Only Feminine #?

its the loss and the lonely time,
no holly wine quenchedparchedtongueholy
tasting past love spent in regretting
a world gone awry, all unjusified axis
axeing ropes of fragile hopes

Yet all our hearts still beat (but for those that don't)
born of relatively free feet, wheel, wing, string
voice

and weeping tears, all ears dears damning
a cresting wave of hurt, rotundled yon fronds
of tangle weed knowing
Un tongue

Unfurling, love.

Still.

Only Feminine #?

You may distract me with
                                          7
         Lots of things
                                        3(-1)
But I hope you see
                                          7
        the themes
                                        3(-1)

Reckless

I being reckless, you see
forgetting what it means to be
small
little mouse, all grey and eaily lost
in shadows, cobwebs, broken seeds
that should have helicoptered like whisers of
philosophy in autumn

when it was too late and all already undone,
punctured twice,
and, twice,
shy.
Bitten words in golden silence. like the nuns.
like the bats, how they swoop
like dragons
fear the flies, they come with
death

I just climbed too many trees, read
too many books, leafed through paths
of old and longed for dust
and bones of anciant stories
still felt like the brush that sweeps and
reaveals, or clay that clings
till it hardens
in the sun
the golden light
the beams that alights petals, roses,perfume,freedom,lie blown glass through the
leaves, just leaves
and whispers
and silence
and
betrayel

Worst, at such a tender age, i already knew
as far as such knowing ever
knows nothing
know nothing
but whatcan nothing shelter against but cold and quicknowing, all themore
brutal for the not and the until and the then and the after and the next time and time after until
the break, the light, the gleaming, the cunning, the wild, the flight, the fight
the half step shuffleonto apath where you
survive
where you maybe dont get hurt
where, with strive, you maybe more than
survive
where maybe you maye able to save the only
one worth saving

all the truth spindled up

if the cogs dont chew you up first
of course

In Court

He's come for me.
The Man.
Fat, white, finger pointing in uncaring lust
"You're delusional! Paranoid!"
The contempt of the mad, poor &
destitute curling lip "You're sick!"

Around me the nest,
composed of bent twigs & crumpled leaves,
barest remnents of a fairie feast,
illusion stripped and empty
awaiting the hammer.

Hazards

There, my love, help me take off
my armour, all tarnshed

with old scars and lost blood of innocence.
It aint mirror-like, this
but then, perhaps it is.

Here, my love, let me take up
your chain, broken links

with arrowed heart and fire of new knowing.
It aint peaceful-like, this
but when, perhaps it will be.

I saw him again today, my boy,
in the yucca leaves painted
Tardis blue, my love.

We shared in brief dimension,
through the portal to the garden.

The world is eclipsed, turning
but these moments are ours
and we must lift our eyes
to see.

Allowing the only subjugation to be
one with love.

The Book

Of Bloody Reflections, has been leavening in its file since the equinox/eclipse. I've hardly poked at it all, see, last time I finished in 2013 I was all caught up in project completion and I submitted too soon. Way too soon. I committed a cardinal sin, one which must clog up the slush piles of agents and publishers world wide. Sorry about that, dears.

Thing is: I'm serious. This is my career. I am going to, after years more to come of building audiance and polishing voice and skill, make a living. This takes time, and wit, and luck.

I aint got luck. My wits are healing. I'm giving it time, I'm working on my patience. I listen to advice.

In this time I've let the poetry flow, on paper, in performance, and read others, and worked on marketing ideas. I've created a bit of promo material that people responded well to but needs further development. I've been poetry busking and made £35 in a couple of hours, leaving me with an actual profit from poetry (astounding). I've met a lot of wonderful poets, writers and storytellers. I've jammed poetry with musicians.

I've begun the second and concluding book, Refractions of Fire, and worked more on the synopsis for that and pondered the themes.

I've drafted my submission package. I've begun to draw up a list of suitable agents.

Now it's time to open that file again. To give it a thorough, critical read through. To tidy up loose words and threads, and I suspect to pull The End into a better alignment. To ask myself honestly and without fear of failure or narcissistic grandeur: Is it ready? Is it viable?

Events in my personal life have left me with little confidence but I can not and will not let that hinder progress. Resilience is a major factor of success.

Then it will be time to polish that submission package and get rejected again...with hope, with acceptance, with a willingness to get stronger.

It's almost time to burn.

Body in the bath: Meditation #2

I make rainbows of my self.
In the water.
In the sunlight.
Lips bitten and words
dripped in kisses.