Where have the wild things gone?

Me oh my but it’s been a wild path!

Somewhere between words and the world, and a perpetually curious heart, life has unravelled and the wind carried me in so many different directions. It’s been the most beautiful adventure and it’s only just beginning – but it calls me to abandon some darlings.

So this is my blog’s swan song; that final breath before the end.

The exhibition can now be found and followed on Facebook (for more journalism and traveling tales), as well as on my Fine Art website (a bouquet of canvases and stained surfaces) … so pop across and let’s go on another adventure.

 

 

 

 

Powerfilled Bodies

[Trigger Warning: Rape]

This is a poem for the powerfilled bodies that stood on Prince Alfred street today.

These are the facts of a powerful and perverse system.

This is a reality; this is just a beginning.

It is part of Herstory.

Am I Afrikan?

My passport is green. The glorious green of aloe leaves or trees in late summer.

My skin is freckled. Flickered with flecks of moments spent under this sun.

My heart breaks. A hurting history means I watch flowers grow from stained mud and feel petals fall on graves.

a note to the writer going to war

You are going to war, my friend.

No matter how soft your step or tender your touch; no matter how kind your words or hard your helmet – you are marching into the depth and darkness of despair. You are going where the rain is red and wounds are washed by weeping widows.

The Promise of the Rose

 It might be because her skin is fair as paled petals,

Or perhaps it’s her blush – pink as Spring’s first blossoms.

Maybe it’s because she will grow from this earth, and will one day be part of it again, like all living things.

I am ambitious (breathing) stardust

Spy a silver ribbon,

A trinket of life,

Snaked in the valley’s bosom.

Art is where the heart is

There is so much beauty in this world,

That it cannot be contained by a single heart.

A Living Star

Before these words,

Before your breath,

Before rain fell to the earth,

There were stars.

On Wuthering Heights

No two creatures that roamed those moors

Could ever such a fate afford.

Passion that to earth could not be bound,

A cry that would not make a sound.

My last day on earth

If it was my last day on earth,

I’d wear bells in my hair,

And billowing silk skirts.