shiva nataraj

(the goddess whose cosmic dance sustains the universe).

she holds the elements in her fingertips
there live creatures of the deep
in the moon's glow of her stomach.

she sees eyes in trees and green
reflected in the night sky
as pastel light-beings of energy .

she feels the saline ocean at her core
the mountains above are her lungs
her limbs are no more.

she is tangled beautifully in branches
as hips swing in the breeze
her essence in nature is freed.

her skin is made of the sand
and the sand is the stars
she feels each glisten on water.

a hair on her neck is a blade of grass
she holds snail-ears to the earth
and listens, listens, listens.

if we had never left

If we had but never left this room
how much would not exist to us.

If we had scarcely space or time
what would such beauty mean to us?

What love could we feel but
for one and another?

What skies but stark white,
sunrise of yellow light?

Without earth to feel between toes
we would have only the wiles of tiles,

extracted and manufactured,
in our minds like the birds and the bees.

There nails on cotton sheets
reverberate in silent souls.

If we had but never left this room
this is all that we would know.

nature-lover

bridleway veins, the path to his heart
lips are bowed like humble ploughs
my stomach full of love rumbles.

hilly cheekbones synchronise
form green-brown contours
beside peat-bog eyes.

grassy hair is overgrown
at home in the wilderness;
a kinked, not hostile environment.

brown-bowl eyes are shining earth,
sun reflected in mud, and a small
archipelago of muscle at the elbow.

it's the shape of a kidney bean.
two dots, 'x' marks the spot
underneath each bog.

but where are the fault lines?
i suspect they lie with the land,
just short of blood ties.

he came to me from the forest
with firefly eyes so deep to hold
a cup of my moonflower-love.

more owl eyes, woodland creature
life. are they a conduit?
contradiction or compass point?

he will forage in the forest
flying into flurries of firewood
and food. i will indulge,

smother myself in scottish
strawberries and soil, learn the
practical skills of co-operative toil.

see his sharp shins, see his
tender thighs, oh! see me sigh!
he has orange leaves for eyes

and a purple swirl at the
stomach. his mind crackles,
each brittle leaf an idea,

cherished but rejected in the end.
blobs of autumn mustard
scatter energies in every direction.

we have the sensation
of those leaves, caught on
a crisp, woody breeze.

he came to me from the forest,
lucky for us we're both
tangled in branches.

off with her head!

how many women have wished
worse tortures upon their sisters?
many more men besides,
from aescetic aeldred to henry 8th,
elfin beauty punshed by death.
severing, he strung the holy head
of halifax to the yew tree. fastened
by it's own shining tresses, he fashioned
a warning to mother shipton's. the
witch-hunt, or should i say woman-hunt?

the 'they' complex

in my hometown, there is
a vertiginous green finger
which swears at foreigners
as they arrive.

the locals once dubbed it
'the tower of spite'
and it seems that they are
still quite right.

it was of course, fine,
when migrants were
shipped in - but only
for the night shift, love.

now the bnp are on
the rise,  and
it's not quite right
'poor hometown plight'!
that 'they' have got all the jobs.

the daily grind

in this room they all sit
clucking in cliques,
repeating the same shit
week after week.

someone's nicked my cup again!
as if the world might end,
and time after time,
they refuse you a smile.

they clutch misery to their chests
like textbooks,
the young ones are
actually the worst.

still twisted up by teenage tantrum
and bitchy comments,
which are a bit rich, to be honest,
coming from them.

from school to the staff room
and some stay here forever,
it's particularly painful today.

i sit in my windowless room,
the artificial light like 'cynthia',
reminds of the first artificial form of life,
created in america last night.

yet even here, i feel energy like
moving music, bubbling, rising,
effervescent as the fields, the hills
and the sunshine outside.

i might just go and do a sundance,
sticking two fingers up through the window
and smiling at everyone in sight!

a tragedy this morning

basking in the warm blast of my hairdryer, i observed her,

peacefully buzzing, juddering, low-flying.

i smiled from a happy heart, 'this space is equally yours',

i thought, proud of my own generosity.

i would not have fought to rid the room of you, small creature.

i would not flee; a fearful, irrational human.

i felt love for you from this pantheist heart i have,

before i went back to the warm blast of my routine.

i was disturbed by the sound. an electric-sizzle,

a juddering, low deathly buzz, sinister in it's similarity.

i was immobilised for a (dramatic pause) moment,

before i flicked the switch. in silence, listened to her twitch.

i hurled an expletive at the god of small things.

i was torn in two - to before and after almost certain death!

i witnessed a tragedy this morning. whilst i was yawning

her brain was flicking switches, off, one at a time.

i decided to stand back, at least until i had to leave for work.

i said a little prayer for her that she would fly again, took

a look at her resting place - shocked to find a brother or sister there.

i said a little prayer for them for the third time lucky.

as i basked in the warm blast of my hairdryer once more,

i observed my thoughts on this incident.

i worried that this would set my day off on the wrong foot(!)

along with bad hair days and getting out of bed on the wrong side.

hot air swiftly blew away my sadness and i almost forgot entirely.

until the noise again ... bzzzzz bzz bzzzz bzzz bzzz.

she was ever more juddering in her rumbling bumble!

i gave a round of applause for this miracle,

and went back to my hairdryer.

festival-love

can be found in the 70% cocoa, dark chocolate
that we ate with magic mushrooms yesterday.
it's in the prisms and patterns of kaleidsoscopic
colour that we splatter with mud for extra effect.
it can be found in the satisfyingly round, spiral sounds
as we contemplate science in frantic ecstasy.

epiphany, anyone?! entangled particles describe
our hearts and we were all created from stardust!

it's there in the dancing and panting,
the prancing with earth between exultant toes
as there we stand, foot to foot with those
toes we love. shrunken amongst tall trees
and mingled sweat, never regretting
the sweet scent of you and i.

the joy of three days without washing,
and i still 'see' you, as though for the first time.
the sleep in our eyes crystallising,
our mud warrior stripes;
my dirty knickers are in a twist for you, as ever.
your mischievous eyes are fireflies in the festival night,

reflecting light displays of enchanted forests, more eyes,
grass-green seas and purple skies.
like plain paper, morning rain washes
away the excess of yesterday.
i can't say i feel fresh as such,
but you are the freshness.

no matter what playful concoction i ingest with you,
i never lose my grip on the space-time continuum.
"have you seen a bunch of old hippies
in 3D glasses mate?" he's obviously trippin',
but i wonder why we bother - wide-eyed
with love as i am, anchored by alice in wonderland.

small, decorative objects

I have an unhealthy obsession
with small, decorative objects.
Quirky, artistic; with patterns
intrinsically pleasing to the eye.
They extract a pleasant sigh.

Such superfluous items worry me.
I'd like to survive on only what I need?
Images of children with distended
bellies rat-a-tat-tat in my head,
knocking on the guilty door,

I know it is not the desire for
a fat car, cigars or Beluga caviar,
but my addiction holds it own vanity.
Disparity is debatable, always.

It's the box the cigars came in,
made into a bag.
It's the girl smiling in sepia,
from the hood of a classic car,
in an antique photograph.

I don't know her. She's no relation
besides the quaint sisterhood of
my love learned from books on
compassion. I liked the way
the light fell on her 40's pin curl,
 was appreciative of the sly curve of her lips,
her promising hips, all fashioned in
a cupid's bow.

I have so many small objects,
trinkets; I am a secret delinquent.
A collector of detail professing
simplicity, simultaneously
hoarding a trove.

how to be an old-school consumer

pick each item up,
shake it, stretch it, test it.
hold it up to the light
check for holes or stains
and extort a discount
on force of pain.
let the shop assistant tut,
sigh, roll eyes to the sky,
or maybe she'll cluck -
proud of the display of
bargaining skills, which she
had thought lost.
at all times barter!
hark back to a world with
-out tills and microchips,
when coffers were filled
proffering goods or services
direct. buy only secondhand,
but not just vintage ladies!
get stuck in to rooting,
searching and looting,
not that i'm suggesting theft
(well, maybe from tesco's!)
steer clear of banks
as much as you can,
avoid the mobile phone,
and watch only re-runs of
very old programmes.
be at home in your own
old clothes and those of others.