That Vase

There’s a voice I heard once

When I put my ear to that vase

A scream I thought at first

Then a whimper

A song that trailed into a prayer

Or the other way around

A voice I’d not heard before

Until now, remembering that vase

I hear the tides

The mermaids

The witches finger that tickled my earlobe

As they did that day

And I’m not sure if life was ever the same after that

Or if life stayed the same but my eyes viewed differently

Or maybe I just listened more

Because the more I listen

The deeper I see

And in those depths

The volume of silence gets really deafening

And as I loosen my grip on noise

The unknown unravels

And maybe that vase

Was the beginning of my unravelling

Or maybe

I just heard myself more vividly within starry stained glass walls

It’s all a little strange, isn’t it

No matter what I write

Is nonsensical to someone

So the upside down

Of the mermaids tail

And the witches breath

And the starry glass

Are all mine

Until I listen to a bigger vase.

My Favourite Fairies

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Last night in my dreams

I climbed high up a tree

And I spoke to the fairies

Who live higher than me

Their wings were green

And were brighter than bright

I could see them coming

In the darkness of night

They whispered they’d heard me

Before I could ask

And I couldn’t believe

They knew my wish so fast

And with that they went

Before saying any more

I frowned and felt cheated

Then fell to the floor

“Those fairies are rubbish

They don’t grant wishes

I should have gone to the water

And asked all the fishes”

But as I walked home

Bare foot in the woods

I was stopped by some wolves

Faces shaded by hoods

I screamed to the fairies

“You know that I’m scared

Why send me these wolves

If you really cared”

I froze from the fear

And awaited my fate

I’ll be tasty I’m sure

On their wolf sized plate

But all fell silent

And I opened one eye

The wolves they nodded

And passed me by

I laughed to myself

Oh fairies, you’re wise

You sent me my wish

In a hairy disguise

As to you I had prayed

That I’d live my days

Driven not by fear

But in courageous ways

Stranger

Im not sure if I wasn’t looking hard enough or that she hadn’t been there until now.

I’ve stared out of this bedroom window more times than I can count but I’ve never seen a woman sat under the eucalyptus tree before. If I had, maybe I missed her because she was wearing a brownish bark like dress that blended with the tree, however the more I think about that, the more I begin to doubt it.

She’s a little wild looking, not that I can say I know exactly what wild should look like. People say I’m wild because I was the last in my class to shave my legs. It’s not my fault my mum never owned a razor, she told me that women were born with hair for a reason and she wasn’t going to argue with the order of creation.

She’s wearing a pink dress, although I can see a few psychedelic colours gatecrashing the pastel party. It looks a little like she’s wearing an oversized version of the tie-dye hanky I made in crafts. Her hair is as messy as you’d imagine messy hair to look like – I reckon a bird could mistake her for a beech hedge. The tone of her curls are a deep copper colour. She’s quite beautiful actually.

She’s sat with her legs crossed and her eyes are focused on something. Should I call the police? I don’t think its ok for just anyone to come and sit under the tree in a garden, even if it is communal and I’ve certainly never seen her before. I’d remember if I had.

She looks nice enough I guess, I could go and talk to her but what would I say?

“Hello there, may I ask you why are you sat here under this tree?”

Wait… I have to think about this. Firstly, I don’t know where such an incredibly formal question came from, I don’t think I’ve ever talked so proper to anyone. Secondly, asking her why she’s here could lead to a long and open ended answer, she could be one of those hippy types who never answers a question with a definite conclusion. I know this because my mum was a hippy. Not an outwardly self proclaimed hippy but everyone knew her as the ‘wacky’ one. She knew it and she was absolutely fine with that. I didn’t inherit her confidence.

Also, to ask someone why they’re doing something could lead to an answer I don’t want to hear. Maybe she’s waiting for the right time to kill someone. She could be a super sweet looking serial killer. I don’t think there are particular rules as to what a serial killer should look like, although I don’t think they’d wear a pink, tie-dye dress but then I’ve never met a serial killer before.

What if she’s waiting there to die?

Oh my god, she could have taken a million pills and is waiting for them to slowly decompose her from the inside out.

Ok, so her being there could be nothing related to death. I do have a tendency to let thoughts of death run riot inside my head since my mum died. It’s normal. Not normal to think about death all the time but I’m assuming its normal for me, a girl who’s lost her mum who was also her best friend who was also her guru, who was also her everything, to think like this. Besides, I have no idea how else to think.

My aunt Gene wears black everyday, I asked her why. I wished I hadn’t. To cut a long story short, she doesn’t want to be the focus of anyones attention and black is the most accepted colour in society, according to her.

Gene’s hair is grey but she wears a black woollen hat. I remember her wearing one during May when she came to visit us last year, before I was sent to live with her. I’ve not lived with her during the summer months, not yet anyway but I’m hoping she doesn’t wear wool in the heat. She smells funny as it is.

There is a chance this woman who’s sat under the tree could just be sun bathing, but why in a garden that isn’t hers?

I’ve only known this garden for the last 9 months. I think I only visited Gene two times before the crash, mum and her weren’t the closest of sisters. When she came to visit us last year it was because my dad had run off with a French woman. He’d met her when he’d gone out to buy some chick peas that mum wanted for her vegan casserole. Dad came back three hours later and said he’d met this woman who was selling her river boat and he was interested (yea, now I know exactly what he meant by that!). He called her, they met up and the rest they say, is history. Mum was devastated.

Mum wore every colour of the rainbow and loved warm days so she could stare at the sky and watch the clouds. Gene wears sunglasses, everyday. Come rain or shine, Gene is there with her prescription sunnies. People are funny.

Rainbows are a sign that death has happened, those were Gene’s exact words when I saw a rainbow the day after mums funeral. I bet Gene kills bed bugs just by sleeping in the bed they live in. Poor bed bugs!

There is a slight possibility this woman is hoping to see a rainbow too, her stare does look pretty intense.

Right, thats it, I’m going outside to talk to her, how bad can she be? After all, I do live with a devil fearing woman who kills bed bugs with her breath.

Wild Opals

I saw you

Above the tiles that promised to keep out the rain

Your eyes were opal, that’s how I remembered them

And the sun was always setting but your hair was more golden than the light

I sat crossed legged

Like a child waiting to hear a fairytale

Your nails were short

But not bitten, you had been working on the land

And your fingers were stained by the soil

Or the cigarettes you used to smoke

You told me smoking was bad for your health

I assumed you stopped, you never told me you had

And we were there

Saying very little to each other but then we never did speak much

My joints loosened as you spoke and your rhythm pulsed within me

Your voice

Still, those whispers caught in the tide

Are your way

Go North you told me

Catch the red berries

Place them on the ground around your shivering body

Breathe into your cold palms

And let your warmth remind you

That you are enough

I called you a witch

Because I couldn’t pen you down

You were defiant against description

Beyond the madness of sanity

I was haunted by you

And as I prayed to understand you

Your craft I wished to home

I was gifted with an empty note

And a furious breeze

That beckoned towards the northern sea

Keep moving, I hear

Don’t stiffen with the wanting

As then you’d be like those

And I, I hear

Have become, already.

Mama J

 

Said Mama J

The other day

‘Don’t fret cos the moon got your back’

My response was ‘WOW

please tell me how

you know such a comforting fact?’

She replied ‘I know

As the thoughts I sow

Show up in the weirdest way

And the stars tell me this

You must follow your bliss

Then love you once lost will stay.’

So I tried it one night

When the moon was bright

But I couldn’t think what to say

So I gave up trying

Then words came flying

‘Thank you for sending me Mama J’

Hazy

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My reality changed the day I decided it was one I’d manufactured myself.

Reality, I decided, is no longer seen truths or spoken absolutes.

See, the colours I notice are dependent on how bright the light and the brightness of light is dependent on far how I step into the dark. What a revelation! To know that depth of feeling is mirrored, no matter the direction. Walk away from your reflection and your reflection walks the precise distance away from you.

This is good news, right? In that case I have such joy and immeasurable pleasures awaiting me just after I prise my face off the hard concrete following a monumentally shit meltdown. I’m certainly familiar with meltdowns.

The hard task for me, where the problem resides is the hazy light that festers in-between, as that is where I seem to have aligned most of my deliberations.

The expectation of hazy smog has become routine, hazy light is safe, like the light you would allow into a room full of antiques, knowing little would threaten the ageing wood. A room where I can see the dust settle and although I know it’s there, I’ve become accustom to the feeling of ignorance towards the unseen. What is beyond my vision is beyond importance.

So I feel secure as I sit in this half lit room where blurred lines of polarities skim worn cushions and tacky ornaments that remind me of times gone by.

‘Oh how I wish those days were now’

Musty layers coat memories and I take comfort in the undisturbed and the scent of stagnant aromas, which are familiar to me. To invest only on the flip side of understanding, this kind of sheltered existence beckons all efforts and focus. Hazy understandings, I have dwelt over and over in places I know too well.

But then I get bored of hazy days. My throat begins to swell and words and beliefs that held such weight and conviction lose their importance. They cause obstructions as they wedge between coarse, tired vocal chords, fed up with the bullshit I’ve expelled over the years.

But it’s not bullshit, I remind myself as I can only match the light that I see.

Then I notice the air thicken and my persistent cough. I’d missed how sick I felt as the hazy light masked toxic pieces of hopes and wants and maybes. I blow the dust from my belongings and the debris stings my eyes. The room smells worse than it did before I meddled but I can’t stop now as I’ve stirred clear the murky glaze and Im fascinated.

Then I think about how hazy rays of dawn and dusk settle discoveries unearthed by the light of the moon and midday heat. And I want to be a part of that cycle and I want to discover more. I want to feel the afternoon heat and hear the call to hibernate as the sun goes down.

So that was the day I changed my reality and adjusted the light. I decided it was time to dissipate my fear of discolouring all that already exists. I opened the curtains and within a second, hazy turned to bright and crisp lines defined the darkness. It all became that little bit clearer, just a little bit that was enough, for now.

Explore

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When people ask me

What have you been doing for the past few years?

I say

I’ve been exploring

They say

Oh how exciting, where have you been?

I say

I’ve been exploring the universe

They say

Wow, do you work for NASA?

I say

No!

They say

So how did you explore the universe?

I say

I slowed down enough to stop moving

They say

How can you explore the universe if you’re not in the universe?

I say

I don’t need to be in the universe, the universe is in me.