Paint me with a thousand stripes
And let my life heal in my face
Paint me with a thousand stripes
And let my life heal in my face
To those who cannot be themselves,
I ask you to listen:
(Not to those with certainties
Or clear cut ways to be)
But to the place your eyes reach;
Wild paths your feet long to tread;
And the call and leap of
Rhythms you have not heard.
Close your eyes and go!
For many also dance
To their own song.
And, in your lost exploring,
You will find
Hands outstretched in love to
Hold your own.
Need the words today;
The space that aches in my chest
Is calling for words
To hold the hurt.
Pressing the page:
Paper stretched to translucence
By feelings too big.
Feelings to carve on slate
Or skin
But certainly too big
To keep within.
Paper wins and so I build.
Sinking into the deep unthink
Of curving ink.
I burst the inner bubble:
(The one I thought was full of
Wolves and stretchy screams)
To find a flood of
Paint and song and dance
That needed me to give it only
Half a chance.
Why the fear
Of Not Being Here?
First page pressure:
Slick and crisp,
No grey corners.
Give me my old book.
Rushing blurred light-lines
Drawn towards a
Brooding mass: this torrid storm.
And there, in potent space,
The shadow shape of them,
As yet unknown, unheard,
But felt with all the feel
Of stranger’s prickly touch.
I dare not,
Dare not go inside this
Labyrinthine dusk,
To tempt my waxy wings
In hubris heat.
Perhaps it’s better here
Playing hide and seek with fear
Under the mattress springs
With other dusty things.
Yes it is better here
With blood beat in my ear,
Where all the harm I do
Is done to me, not you.
When did I leave that urgent dark,
That plays a tune
On crisscrossed bark
To play amongst the coloured lights:
Sweet honey bees
On whimsy flights?
Today I run through blossom trees
And skip through waves
With sandy knees.
All grinding discord left behind.
Discarded bones: a
Stranger’s mind.
I like to think there’s nothing lost,
That day is gain
And night is cost,
But still a something lingers there
Of longing, grief
And musey flair.
How do I keep the richest thread,
If gritty truth
Is left unsaid?
I fumble through to feel for gold
In shifting sands that
Dreams unfold
And one day, at my fingertips
(Electric thrills and
Tummy flips),
I’ll find a way to join the two:
My summer yellow,
Winter blue.