Child Grin

i can tell

when you lean in quite close

that you wear the fragile grin of a child

on your face,

to hide behind gritted armour

has done you well

but you leave a trail of feathers behind

whenever I walk with you,

a hurried look on your face

to peek through fences

and burrow in the mud

excitement for any difference in the day,

what wonderful character that is,

to fill my head with thoughts of

daisies and falling

leaves and perfume

staining the air,

innocent charm that

scoops me up and tosses me

onto a bed of golden leaves

stealing sweet smiles

that become gentler

and soften into tiny baby giggles

as you frame my face with your hands

and lean in quite close



Skipping Rocks

I would skip


with my feet plunged into moss

curl my toes underneath mud

grip myself

turning a stone over in my hand

weighing it with every rotation

to make sure it wouldn’t just


to the bottom of the brook

though if it did

it would not be lonely

because there are plenty of others

who have


to the


and nestled themselves

even after they’ve skidded the rapids.



A Little Nature

If only i could lie

in the grass for more

than just a little while

I could graze the atmosphere

with my drifting eyes

turning my head this way and

that way

I’d twitch my ears

to tune them to the sound

of daffodils being kissed

by tiny insects

I could wipe my nose clean and

inhale perfumed stardust

that would shake itself off

and hitch a ride on currents

golden flecks falling through my hair

hovering first like a halo

and I would not mind nibbles

from creatures polite enough

to make their presence known

take what they need and then leave.



Polite Love

the trees are polite


they bow to the wind

whenever it pushes through clouds

and knocks upon their cracked bark,

their aged and writhed skin,

contours of time shaped by the hand

of everything,

blushes as gusts brush upon them

like the touch of a lover’s face

pressed against a lover’s face,

comfort, sweet and warm

to contrast rough and gritty,

overwhelm these monuments,

make their leaves shake and whisper

to one another, excitedly.



In Which I Talk To A Drunk Old Man

I held on to the poll tightly as the streetcar screeched along its tracks, and the bustle of China Town rushed by the windows.

An old man sat directly in front of where I was standing, and in a mumble that released the scent of cheap whiskey, cleared his throat.

“A seat my dear?” he said.

“No thank you,” I said.

I really did not want to sit, nor did I think this old man would do well staggering, trying to maneuver himself between seats and staring eyes.

“I can even get off two stops ahead of mine, so you can sit, if you’re more comfortable with that,” the old man mumbled between his liquor soaked beard.

“No thank you, but I really appreciate the offer,” I said.

I rang the bell just as the streetcar was pulling up to my stop, and the old man smiled.

“Have a good day my dear.”

“Same to you,” I said, looking into his eyes and nodding my head.

I hopped off the streetcar and as I waited at the cross walk, wondered if the old man had a home.

He had blue eyes.


On Meditation

It was the flickering that caught her attention, and the calming scent that illuminated from its center.  It burned in front of her while she allowed the beads from her bracelet to glide through her fingers, as each passing hum of the mantra calmed her down. Silently she watched the candle and chanted her whispers as the scent being released from the warming candle filled her nostrils with memories of cool summer nights and breezy autumn days (the elements that calmed her). She closed her eyes  for fear of losing herself in the sight of the growing flame. She let her vision be strayed by the outline of the candlelight, which stayed in her mind as her eyes were shut softly over her thoughts. She fell deeper into a numbing state as her chants grew softer and her breathing louder. She had no thoughts now, but knew only the motion of her fingers over the smooth beads, the sound of the flickering candle and the scent it let off, and the vibrations of her voice through her chants. She was meditated.


See. Feel. Think.

English: Female House Sparrow, Bairnsdale Aust...
English: Female House Sparrow, Bairnsdale Australia. Taken in September 2006. See also Image:House sparrow03.jpg. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What I see around me.

The wind is casting its heavy breeze and smothering the hot summer air, while my legs stick to the damp grass leaving a tickling sensation behind. The sun is beaming down, touching my skin slightly, warming my coffee and kissing the garden gently as its crops ripen. There are no noises now, but the blustering of the wind and the chirping of brave birds who dare to challenge its speed and sway.

What I feel.

My body
is still but for the motion of my hand, as I glide my pen along the page of my
journal. I cannot see what is being written for the sun is too bright in my
eyes, and I must trust my mind to jot down precisely what I am thinking. This in
itself is a vulnerable task, as it restricts me from proofreading and altering
my mistakes. It stops me from hiding from my errors which I so often do, and it
opens my thoughts to the truth.

What I think.

I have taken in
the scene around me and heard no noises but for the wind. I have used it to
center my thoughts and transcribe them blindly into my journal. I have finally
learned to stop hiding from my own vulnerability, and have made myself visible
to nature. I can share my true thoughts with the page and allow it to be inked

but I will not share them with you.