Fey, the dreaming one

 

Fey, the dreamy one.
catcher of stones and stories.
a river walker
across fresh polished stones.

as a baby, dreaming of her grandmother
leaning over her in a haze of blue and lavender
motes of colour and light,
already a painter of dreams.

Aware of the meaning of statues
Tara, Sarasvati, Shiva
sandalwood incense rising,
beckoning the Gods.

Barefoot on the grass
wearing moonstone rings
and a jade koru necklace
for new beginnings.

Imagination a keystone
turning the lock
to treasure.

She has suffered
shifts in circumstances
the wheel of change

She has suffered
the toll of sensitivity
feelings like full moon tides
pulling at her

sometimes drowning
in overwhelm

sorrow covering her
like a lake of hair
bowing her down

a Blake watercolour

She stands at a tiered gatepost
wondering what
visions will befall her
set her on a new journey,

what forms they will take,

what new directions her creations
will take her in.

Bucking the trend

All the way she has bucked the trend

Without a family or children of her own,

she was not suited to be a 24 hour mama,

to hear the baby cry for hours on end, or

to feed the child’s constant need for attention. 

 

it would have crushed her spirit

with her need for space, time alone.

 

She breaks the lineage, she breaks the line

choosing to follow her own road

whether it was for temperamental

reasons or psychological ones.

 

She was the first in her family to hold a university degree

which she began at 25.

All the way she has bucked the trend.

 

Looking like a student

in her op shop clothes from the 50’s and early 60’s.

 

Wanting to know the language of the student

only to reject the practice of analysis 

a year after finishing. 

 

Choosing to read

with her heart not her head.

 

Choices made in her thirties affect her life now,

Alone and not working due to psychological reasons.

Needing space out to do nothing, or to create and make.

 

Time out from work needed

whether from crisis or depression 

following the dark road through to wellness.

 

She was the first in her family to hold a university degree

It has taken to her fifties to choose the creative life.

Choosing to study, to learn and keep on learning the art

and craft of writing.

 

All the way she has bucked the trend

needing space out to do nothing, or to create and make.

All the way she has bucked the trend.

Waiting at Hastings, England, 1856

I have waited for my true love to come to me on this grey morning,
The tide grows thin, the seagulls caw but still there is no sign of him.
In my small room of willow paper and wattle chair I cry his name
softly as to draw him in, but my hands do shake
and I feel weak as I do softly call him.
The draught that eases my disease is sitting on the dresser,
I grasp it quick just three small drops, dulls the pain.
Has he flown, he called me his grey dove,
to others charms, overflowing with charity and cheer
that amuse, and tickle his muse,
whereas I feign could be dying of heart sickness
and fear he will not be returning.

Blue Cardigan

Blue Cardigan

That day I chose to wear a blue cardigan borrowed from my mother.
Depth of it’s hue – a hymn to the heavy, late summer sky
waiting to fall.

I was running downhill, the hillside grassy and steep,
I was running in my pointy shoes,
A musical, alternative teenager
caught up in “The Dunedin Sound”
jangling guitars, leather jackets and hand knitted jerseys,
“The Chills”, “The Bats”, “The Verlaines”, “Sneaky Feelings”.
Absorbed by the sounds,
the strum of electric guitars and acoustic strings,
filling my heart, filling my eyes with tears,
blue doldrums, all in blue.

Falling like rain, all in blue, falling on the tin rooftops.
Rain pattering, searching for the comfort inside, containment
and warmth.

Seeking shelter from the black rain.
My mother’s words scar me still,
“You can’t”, “You should have”, “Why don’t you?”.
Her words made me feel she does not know me
or what I need.
Inside the small shed the storm bellows and drums, I shiver
like a scared dog. With dogs they say you do the opposite to humans
you don’t reward the fear you ignore it. But scared and alone
I try not to give into the fear that sent me running from my family.
Could I live a life like this, a life without fear”.

Leaving a world of silences
reading between the lines of my parent’s sentences,
Silent, withdrawn, shy
no place to speak my own words
except the journals I filled with so much emotion
swelling like a rolling sea, just beneath the surface of my mind.
Running away,
Running to shelter.

When I was 24 my boyfriend made a collage where I was sheltered
under his large umbrella.
I took a photo of him, through a pipe, the pipe contained his outline
arms and legs outspread
he was the circle and container of my world.
Until, he broke it.

A fancy dinner, A French restaurant, a waitress in on the game
she kept on filling up my glass of wine,
till drunk and sick inside/ he told me,
“It is over” as we got into his car.
Everything went red.
I imploded smashing and kicking at the windscreen, the doors
again and again.
Broken once again, no longer his passenger.

Moving once a year every year since I was born.
Where do I find my shelter, my sanctuary,
my green writing space,

my certainty in a world,
certain only of change.