the pot it begins to boil. No one likes to be stared at, even a pot of water. She was right, at this time. This memory has remained with me my entire life. Often it sits in the back of my mind till I put a pot of water on the stove or the espresso pot. Then I stand there with one hand on my hip and my shoulder leaning against the doorway. For those moments I am again that child waiting to catch that first bubble and always hearing my mother say, ‘It will never boil if you watch it’.

what would WE be
without our collections of memories
how would we experience the world
if we lost our inner child

as my body widens
as my hair greys
as my life continues to be written on my face
I see that child following me
reminding me of small miracles
like watching water boil
Coffee is ready!





Day In Corn Field



between the cobs
secrets held tightly
rows upon rows
little bodies in cocoons
no pink or yellow bows

my world is a cornfield
of endless paths

one – you chose
two – you walk
three – you discover
four – you question
five – you doubt
six – you look back
seven – you rethink
eight – you adjust
nine – you fail
ten – you contemplate
eleven – you decline
twelve – your at the end
my world is like a corn field

the sky is full of the ancients
you might have seen their faces in the sky
as they were drifting by
maybe you have heard one calling
could it have been a crow’s cry

life is full of questions
never do I feel satisfied
when one path I decide to walk
the other passes by

I stand and watch the moments
that mimics me to a fault
then sit in my square of stalks laid bare
where secrets are kept in a vault

still I hear the whispers
chasing me around
sometimes they make me giggle
but often they make me frown

the sun feels warm
and makes me feel secure
secrets of the cornfield
I must forever endure

dark sky draws near
blue figure begins to appear
sound of cracking on cascading stalks
not a whisper heard as they walk
they frighten me for idle fun
I hear the footprints, I don’t run
frozen to the ground, I can hear them come


like shadows they move through each other
flying like a butterfly
still, sit and wonder
why cornfield children don’t cry

they sleep alone
perched onto the stalk which is their home
leaves layered all around
golden hair falling down

I call to whispering shadow
to stand in front of me
for I would like to dance a waltz
and have a cup of tea

shadows in the field
was that you calling me?
or was it just the crows 
flying up into the tree

I will walk upon your row of rows
till the north wind blows
forever to sleep upon your chest
hold you till eternal rest


This day I sat, all day in the middle clearing of a cornfield. After some time creating photo poems I began to write. I wanted to see how sitting and experiencing the solitude would change my writing. Observing my reactions to the solitude. With the sun and clouds moving overhead, it was the wind that held me most. The wind whispering in the rows deep. Then like flying birds, it would rise and join the sky.
I was surprised that I became frightened as the wind would jump about for my mind interrupted it as ‘ghosts gathering’. owwwwuuuu
Till in the end, I sort of accepted where I was. As the sun came down my friends called over the tops of the corn tassels. Coffee was brewed!
I was quite content to leave the field and all its whispers.
All and all I think it was a good experiment and one that I will do again, in a different isolated place.
There is also a mini video on YouTube, though I was not able to add a link.



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…

View original post 487 more words

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…

View original post 244 more words