Archive for January, 2010|Monthly archive page


Dark days have come again,
every step uphill.
The world whirls about me,
a kaleidoscope twilight
I slowly slog.
I immerse myself
in every stolen moment of happiness,
each is only ever a temporary reprieve.
The most courageous act I make
is to wake
nothing is ever enough,
and yet,
everything is always too much.


The Making Of A Modern Woman

The making of a modern woman
Is an industrial process.
She is composed of used and recycled parts,
Only those parts no longer valued for their original purpose,
Are smelt and repossessed.
She is steamed, pressed, rolled, dried, pounded, pulled, shaped, molded, painted.
Then marketed, sold, bought, displayed.

Inevitably, she disappoints.
She is left to gather dust,
And disappear in plain sight.

Left to herself for the first time in her creation,
She picks herself up, dusts herself off, and looks around for what she deems to be of value.
She gathers these up, cradles them, ensures they fulfill each of their ambitions,
And watches her own move on without her.

At the end of her life, she sits.
She thanks the curious young woman handing her a cup of tea.
She reassures her that nothing had ever been taken away, because
Nothing had ever been given.
And that all of the work of her hands had been made with her heart, and thus
Its worth cannot be determined.

The making of a modern woman
Is an industrial process.
The living of her
Is only either material,
Or immaterial.
Her core is unknown – unseen, unfathomed, unsung.
But it will remain,
A legacy system,
Long after you are gone.

Heavenly – I hope

This old man, he played seven, he played seven all the way to heaven. With a knick-knack-patty-whack, bring a dog -”
“What’s heaven, Momma?”
“- a bone – hmmm?”
“What’s heaven?”

– pause – deep breath. This is a biggie – and a first. Intimidated, I give it a go.

“Well, Love, heaven’s where you go when you die.”
“When you die?”
“When you don’t have a body anymore, and all the stuff that makes up your heart and your spirit and your mind, when all the things that make you you don’t have a body to stay in anymore, then you go to heaven.”

“Where is it?”
“Where’s heaven, Love?”

“Hmm, well I think it’s in the sky, Love – and in the fields where the flowers grow, and in waterfalls and raindrops and birdsong and rainbows. Heaven is everywhere that is beautiful and mysterious and good, in all those places that make you feel like flying.”

Bonhomme looks at me searchingly, mulling this over.
Then he nods his head decisively, and says:
“Yup, that’s right, Momma.”

And both of us somewhat awed, secure in our complete confidence in each other’s wisdom, cuddle to the gentle hum of this old man.