There is reassurance in the count of three. One is a single entity, somehow vulnerable, though it may be all powerful. Two is a bookend on both sides, we can stand with some stability. But three, three is a triple stranded rope, a triangle with three planes, and a centre space. A place to live … More A Poem: The Count of Three

Everyone dreams of a love that comes to find them. Pursues them down. Pries the heart, and carefully undoes them. Everyone is human, and love a precursor to our sanctifying. While we dream of gentle saviours, love is an instrument bent on mining, and hollowing out the heart to greater depths, that instead of sudden … More A Poem: Grace II

You will not circumnavigate it. You will not turn over a new leaf. The years, and their treasures, have left their inscription on the heart’s face. And the heart has a memory deep, and silent, and private as the gifts it has hoarded to itself. So you may not have the words to find to … More A Poem: For Grief II

Is heaven a long summer’s afternoon? Does it sound like cicada’s singing, insects, the brush of leaf upon leaf. The occasional bird calling, the rest stilled by the sun’s heat. Is heaven the sun falling below the pine’s crowns, shining through their needles a lacework pattern. Is it grass, under leaves still spring green, and … More A Poem: Afternoon

How often are the things we carry made of ashes held in the hands. Whole in memory, carried with careful intention. How often do we look through yesteryear’s lens. Make the mistake of perceiving something as solid and real, as continuing. How often can we face ourselves as lone sojourners, walking on the ashes of … More A Poem: Ashes in the Hand

Water holds memory and shape. It is absorbing, absolving, forgiving. It is like a friend that receives us as we are. Adjusting to our form, making space, but still encompassing us, with a weight that lifts us up upon itself. It is whole apart from us, but is generous and accommodating. Transparent but substantial in … More A Poem: Memory

You are dying every day a little more. Each day you plant your feet from bed, solid on the bedroom floor, you have died a little in your sleep, and your solidity belies the fact a part of you has left. Each day is a journey on, making pieces of your patch-worked quilt – your … More A Poem: Dying

There are so many things that keep us abreast, that can lift us and carry us through. Today for me, it was the long note of a tune suspended in the light, and the way one note followed the other, as waves do upon a beach, constant and consistent. Yes, one friend talks about the … More A Poem: Suspended

I want to draw a wide circle, wider than my hurt, wider than the grudges I feed and fuel. For when the heart is aggrieved we feel ourselves so small, boxed into corners framed by self-made walls. When the heart is aggrieved we draw our circles in, each tending to our wounded-ness alone. And if … More A Poem: Circles

What if we were wrong and the aim is not to grow, or at least not to perfect ourselves, as pots hardened in a kiln. What if we were to expand instead, and then crack slowly open. What if we made to break, and start again. What if to shatter, just now and again, felt … More A Poem: Re-Worked