Tag Archives: poet

Snow that melts when it hits the road

The blue, the green, the endless steps of a human life.

I have been fortunate enough to have been reintroduced to my roots lately.

All those footprints in snow, melted ages ago.

I see the deep, harrowing loneliness and isolation of my childhood and teenage years.

I remember how I would have given all of my reflective capabilities, all of my depth for just a few moments of belonging, of being able to immerse myself in a drunken appreciation of the rowdiness I saw all around me. Instead I saw it all, as through a glass wall, the observations, sensations and emotions around me swirling into my brain. There was a clear eyed, calm voiced witness inside of me that commented on everything, including my own actions and motivations.

This experience of being, through no conscious choice of my own, shut out from the pack, outside of something that everyone else could partake in, left to my own overwhelming sensations and interior landscape, gave rise to this deep yearning to find authentic connection. To somehow explore what I saw, express it, see if I could find someone else who recognized what I was sensing.

Pines, my best friends since childhood.

As I took a longer walk back from my children’s school this morning, I took time to stay with each footprint in the snow, a drop of water swaying this way and that on a pine branch, the particular scent of bared asphalt and snow that melts when it hits the road.

Do you know this kind of snow? The kind with the wet slushy last crunch? Spring is on its way.

I see my isolation differently now.

The eyes of self-compassion see myself as an adolescent in a new way. I was practising my future life in a way, those difficult years. Something inside of me knew that my life, my heart path, lay elsewhere. No matter how I tried, I could not fit into that which was not of my soul. Something inside of me was stronger than my will and I just could not squeeze myself hard enough to fit into the tiny space that was offered to me.

Have you ever felt it? That no matter how you try, you just cannot make yourself convincingly fit into the roles offered to you?

My sense of being on the sidelines fills me with this deep silence, a spaciousness that can contain and give birth to new universes. This otherness in me makes it possible to stand the distance between myself and the world. It is also from this gap that connection is born; the active, compassionate, loving reaching out to you, there, on the other side of silence.

The deeper I paint myself into this exploration of self-love and self-compassion, the slower and more silent I become. It doesn’t feel like a punishment, anymore. It feels like coming home.

Who knows what will grow out of this dirt, come spring?

So I wanted to write a bit,


just a wordy wave,

to you out there,

where ever you are and

wish you a day of self-compassion with all that you live with, today.

Best Friends

Writing poetry
is air in my lungs,
after holding my breath
to be the perfect woman.
Poetry stings my eyes and lungs
I see clearly.

Hipocrite is a sticky animal
and best friends with
Perfect Woman.



Since Switzerland
I have been rooted in cafés
Observing official line consciousness
Like a scientist
[if a poet can be a scientist]
Observing this strange holographic cube
of everyday life
Noting important aspects
New facts

This has taken precedence
over everything else

I can’t explain
Why I must listen to
this soft voice singing in me
There is no practical reason for it [in fact official line consciousness
informs me I am wasting perfectly good time]
Except that somewhere in me
I know
A big merging is happening

Being born
hurts sweetly
it is dark and scary
I keep hearing
the universe supports every move I make
Tarot cards, sign posts, movies, books, intuition
tell me this
over and over

Autumn lasts long this year
as if the very leaves urge me on
with their oranges, yellows and umber
Still, every breath I take
feels like a daring move
so I keep on daring
so as not to be petrified by fear

Maybe one day
these records may lead
someone else
on their way to understanding that

Living so the
sweet and sour of the everyday
merge like balsamic and vinegar
on the tongue of my emotions
is of the essence


I am a poet
whose denied one of her true natures

poems. do. not. sell.

bitterness is fear in boxes.

one for each day.

every day you put in one joy or fragile dream

into one of the boxes

and watch it frittered away.

the bitterness grows in rhythm

with the excuses.

What Happens to the Poets?

What happens to the poets?
What happens to the dreamers?
They stop writing it down,
they start scurrying around like the rest
of us.

They were dreamers
they listened.
They were happy
they cared.
Now there is scarcely nothing
Now we are all scared
When Soul is talking
there is room for nothing more
Soul is L O V E.

and love  i s .
Tthere is room for nothing more

But see;
Then for a while,
you don’t listen
you see golden shoes
and diamond smiles.

It’s gone the soul
and fear is in it’s place
you think.
And walk the earth alone.