Red Paint

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There are days when I envision myself crawling through mud.

Being cradled by beds of clay and fertile dirt. My light depending upon the struggle, this intensity of needing to collapse into primal states feels more real than morning rituals.

Let the worms bury beneath me.

Let the woodlouse tickle my belly as they mount the mountain of me.

Let me be where theres no explanation. No why or how or whats next?

I am not enlightened here nor unworthy to call myself eternally divine.

I am not an understanding person as that sets me above.

No righteousness is homed within my marrow, cells vibrate with the waves of the ocean, no longer reacting to the 6 o’clock news.

I’m nothing recognised here, Im absolutely unravelled like the root of a willow tree. Above the water when the sun shines and submerged after the storm.

And in truth, I feel permanently sorry. Confusion rising daily, as the silence is broken by morning birdsong. I’ve forgotten what it means to be held by Great Mother and nourished by our Lords love.

So for all that is real in me, my blood that runs, let it run freely into the earth. Let that be.

My gift back, returned to Her. My life flow.

Words are constructed but my bleeding, a greater creation.

And if I could paint my face with this vibrant colour pouring from me, without outraged eyes beating back all that is natural, I would.

I’d crawl in the mud to the weathered rocks and bleed.

I’d no longer be littered with pollutive chatter nor my fins caught in wire nets, trawled to set an example or sacrificed in the name of conformance.

I am interconnected to Her, to Him, to the holy and sacred spirit. Ignited by the magic our ancestors hoped we’d comprehend, believing to be woven into our DNA. And maybe we do comprehend, more than we hope. We swim fully armoured to stay afloat yet all that is asked for us to remember the infinity of our soul is to fall. To mightily surrender to where it is only god who can carry our breath.

It would be with red on my face, bloody fingers painting so uninhibitedly that id crawl thankfully through the dirt I’ve been so desperate to clean myself from.

No more.

Is There?

Is there not this way inside

I can switch on like a TV

Is there a weed and a buttercup

Hidden deeply within me?

Is there not a song I’ve lost

Down trodden roads forgotten

Is there notes that weave away

The rocks at the very bottom

Is there not a deafening flow

Where grease is washed from my hair

Is there a me that is more than bones

And I witness both sides of the pair

Is there all of this and more

Cycled a million times through

These colours,

This dance

This patterned dream

This life I do how I do.

Seen

I hope not to be seen

By the knower that’s been

Nor the giver, the taker

The holy thou maker

Don’t ram with I think

When my life’s at the brink

‘It sure worked for them’

This rumouring stem

I hope not to be questioned

No shoulds ever mentioned

No rites to my ‘wrongs’

Fine tuning my songs

Don’t raid me with yours

Those outpouring doors

Fast halting the ripple

Black taping the nipple

Not my world, that’s you

Those rules you hold true

Keep them close, if you may

Your minute, your day

Not mine.