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.

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.

Where I Stand

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Where I stand I feel mighty, like the warrior of woodpeckers, the communicator of common fulfilment. I am a cell, coasting playfully inside violet veins. Our great mother teaches us well, her lungs spread to frame the sunlight from my eyes.

Where I stand, there is no place I cannot be. Joy, strapped upon the wings of migrating birds, gliding so closely to my understandings. I am all that I see and all that I see is all I hope to know one day.

Where I stand I see unity drawn in messy portraits. Collections on mass create landscapes I’ve come to call home. Who I wonder shall inherit these?

That house upon the hill, do you see it? Look further afield, in the distance. Behind the rattling windows and red bricks live little witches who watch over the trees and paint faces on the moon. Owls live in the wall and I hear them call forward the sunset.

Do you hear them too?

Where I stand I raise my chin towards the sun, my vision is guided by angel trails decorating the turquoise blanket above me. They are careful, like moths, to not get caught within the flames of hazel sight. I blink, once, twice, thrice. Such action is my hope to catch a shadow but they are too quick, too rapid for human consumption.

Where I stand I listen, hearing playground chatter behind my stare. Boisterous fists play notes I remember. Yet I am still, travelling without trampling the grass and beheading snowdrops I fail to see beneath my thoughts.

Only God hears me now.

Only God hears the poetry I read silently from post-it notes stuck on my bedroom wall. Where did she go, that girl ironing raw and honest words? Words written by busy fingers scrambling to decipher unknown certainties. Words I have come to live by and this I regret, like the slurring of existence during alcohol stained nights.

Where I stand, in that tiny second I see the enormity of effect. In that second a whole life is resurrected to only be forgotten as I’m distracted. The present moment beckons and I salute.

The bark of a dog calls me to walk on.

And now I am gone someplace new.

 

All things Beautiful

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And she sang stories in the morning

To herself

As she sat naked on the bed

Rubbing oil into her body

To soften

Soften coarse skin hardened yesterday

And to still prying memories

As they sail the marrow of her shoulders

Her smile, from her mother’s side

Greeted warmly by strangers in winter

And her eyes, of Russian decent

From her father

Untamed and frightened

Wondering why the windows to her soul

Were reminiscent of her father

As two souls could be no further apart

But her voice was hers alone

Wholeness weaving between tones

And she sang stories in the morning

To herself

As she sat naked on the bed

To honour the human made of all things beautiful

And rejoice the unique woman she is

Dreamin’

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A girl, fast asleep

As staining stars sweep

Across the moonlit sky so bright

In darkened hours

Bleeds rosy powers

As her mother and father continue to fight

Distantly dreaming

New life she is scheming

So different from hers in someway

The banks of the lake

Where candy drops fake

The landscape she dreams so often to stay

A snake of pink

Invites her to think

Asking the girl of her loves and her fears

On sweet grass she sat

Musing this, voicing that

Calling on scents to honey her tears

The snake told her so

Think not of your woe

But laugh as the tide flips the fish

Was with small understandings

And feathered landings

She woke with thoughts of her wish

Then tickles her ear

A song she holds dear

As her mother sings wildly downstairs

Her father, he roars

But the girl, she ignores

And sings too, forgetting her cares

They sing to the birds

And distant herds

Praying their cries will reach the bull

The girl had not known

Such freedom shown

Worrying not if she looked the fool

Cautions once reckoned

Took rest for a second

Peace reaching moments lost in time

For the snake was right

As laughter set flight

And the girl smiled kindly, heart beating in rhyme.

 

 

 

The Firefly and The Girl

A girl sat on her porch waiting for the storm with a firefly resting upon the tip of the her nose.

The firefly was hoping for refuge as she sensed how violent the storm might be so she beat her wings upon the girls skin.

The girl did not understand for her language was not the same, her nose twitched impulsively, intriguing the firefly.

The firefly beat her wings again, only this aggravated the girl and she swiped at the curious creature.

How confusing this was for the firefly, what had she done to cause such direct rejection?

Determined to understand, the firefly returned with more fire in her belly.

Too bright was the firefly to be ignored, the girl softened her gaze upon the tip of her nose.

The firefly, humming faintly, beat her wings.

Ticklish by nature, the girl laughed.

Spurred by the girls joy, the firefly danced.

Needs to understand were forgotten.

The storm blew in and violent it was.

The girl and the firefly watched together, sheltered by the porch.

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’