Another kind of murder ( trigger warning)

i search for phrases 

to place, this one act, to explain, 

even just to begin to  name...

Unwanted Sex ?

sounds like food left congealing on a plate.

his every spat word is lodged in my solar plexus,

my body aches.

the bruises between my thighs have faded

but towering  clouds  of the same colour

hover at the entrance

to any sentence

uttered by others.

an innocent may mouth the words

'it is your duty to protect. you must report it'.

im in a state of constant crouch.

Sexual Assault ?

sounds like a poked finger and recoiling a nasty smell.

im vomiting, copiously,  jack hammer shaking

on the bathroom floor with the theme tune to Eastenders

coming from an open window somewhere.

Getting off the train for work,  one station in

because the press of suits and a tiny caught whiff

of a popular aftershave

is heaving  and stumbling me,

on to a platform,

gasping ,

for the  space of

just me

weeping,

and the whole world

can just fuck off.

Yes, i go to work,

i smile at strangers, searching furtively,

for hidden indicators of violence.

because i, of all people, should have known.

i have mouths to feed,

those who will become my walking wounded.

i lean in to kiss my child goodnight and flinch, as his hand,

unexpectedly, curls in my hair.

im numb, skin peeled, rage ripped and confused.

my sleep is feral, snatched and guarded

and never with the light off.

Exaughsted,

learning to live on Defcon 5

inside and out.

Checking the locks, several times a night

inside and out,

even though it was a sunny,

summer bank-holiday afternoon

and a friend, 

so not Date Rape then.

This and more, goes on for months.

i lose thirty one pounds and everyone tells me

im looking great.

i recount the moves and count again

how many times and where  and how can it be

that EveryThing

has changed ?

Even my own face, here, in the mirror is gone,

lost

and i am somehow still here,  

just.

nothing 

is the same

and just then I realise,

the word is murder.

Shadowdancer

Thin scratched black lines weave their way

around my silhouette

inside my head an itching sensation

threatens

everything I thought I knew

I wait

and tracing the line from breastbone to womb

my finger never falters, nor trembles once

I listen

and the truth of me arises like neon daisies

in fields of monochromatic wheat

Written in my body

Written in my body

(i)

Woman,

Narrow your hips and your horizons

for you are too wide

Quieten your voice and your looking

for you are is too loud

kneel and weep and dress yourself

in fragility

for you are is too strong

(ii)

he holds the baby

lightly,in one hand raised to the sky

and names him son

he doesn’t know how the weight

of a baby in your womb feels

how it doubles with every heartbeat

and never leaves you.

(iii)

In my body

there is a submission

bones and tendons gently loosening

for the allowing, of being the passage

and a contradiction

of ox strong muscle willing and power

for the leaving and the coming into life

labour and rest

bleeding and building

cycles of creation and death

right here

in my body

how can I not be wide with wisdom,

loud with knowing

a strong and gentle miracle ?

Come ,come my children

gather around

each other, look

at what it is you have forgotten.

You are forgiven

Always and endlessly forgiven

 for you are lost

lost inside your own darkness, ceaselessly

creating stories to contain your confusion.

You carve those little puppets

from your fear and animate them

with ideas and imagination,

you dress them in personality

and then fatally

 name them

‘I’

Take the hand

of any other, look into their eyes

and  see

there is only

ever

you

looking back.

You

Your best self and dearest friend

The one who is only and always

with you

YOU

So undress your puppets

watching with kindness and humour

and compassion, their frantic dance

and then laughing, lay your self

free

at your feet.

Who am I ?

It is Immovable

unchanging

unaffected by any hurricane

or teardrop

It does not want

It is full and empty

always moving and still

its action is wisdom

its silence is beauty

its intention is love

I can only say place

It is no place as defined by geography

I can only say space

It is no space as defined by physics

I can only say I

It is no I as defined by any kind of separation from any other

It is home

Spout

Spout

Don't tell me
it's a mental pursuit,
all in my head, when
the word spout
was right there, in the bed
with me this morning.
sibilant, sensuous S, sine wave,uncoiling energy into the soft pot bellied P
that held it tenuously.
before the slow spilling au sounding OU
which holds the all of everything in its holy sound,
and the energy flicked, ticked T.
my body 
drew the shape of it
I felt it in the pout of my lips
not the 'outpour' phrase that they use in the news,
that I hate,
but the fountain sprout from our mouths
that destroys or creates
everything before us.

Allotment

Allotment : ( uh-lot-muh-nt )
definitions
: a share granted
: a plot of land rented to a gardener


penny poor and joy
expectant, stumbling
into your arms I greet
thumb thick tangled brambles
two metres high.
undug, undone, undunged
weed smothered, covered with unwanted
crouching grass holding on whatever, through
wild conversations with unforgiving nature.

drunk slump shed
like me, weathered into
just about functional submission
windows missing, leaking life
I will breathe you back
into some shabby sheltering,
quirkly attractive.

sighing salvation comes
in many mysterious ways
but I have gloves and secateurs
and a deep adoring love of rust.
left for rotten
corner hidden
sunlight slanted like a hint,
what gnarled knuckle hand
held and delved for another kind of victory
with this ancient fork I hold aloft
with a laughing treasure-found shout.

From a meadowsweet mouth...

From a meadowsweet mouth a spill of promises…

Old soldiers are mustering at my borders,
muttering fork tongued manoeuvres, brandishing
their certainties in my direction.
But I tell you now,
there will be no war on my land.
No frowning lines will mark my soil,
the only horizontals here will be the laying down
of deep earthy browns into winter's waiting arms.
No shining steel will dare to slice
the nestling nematodes that nurture
any tiny web of roots to growth.

Instead, there will be promises of blue, a lush of layered greens, a kiss of red.
White frothing sweeps of lacewing petticoats, and tangy garlanding of herbs.
Here there will be, for a soft eye,
only gentle, sweeping curves.
A graceful willowing for the sweet and the green, an open invitation
to any wing and generous leavings for the carapace ones.
From here, we will understand the patience of rain, smell the sighing mist,
find the languorous, full bellied fruition of a September Sunday.
Summer shouts, as loud as sunflowers, will rise above the dreary, daily bending,
for I will practise the soft art of fruiting fresh breezes and billowing beds
and I will stitch myself a capacious apron for the gathering in,
after
I spit the seeds from the mouth of Eve
and sow a song of heaven right here,
in this garden of a life.

Driftwood

Driftwood

Peppered earth and wood smoke

herald your presence

behind me,

so slight the turn

 and tilt of my head.

 An invitation.

 An offering.

Your hair redolent

 with sea salt tang

touches my cheek.

Clover stroke .

Raspberry down lips

 dry brush my throat,

your bent head

a tender blessing,

 blossom  bruised by air.

With the smell

of damson still sweet

on your breath,

you whisper,

and cinnamon scented echoes

fill my head.

A Sigh and a Feather

A Sigh and a Feather

A long time ago, in a faraway place

an angel fell to earth
                                   and

                                               as

                                                                   she

                                               fell

she learned
that there is only silence
when angels fall, there is no sound,
no
Explosion of Anger
no Shout
of Explanation
only falling
silence

she learned that disappointment
can be a Cruelly Mute
thing
and that sometimes,
stillness
carries disapproval
ln it's
Terrible Hush.

All she had
was the soft rush
of the wind that she took for a sigh
and one
single

sorry
                              feather

                                                                                     floating

                 to

            her

feet.

Reasons for Blogging No. 4

I'm a cat person.
I'm a mid range introvert ...is that why..
I love their containment, intuition ,mystery, their sensuality. 
and the fact they love sleeping in the warmest, cosiest place they can find.

I heard : what you see in the world is yourself reflected back.
That explains it then...
'tho I may appear aloof at times ( you just dont understand me ) I'm the affectionate kind of cat that will jump into almost any suitable lap 
after Ive checked out who you really are  or if you have cake.

During a very busy time in my life Lebowski cat would  slide himself under my hand, wriggle into my conversations and stupidly (I thought)  try to sit on my lap when I was in the bathroom taking a pee.
I now  interpret this bathroom behaviour as the intelligent universe trying to tell me to slow down, that this small black messenger-of-the-gods  was trying to tell me to relax,
take some time and my attention to smell the roses.

Now I have  a dog...I must have said yes... I know I said yes.. well anyway...
well here's Charlie

and yes, the universe is kind, he is a chilled, older guy, amazingly loving and wisely intelligent ..But I am thrust into the alarmingly extrovert  world of dogs.
Their sometimes inane exuberance and enthusiasm exaughsts me, their uncouth behaviour puzzles.. me but is that wise old universe now telling me something different...?

I need to get out more ..
It's true... ask anyone.. I need to be more social...  lets face it Ive been  hibernating ..
I need to reconnect with the wonder and joy thats lurking beneath
I need to take deep breaths of fresh air and play.
Im listening universe..
So Im getting my boots on and walking out into the world....metaphorically and literally.

Come on Charlie..get your very annoying high pitched squeaky squealing tormented ball
thing.....lets go ..
but just so you know..
Im not sniffing any bottoms....