Sunday Suburbanite (written in workshop with Gerry Cambridge)

You blind my eyes with yellow,
Like the sun that tans your skin.
You’re a Sunday suburbanite,
Mowing and edging with grassy delight.
You look after the pounds, they
Don’t do it themselves.
You work until you burn, the flames escaping
From the inky dragon on your back,
A back that carries the burden
Of our home in steady strides.
You wake me up like coffee,
Strong and bold. Then leave me
In the cold of your kitchen.
You must return to the sunshine
In your garden. You are the
Sun in Sunday after all.
You roast outside, like the dinner
In our oven.

What feeds my soul? (written in workshop with Linda Hoy)

The movement of pencils
On empty white pages.
The trail of black letters
Appearing on screens.
The thoughts and emotions
That churn up my stomach.
The stillness, the whiteness
Of spaces between.
The dazzling fringes of
Internal images, pictures
That move, sing and dance
In my mind. The satisfied silence,
The pause,
The digestion, of pieces of me
Rendered whole and complete.

Writing the spirit (written in workshop with Linda Hoy)

The dark place, the deep place,
The heart of the matter.
It pulses, it throbs,
It bleeds and it sobs.
It whispers and sings
And trickles through veins,
Infusing the whole
With it’s soul.

The delicate vessel,
So small, vulnerable,
Shows no sign of movement,
No hint of the volume,
The tide that is filling and spilling
And crashing inside. The deafening roar,
The thunder, the whirlwind, it rages contently
Within soundproof walls.

The flush and the blush are discreet,
Public secrets. They’re blood on a red rose,
They’re screams in a cyclone.
The essence, the core, is everywhere,
Nowhere. It silently shouts to be heard
And ignored.