There is a gentle peace that emanates
from the things not wanted but needed
from the fortunes not sought but found.

There is a simplicity that is curled up
in moments not expected but offered
in intimacy not earned but bestowed.

There is a contented joy that gleams
in the bleak places where love grows
in hollow shadows filled with grace.

There is an unpretentious acceptance
of wisdom contained in a conundrum
of the sanctuary crafted in letting go.


I am becoming what I am, what I was
Concealed in distractions of my being
Let those who have eyes to see, see
Let those who hear reveal themselves
Speak, so that I might recognise you
Share your light that we might be one
Sit with me and with my tutelary deity
In the silence of that slow untethering
In the undoing of those who never were
I am hidden in the salvation of sacrifice
Oblivious to all but those who bring life


The brooding sky opens up its wings.
Expelling a heavy heart in teardrops,
splattering across filthy black lanes.
Leaving humans scattering for cover,
not noticing the salvation given them.
Do not shelter me from these torrents,
allow me to embrace a surging sorrow.
Let the cleansing sky tears cover me.
Hand your umbrella to the stranger,
and bestow your kisses to the night.

The Pink Cot

Always arriving at every word ever spoken
Bambi and the pink cot stand as a testimony.
The testimony to long summer Sundys.
Filled with the cries of cicadas, 
cicadas and the wrath of whiskey and pain. 
Hush now my child; no one is coming.
Your pastel prison of broken and futile dreams
will not arrest this brutal hurricane.
Raging through the dusty African Savannah. 
You, the symbol of a last hope destroyed. 
A creature never meant to be this.
Cicada sirens, the palpitating heartbeat,
echoing grief for what is invariably lost.
You, predestined to wander the earth,
tearing at the fabric of life. 
Oh, misplaced soul always arriving, 
but not belonging, somewhere.