Simple is a thought like breathing. The thought of simple clears out clutter, makes a path wind through the mind, as breathing releases air from lungs. To simplify is to undo, uncoil, withdraw. Put down so we might pick up. Pick out each moment, singular, not made for repeat, and free of collected debris. That … More A Poem: Simple

I want to tell you that you’re seen, sitting there in the dark. The blue’s a veil, the clouds will shift, in a giving way to the moon. The light, though now just a forgotten thing, will all of a sudden appear. The clouds playing skittles with the wind will push through, and the moon … More A Poem: Seen

Each of us have a space here. One not encroached upon, where the sun shines and the stars rise just for us. The invisible are seen in this space, their branches outspread, that the light is not blocked from shining and there is room for full existence. Space here to claim, and settle in, planted, … More A Poem: Being

While the earth is still breathing I will listen to her heart beat. She has things to share in the wind’s breath. And while the sun turns, I will pivot like the plants towards her face. Yes, I am aware I say too much. But don’t we each create a life from which we preach … More A Poem: Dumb

Today I walk empty, nothing to spend, my kete has a hole needing weaving. But the gathering, the gathering is like a harvest never-ending of all the things I cannot keep. And so they must be given back, though I have nothing in my bag, no coin to spend or thing to barter. But I … More A Poem: Nothing to Spend

Always the growing, the greening, the running over. Like a river in flood the green can’t be contained but covers everything, in time. The bare-limbed winter branches, the trees divested of leaves now under snow, to them will come the rounding returning seasons. The sun, like a switch flicked on, or a smile’s effect upon … More A Poem: Greening

You break the scales. You strain at the seams of our understanding. That the heavens you have made can house you, is too much to fathom. When we know our place as less than nothing, dust on the scales, or vapours rising, gone by noon – we wonder then, the reason for anything. We look … More A Poem: Scales