The Anchor

I have always searched for roots.
Being adrift in space
Is never what I wanted.
I wanted a quaint place

I could call home; my solace
Where I could be just me,
With hot chocolate and books
And love for company.

I have sought for strong anchors
To stop my wayward drift;
Something heavy that no storm
Could possibly lift.

I found them in what I read,
In what I loved and knew,
In what I wrote and learned,
In what I danced and drew.

I became an anchor then;
Roots was what I became;
I dug into the sea bed,
Made a tree of my name.

If you choose to see this,
As being stuck for all time,
I must set you to sea,
Your fruit was never mine.

Perhaps out in the ocean,
Drifting in colder air,
I dare say, you’ll find your peace,
Devoid of me and care.

Perhaps out in the free air,
Like pollen with no aim,
You will just be –
No flower must you tame.

I stay here anchored fast,
Rooted to my haloed ground,
I shall read and drink and love,
No complaint shall resound,

From cold ocean and warm earth,
I look upward to sky:
I am here. Here I live,
Here I love. Here I die.


Et tu, Brute

There are words that can cut like knives;
I have no use for the likes of such;
And when friends brandish them for woe,
That does seem to account for much.

They spin through the air and draw blood,
Much like some martial arts movie;
And they are sent with desires to wound
To decimate my self completely.

I see the glee in the eyes as they take aim;
The thoughtful precision of a taunt,
The cocking of the brow and curling lip
That releases the word designed to haunt.

I have never known the pleasure of this;
Perhaps it goes against my grain,
The way I was taught and reared and loved
Not to strike back in kind; but refrain.

In laughter, much is said that wouldn’t be,
In laughter, wounds are made as well as healed,
In laughter, words are made and broken,
In laughter, much malice is artfully concealed.

It depends on how we choose to use it;
May a smile, that softly reaches the eyes,
Overtake a barbed word, that spins forth,
Before a patchwork of marked lies.

May soft eyes, genuinely, care to safeguard
Tender feelings and genuine pleasure;
May everyone be happy and sane
And let what is leisure remain leisure.


They Sometimes Say

When I love they, sometimes, say i love right,
Then, behind doors, they also softly, say,
That within the darkest caverns of night,
I love differently than in the day.

They speak of the numerous things I do:
Of the friends I seem, somehow, to acquire,
The way I dress up and how I walk, too,
Of how I’m a saint and how a liar.

I must have some guile to steal affection,
For clearly, I can’t earn it on my own,
Love I gain from filial connection,
Luckily, all by God and chance was thrown.

The moon has secrets to give me, for sure,
That’s how we witches are known to survive;
I am nothing but a dangerous lure,
Like handsome bears being drawn to a hive.

I have warped morality and no code,
For all see the beauteous life I live,
With wondrous occasions on me bestowed
And ingratitude is what they see me give.

So rumour has it that I am well off.
Nothing could I possibly need more.
Well-spoken, well-mannered and well thought of,
A never-ageing, immaculate whore.