The mother wound is the pain of being designated either as a woman or man as passed down through generations in patriarchal cultures. It includes the dysfunctional coping mechanisms that are used to process that pain. Contrary to the popular thought, the…
Through that lonely gate Where this one waits I see you in ease of night Holding childhoods forever In timeless branches Stretching awesomely Into light.
Here, by a road in Manchester. A child blows bubbles, sees them pop, asks with wonder for “more, Mummy more”.
Where will I find you, my friend? In an accusing forest of laws, tortured by stories repented yet never truly told?
Yes, we look at stuff: heads, houses, trees, under skies we lie are finite just as I watch she who I think I am, through eyes bent by illusion of night.
A wind chants threads of home, the wonder of a child within, alone, an inner creak of sacred bones, and a dog running nearby, Can you hear the silence singing a setting sun? Listen – these bells that ring, they ring…
Be Curious, my friend, that rifts will not tend us, letting absence pattern this blend, as light flickers through details of space and change, so that borders between us be intricate curtains, waving in beauty with soft winds of time.
Here’s to the takers, the fakers, the total cheapskaters, To rain and the sun, and the Michelin man, Here’s to the lonely, the scared, the short and long-haired, Here’s to Yemen and Norway as well, and here’s to heaven and…
A free fall into silence: Falling into silence that is always here. Here, before, between and behind every word. Standing here, the demons fly on chariots of fear, lest it consume them.
In the killing fields, it’s kill or be killed, in the killing fields. It’s my way or your way, the bitter, cursing, sound of foreign washing on the line blown by a wind we tortured to possess In the killing…