Categories
Poetry

A Poet

Of all the labels I reject

a poet’

is the one golden cage

ringing true to my soul.

It holds my heart,

this stamp that tells me-

not who I am,

but what I do in the world

and how these depths consume me.

And though a label

is but a boundary with imaginary walls

in a universe unending,

a poet

I am

in words

and heart.

A poet I am,

I am.

Categories
Writing

Moon Unconditional

‘Sun?’

‘Yes, Moon?’ said Sun as he fell into the evening sky.

‘I shine every night. I brighten the humans’ world. Why do they not love me?’

‘Moon?’

‘Yes, Sun?’

‘You have a chip in your tooth.’

‘Do I?! Oh, no! Maybe that’s why!’

‘Moon?’

‘Yes, Sun?’

‘It’s a tooth.’

‘I know. And I don’t want a broken one.’

‘But you have a broken one.’

‘Sun! You are not hearing what I am saying! The humans don’t love me and I don’t want a broken tooth.’ Moon stormed around the sky, looking for her lost boot.

‘Moon? I love you. And you have a broken tooth. Not but, and. Did you hear me? And you have a broken tooth.’

‘Sun. I have no idea what you’re on about,’ said Moon, putting her found boot on and keying in her crescent shine coordinates.

‘I know, Moon, I know. You’ll understand one day.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You will.’

And with that, Moon said goodbye and shone unconditionally for the humans below.

Categories
Life

Soul

I had to write. With my heart open wide and my energy flowing, I had to write because writing is what my soul does when it needs to breathe.

My soul needs to breathe.

I stood beneath a tree in my front yard the other day. I was gardening, but gardening has become so much more than just a word, to me. How about caring for, nurturing gently, cherishing life as it grows beneath my hands? That sounds about right.

I was always going to love like this. Always going to be the one to love that little bit more. And where it often hurts a great deal to live with my heart wide open, I can’t imagine any other way of being.

A bug caught my eye as it crept up a branch. It was my baby daughter. Of course, it wasn’t my actual baby daughter, that would be insane of me to consider. But I knew in that moment that I loved this little beetle. That I would protect it. That I cared so much more deeply for this little life than I ever thought I could.

I have only just allowed myself to feel this deeply again. It was often unsafe to be my fullest self in this world, and many have hardened beneath the hardness of generations before them. My culture was not built to tolerate a soft heart. It is a culture of jokes at people’s expense and arguments over petty things. I reject it entirely. And it rejects me.

But I stand under trees and I love them with all that I am.

And I write.

Because my soul asks me to write. So I do.

I write.

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Categories
Peaches In The Darling Sun

I Am Home

I’ve lit a candle.

Classical piano plays.

I have coffee sitting beside me.

I am home.

Oh my goodness I am home.

The world is busy. The noise, sometimes far too loud.

But there is such beauty and softness in the quiet places.

Let the quiet places sing to your heart, always.

It is my dearest wish for you.

My dearest wish.

All my love.

xx Brooke

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com
Day 11. The greatest love of all. Home.
Categories
Peaches In The Darling Sun

The End Of The Day

I gave my soul to the garden.

I gave her my heart, I gave her my dreams.

And now, I am weary.

So weary,

I am nothing more than this.

But how beautiful it feels to have come.

To have given a piece of my life,

however small.

Here I have left my heart

and searched for yours in advance.

Hello, until tomorrow.

Goodnight,

until the day is sweet and new.

Day Two. Grateful to have met again, so sweetly.

Categories
Peaches In The Darling Sun

Flowers

The flowers opened with the rooster’s crow and closed as the sun went down. Everyone called them weeds, and that’s what they were if you were someone other than me.

Whatever their name, they woke and fell asleep with the sun, like us, and that was just so beautiful to me.

I’ve lived in several houses where this sort of ‘weed’ rose upon the front lawn like a problem to be dealt with, and though the grass was neater upon their official doom…it was never quite the same. Never as alive. Never as lovely, such is the vibrance of dynamic life.

And so it was that I loved that lawn much more when the weeds were alive.

Because Shakespeare was right.

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Photo by Jackson David on Pexels.com
Day One. Thank you for stopping by. ❤️
Categories
Poetry

Sweet Muse of Mine

Where do you go, sweet bell?

Where do you hide

when I long to feel your voice

sing through my bones?

I only know you;

the place I call home.

I only know you, dear constant voice

of heart,

of soul,

of love.

Oh.

But here you are again, little bird.

Here you are with the words I have missed,

the song I have so wished to hear on the wind.

Stay a while.

Please stay a while, sweet muse of mine.

Categories
Poetry

The Window

On days where rain settles on the window, I look to the future with dusty eyes.

How does one peer beyond the droplets there? How beautiful can the horizon appear when my eyes are glazed with the muck and haze of old?

There was a time, once —when I was young and stainless— when the window was free from drizzle, the horizon: apricot sun over a sea of gentle destiny.

But lovely as life seemed without a shadow, I have seen rain awash the hill. Where, in this wild world, truth and softness is but a dream to be wished, and love, a precious ornament easily shattered.

Still, I choose to be grateful. To count the rays of beautiful sun and see beyond the ghastly truth on the hill.

I must choose this light.

The alternative is too dark for me to bear.

Categories
Life

Imagine

Sometimes, I wonder if I can still write.

Not just write, as in, write any old words.

I mean, I sometimes wonder if I can still write fiction that peels my skin from the bone. Words I read back after I’ve written them and find that they speak to my soul.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written any fiction. My poor novel is sitting desperately among the cobwebs of my computer, wondering where I am. The short stories I once wrote are just that: short stories I once wrote.

The truth is, I’m afraid.

Because I wonder if I can still write.

And so I procrastinate and procrastinate until I don’t even try anymore. I know it is simply a matter of starting. But. I don’t even start.

I am too busy to scratch my nose, also, so that is one actual fact I can’t ignore. Even if I was brave enough to face the looming blank page, there is no time for that in these early stages of newborn life. These moments, now, are stolen moments I am taking back from Motherhood.

And I’ve chosen to give them to this place.

My heart place.

My home. (Where all of you are. My beautiful bloggy family.)

If history has anything to say about this pattern of me, I will make my way, eventually, to the place of bravery that allows for creativity to run free of the well. I will, once again, bring my whole soul to the surface of my world. I will create worlds, and lives, and beauty through art.

But that time is not now.

Now, I am here. (Happily, peacefully, lovingly I am here.)

Savouring these stolen moments.

Waiting for the baby to wake, running from the fears I know are lurking in the shadows.

I am not afraid to sit still. Here. Now. I am not afraid of this.

I am afraid of losing my creative flow, though.

Because imagine. To lose something so precious.

Imagine.

Photo by Anete Lusina on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

Creativity Rises

I intend to write one thing and another is born.

Creativity rises.

It controls me, not the other way around.

The poem I’ve just written began with a feeling of being stuck. Stuck in COVID lockdown. Stuck in a middle ground of dried up creativity.

So I sat down. I opened my computer. And I saw a cupboard on the blank screen of my mind.

I was in there.

In a dark cupboard, looking out at something…a little brighter.

The story began from there.

But it wasn’t the story I’d expected. It was something different, not at all what I’d originally planned.

Isn’t

creativity

amazing?

It drives.

I am just here.

Allowing it to be what it chooses.

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