Tag Archives: poetry

What Makes You Feel Loved?


Greetings from the studio. <3

Last year was quite an adventure. Everything I dreamt about when I got in touch with my dreams, during my exchange year in Switzerland, so many years ago. Safe here in my sacred art space and studio, painting away.

I also had the privilege to spend art time with many students of core art, holding the space for them to explore their own way of making art in the moment.

But no writing. Not one poem, all year.

By December I felt congested and blurry. I spent most of the Christmas break writing and reconnecting with myself. Poetry helped me find my way back. It hit me today, after all this time spent writing and painting, that what I most need to feel loved, is to spend one on one time with my love. This goes for my relationship to me as well.

Somehow, having spent so many years writing for a reason: for healing; for articles; for connection; for insights – I had missed the most crucial part. Writing, for me, is an act of self-love. It is a very precise way of listening to the moment and describing it, of looking at myself, my life, my emotions with kindness and deep honesty. There is no desired end result, no agenda, no gain. Just the act of reaching out, spending time with the person I am in that moment.

So, I wanted to ask you, in turn:

What makes you feel loved?

How could you give yourself [more of] that, whatever it is, today?






I have tried to hang on


Knuckles strawberry and vanilla, to

Be included

All the while excluding


From these vast expanses of



Gnarly wood.

Freezing derriere.

Eyes sink sink sinking into waves


olive, shades and shades of it

in feathery waves.


This world needs

the gazing.

Watching roads being built

trams on Hakaniemi bridge

the sound of all the doing.

Missing the hickup of water

hitting rock.

The trickle of word by word.

Seaweed, slime, down of gull.


Then, a rose petal.



There was a pull, like that of

a chewing gum

from lip

Is it coming loose?

Or are there splotches of burst bubble



Need. I felt her need.

A faint scent of raspberry

The promise of belonging




Instead.          Now.          Space.

Looking into the breeze.



dandelion fluff.




Sitting in one place. Intimately.

Not one for sitting meditation.

but watching seaweed move.

or one green leaf

in wrinkled water

Why plan? Anything? Ever?

Waiting for the Impulse

What does it mean
to me
to be whole?
I look at friends of mine who
succeed with what they do
yet I. don’t. move.
Because I know it isn’t time
not yet.
I need to understand
I don’t know what.
I just know there is a place where all of this
which is part of me.


has a place
where where where
is my place
where can the universe and hearts of people
be so big that
there is place for
one flamboyant soul
who knows no compromise
in things that matter

No bits and pieces for me
all of me
or none of me
You say it is possible
and I picture that in my mind
project it into my future
hope aflame in the midst of my bewilderment.

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.