Tuesday, October 17, 2017


white sheets of paper
with tiny black words
black captive birds
crafting a gilded cage
made of promises
attached to your signature
still bind you to agreements
your soul no longer wants to keep.

make your inventory
of unlived lives
and choose which birds
you are willing to set free
and which sheets
will go on adding
to the story of your past.

make a bonfire
and watch them burn
old agreements
of how you would be good
and obey the rules
pay your dues
and show up on time
give away the thing you own
and enrol your children
in the same binding system
that has clipped your wings
and caged your potential.

yes, watch a new kind of bird
rising from the ashes
it is a terrifying thing
a white sheet of paper
a blank canvas
with no written rules
other than the integrity of
who you are becoming.

imagine a world
of no contracts
where trust and integrity
are the only safety guarantees
where you give your word
and allow it to unfold
beyond any sheet of paper
and every human you know
and every business they may own
does the same.

Tuesday, October 10, 2017


It is in the smallest of deaths
where life is renewed:
The tips of your fingernails
manicured away
still echo the scratch of ecstasy
on your lover’s flesh
shedding sunkissed skin
uncombed hair
and unhatched eggs
blessed by your moon blood
unbroken yet by
the seeds of life.

It is in the closest of deaths
where life is renewed:
The  feathers of your tiny bird
buried away
still echo the flutter of wings
longing to lift
the weight of caged potential
as you kneel to mourn
another loss
and you bless the earth
that swallows your bird
to sow the seeds of life.

*In memory of my daughter's bird who passed away yesterday, to bless her grief in losing a friend and dealing with death for the first time in her life.

Saturday, September 23, 2017

My hands won't bleed

My darling,
It is difficult for me to soothe you today.
As much as I wish to find the right words, the right gestures, I feel powerless outside your cage.
I reach between the bars and stroke your neck and elbow. I feel the tension in your body as if it were mine.
Let me carry this weight for you.
You may trust me with your intentions, with your fears, with your exquisite gifts.
Do not get me wrong.
I do not intend to save you.
I see how you deem yourself captive, yet I also see in you the power to set yourself free.
The gate is always open and I have been standing here in the doorway since the beginning of time.
I hear you calling out for me, looking for the great escape.
‘Save me’, you say.
‘Take me away’, you yearn.
‘Shine your light on me’, you sing.
‘Light the fire in me’, you instigate.

How can I explain this to you in plain words?
I am not the poet you are.
I am only a man.
I am your man.
There is no ‘away’.
There is only ‘here’.
And here is where I stand, naked in the spot light, with all of my own betrayals weighing me down.
The fear of generations.
I am calling out to you, see me as I am.
Allow me in.
Let me steer the wind for you.
Make space for me in your heart.
Accept my humble compliments of your majesty and beauty.
Accept them without humility or pride.
See yourself through my eyes.
You are for me the sum of all women.
Woman of Grace, hold my gaze in your light.
Woman of Wisdom, speak to me with your voice.
Woman of Peace, forgive my forefathers cruelty.
Woman of Ecstasy, touch me with the essence of you.
You are not my mother, so do no attempt to mother me.
Nor am I your father, so do not seek solace in my attention.

Let us acknowledge each other for who we are.
Let us see each other, hear each other, feel each other and taste one another until the boundaries between us fade.
Let us melt in communion until words fail to provide meaning for who we were.

So, when we return to the world, the illusion of our cages and burdens will also fade away.
When we return, we will carry each other’s heart within our own without binding one another to any cage.
When we return, the world shall have already changed to shelter our love.
We already carry the seed of that world.
I promise you to never let you forget.
That is my gift to you, my darling.

In the meantime, I will stand here, outside your cage and reach out to you.
For when I touch your shoulder blades, my hands wont bleed.

They will rejoice.

Friday, September 22, 2017

You are welcome

If I were your home and you came back to me,
I would hold the space around
you with all the fragrances and colors
that make your eyes shine
and your arms soften.

I would open my doors for you
and crack my windows open
so the air would awaken your skin.

I would squeak my floors under your steps
so your feet would hear their own music.

I would sit you down on my lap
so your body may curl
and remember safety.

I would shower you with my warm waters
and quench your thirst with my cold waters.

I would offer you my walls and handles to lean on
and my soft pillows to foster your dreams when you sleep.

I would reveal my hidden corners to you
to keep your secrets
and light a fire in my heart
to cook your soup when your are hungry.

I would make the rooms for the things that you do
and keep your time and your silence.

If I were your home and you came back to me ,
I would whisper to you, over and over:
Welcome home, my darling,

Welcome home.

*To Kasia, for teaching me that opening my home is opening my heart

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Coming home

Coming home is not this walking
through the door of your house
after the long journey
from mountains filled with wonder,
is not even this sitting here again
on the chair that carries the memory
and shape of your body,
but is the subtle whisper
of that tiniest plant in the forrest
connecting my skin to yours
in the invisible web of life
that shapes the memory
of all things.

Wherever you are on your journey
of homecoming,
however weary and tired
from all the luggage you carry,
still heavy and unpacked,
know that any breath you take
shelters the possibility of a thousand doors
opening your heart to that whisper.
Once you hear it, you will come to know
that we are already home.

Saturday, August 12, 2017

A labour of love

You were born into majesty
an heir of land and sky,
blessed by the sun,
rocked by the moon,
sheltered by the earth
you thrived.
This castle was your cradle,
your playground,
your sanctuary.
Here, you've learned to stand your ground
and speak your name
and wonder at the beauty of your own hands
crafting things into being.

It was a labour of love.

As you grew up,
you castle grew smaller
and smaller.
The people came in.
wanderers, crusaders,
rogues and beggars,
hunters and soldiers,
priests and teachers
disguised as kings and queens,
all claiming a piece of your land,
the earth beneath your feet,
the waters from your well,
the fire from your belly,
the feathers from your wings.
You paid the price
so they would see you
and call out 'Your Majesty'.
But soon the well dried
and the fire died,
the air grew thinner,
the earth turned to quicksand.
Your castle came crumbling down.
And you were alone.

It was a labour of love.

Then, it began.
From your grief,
a crack in the wall
and the light came in.
All the pain,
al the hunger,
all the fear,
A tear here, a spark there,
a feather here, a stepping stone there,
Dissolving the defence
to rebuild your castle
from the ground up.
Your undefended heart,
taking the exquisite risk
of becoming vulnerable.

It was a labour of love.

Years have passed
and you grew older.
It seems like your labour has just begun.
Your castle is still fragile.
The floors squeak,
the walls creak and moan
bearing the scars of ancient wars,
the ghosts of all life still unlived
haunting the dark corridors.
Yet as the crows herald your homecoming
the front doors are wide open.
People still come in.
They carve their names on your trees
in fear of being forsaken.
Sometimes they flood your rooms
with their tears of neglect.
Sometimes they leave
without saying goodbye.
Still, most of the times,
they come together
in humbleness
to seek refuge and redemption
to heal and be healed
to pay their respects
and offer their gifts,
to bless the heart of your heart,
to honour the cradle of life.
You welcome them
as you welcome yourself
It is still a work in progress.

It is the labour of love.

*dedicated to Steven, lord of Hayton Castle and his labour of love, with humbleness and gratitude for the shelter of his heart

Thursday, July 27, 2017


all you who seek refuge
from the harshness of all that is named
from the rawness of all that is untamed
from the bleeding of all that is wounded
from the crying of all that is unloved,
and you shall find shelter.

all you who seek redemption
for the sins of all who came before you
for the hollow of all life that is unlived
for the hunger of all children who are unnurtured
for the hurt of all men and women who deny each other,
and you shall receive forgiveness.

all you who suffer
against the true nature of all that is you
against the way all things are
against the ruthless mine fields drenched in all the cold blood
against the wisdom of all that is unknowable,
and you shall be touched by grace.

Here, you are all welcome
to come as you are,
wounded and bleeding
shattered and broken
hurt and lonely
limping and dragging your bodies
to the doorway of this moment
to fall at your own feet
to find the one waiting beyond the door
the one who shelters
the one who forgives
the gracious one
who offers sanctuary.