Things she gave me

A jar of honey
Hope, energy and rot
Deep pockets of her time

Her confession
A seat next to her behind the shop counter
Permission to pounce her

The passport to her tongue and her pussy
The Honour of taking the first sapphic sips from her Gates of Heaven
Her Sex Song

A shea butter rub into my chest, arms and legs
A red rose, highest vibration
A copper ring from Madrid

The Time to walk into my own Goddess Sexy Being
The Space to be loving, kind, slow, patient, understanding, compassionate
The Opportunity to take care of her, to be my best

A tour of secret poems she found on a ruin in the dune forest
My first lesson on The Wheel
My first lesson in how to let go

Long hours and days of silence

Lemonbalm and yarrow


Lilies in my kitchen when she left

Kwelera

We arrived at the river banks to find
Two old crones already ensconced
In aeons-old afternoon armchair conversations;

We arrived to find that maybe Love
Is not the thing we think we love
But in the moving towards it,

And maybe we weren’t ever really rebellious,
Just slow to learn new things.
It may be that nothing is as it seems

As we lock up meaning quick safe and tight
To attach to old story lines
We don’t even know we are writing half the time,

Something to hold on to
In this magic maelstrom uncertainty eternity.
There’s no difference between the me

Of the Then and The Now
When I gaze me, happy face
In the bathroom mirror,

Beam my quasar being, and know 
You’re just my latest great teacher, Oh Supreme One,
And maybe not the thing I think I love.