Bennie.

My favourite new game
is watching which raindrops
will fall on the wires
of our clothesline
whose yellow,
plastic-coated pin-stripes
reverberate
humming inaudible notes
that I can see.

And now I understand
that when you’re staring out
at “nothing,”
the fool isn’t you,
it’s me.

For Bennie; the all-seeing, one-eyed cat.

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Mother Sietkiewicz’ Wisdom.

She, with the white, candy-floss hair

and the softest palms I’ve ever held;

with the the speckled, green-grey eyes

which smile in agreement with the upturned corners
of a mouth
 that only speaks loving wisdom.



She’s my mum. 



She is the woman

with the farmer’s work ethic

running deep in her veins, 

hiding just beneath the veil

of a teachers desk, and a blackboard,

raising crops of young minds

with fresh ideas to feed a hungry world,

in starving need for change.



She’s the one. 


Patient, kind, 

neither boastful, or proud

she is trusting, understanding 

and decades less irritable

than her darling daughter…



With empathy for injustice,

she delights in the deafening bells of truth being rung,

reverberating through the moment,
as she never gives up,

holding on to deep faith, with a heart full of hope

to receive a new day.



She’s my mum.

She’s the one.

With the candy floss hair,

the softest palms I’ve ever held,

and I love her.

Mother Teresa’s Secret.

No one ever told me 

that the other side of the paradox

would feel so much 
like liberty.



It feels like honey, 

sweeting the most bitter corners

of a tired soul,

or hot tea 
warming the frozen edges 

of a numbed frame.



It feels like dancing
in the pelting rain

when you’ve been waiting years

for the storm to stop. 



My broken heart
has just learned 
to beat again,

as she steadily starts

to breathe again
,
these big, deep breaths of air

fresher than I dared believe exist

in the pluming smoke of loss.

You were right, Momma T.

because I loved until it hurt,

and now?

There’s no more pain;

just love. 


Tongariro.

A door has blown WIDE OPEN

inside of my chest.

It lay locked somewhere behind my ribs, 

before my heart, hinged on my side for years,

while I lay paralysed, flat on my stomach,

cheek pressed to the floor, with glassy eyes

desperate to catch as much light

as would tease out from beneath it,

before another day dimmed

and I curled my back to the wall

as mournful sighs overwhelmed

once tender lullabies of promise.



A RUSHING WIND

as strong, and cold as that which blew the plains of Tongariro 

into shard-like slopes, races straight through me

forcing that heavy door hard against it’s hinges,

faster than a bullet train to Tokyo, 

louder than every God-forsaken shout I’ve kept inside my head,

so crisp it feels
like brilliant, white light. 



THE LOCK IS BROKEN

and I will not waste time finding the key

for fear of loss, or imagined gain.

I will lie down. 

My back pressed against the fresh ice

of an unfamiliar, but humbly welcome, day

having crossed the mountain

to merrily slide on my bottom,

down a snow-powdered hill

laughing into the sunshine

of a happy descent.

YES, LIFE.

Yes, Life

I will take you in my palms again.



With tears and ashes for potter’s slip

I will mould you, taking on a softer form

and a steadier gaze, 

I will look into your face,
your moments of joy,

your seasons of disgrace, 

and I will learn to love you.



Your light and shade, your wrinkled brow,

your stinging blows that wind me now,

your smiling eyes, your heavy head,

the moments I’d sworn you’d left me for dead,

LIFE, AND ALL OF YOUR RUBBLE, 



I will love you. 


Until one day when tears cease,
the potter’s wheel no longer turns,

and I see you in your wholeness.

My hands COVERED 
in the drying clay of decades,

fingers worn almost to the bone, 

ready to let you dry in your full shape

and return to the ground

as the ashes we scooped together

all those years ago.