today i read for the first time the radiance that is The Prophet, by Kalil Gibran.

I want to weep with the beauty of these simple words, the spring water of wisdom distilled in every line.

its eyes of gentle rejoicing cut deeper than the blade.

i want to weep deeper because books have always been my grandparents, allies, friends when i had no others to fill in these spaces.

i have to cancel the tantric massage event. i have to, but i still feel like i’m massively letting you guys down.

because if there was ever a moment when these tools are essential, it is now.

back when i was a teen, i came across an article about abortion, the long path it had taken to get legalised.

the conclusion twisted my insides with ice.

I’m reflecting on spirals of change. How we evolve, and yet stay so completely the same. Truth grows and sheds its plumage as it pads on its rustling way.

I met a midwife who utterly nailed me to the floor with that sentence.

“You can tell what kind of soul has arrived the second they come into the world. It’s all written all over them, loud and clear”.

oh, and new-zealand - i’m leaving.
be gone mid september.
let’s make all the beautiful things happen now.

i have to write it down.
because
really?
it happened?

i told myself
firmly
no expectations.

i love the work i do.
i love the unreal voltage of it.
i love all the beings i get to meet in weird and wonderful ways.

Soul work is simple.

I’ve been up to my ears learning about the culture of Aotearoa’s first people - the Waitaha.

They are ruthlessly devoted to simplicity.

“You are the creator.”
His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree,
His mouth repeated,
Drew the words around him
like a velvet cloak

Slide back down the spiral

The red tide

Leaves me

Shell-less

See-through as the jellyfish

a curling ribbon of steam
makes me feel
this womb,
stargate…

let’s be clear about something : what I do is not about the sex.
Not that, and not even the pleasure.

“Come plant trees”.

Thirty people gathered on the hilltop

Children, yogis, travelers, scientists
Filled the gorse’s ears with multilingual banter.

The landmark.
Land marks us,
Remarks us
unmasks us.

i followed the call,
the prescription written by
common sense.

to return from the gates of death, stay
outside.
in the horizon’s vast embrace,
breathe.

and love says :
i will come for you.

when you have clawed your way to the hills,
knowing only
the open horizon was waiting,
when you are wandering blind
without even hope to feed on
i will come for you.

Transcribing poems #2
2 weeks ago

welcome home, little one. 

you take me into your arms of green,
thick sea of cicada song

but mother of blood, 
i feel so lost.
the ground still shakes under my feet,
and though the courting
of this animal suit I wear
is going well,
my hips gently teased into song -

my nose is still in the thick powder of black.

it feels important to keep writing,
to attempt to sketch the slippery eel
I am slowly reeling in from the dark waters.

progress : my awkward, shuffling gait
has grown supple,
no longer a parody
of the sadly accurate
 living dead.

Day One

I sit for hours inside the open base
Of a fallen, ancient redwood,
Sit With the sapling
growing In the exact center
of a circle of centuries of bark.

Day Two

A tree’s fingers snatch me out of the air,
Interrupt a fatal arc of collision.

It’s been a week since I almost died.
Since I climbed back up the bramble hill,
Back out the treetop,
Left the shredded carcass of broken glass
Without a scratch on my body

Only the connection,
Broken.