holding on

we don't speak of this: being a mother is not all love and patience.
It's also anger, frustration, despair. It's coming through the despair to find love on the other side. Learning to weather out the emotional turmoil without snapping.

Mothers do snap; occasionally, awfully, one snaps. We've seen the headlines and the warning posters in the GP's waiting room.

The pressure is huge. It builds to a boil, pressing out against your skull, screaming in your ears
just shut up! Shut up!!!
occasionally you say it, even shout it maybe, out loud.
It's like a slap in the face, the shame that hits you when you hear the words escape. Even before you see the fear in her eyes you're consumed by guilt.

She is yours, this little person. She needs you; you are her everything. She needs you to be strong and calm, and you can't do it.

No no, you can't! It's impossible, you're not a mother, not a real one. She deserves better.

But it's too bad cos she's got you. Only you. And you'll just have to do the best you can. Like everyone else does.

You walk until your head aches, or perhaps you hold her close in the dim bedroom. Singing. Humming. Anything to drown out the crying. And you just keep moving, keep breathing. Holding on for the moment when the crying stops and you can rest with your relief and shame.

in franklin square

the crackle of autumn is on the ground. bone-chillingly damp, no one sits on this lawn any more. seagulls fend for themselves.

the fountain sings to itself- unhindered by small curious hands, unphotographed, it simply washes it's steady rhythm behind the roar of traffic noise and bursts of conversation. it speaks quietly; wisely.

unheard by the babbling masses that tread pavement with ears closed. blind to the gold of the fallen leaves, deaf to the wisdom of running water. we catch buses. we buy things. we rush to work, to home, to everywhere, nowhere.

the fountain stays here, endlessly cycling water. leaves rot where they fall.

why do we fear stillness so? what is it about silence that terrifies us? so scared are we that we fill our ears with discordant noise, forever blocking out the quiet voices of water and wind. busy trying to fit more in, we miss so much.

let's take a breath.
one long, slow breath, deep into our collective lungs, down into our consciousness. let's take this
moment of stillness. silence.

let's feel the weak sunlight trying to warm our muffled skin. let's listen to the wind, suddenly loud in the absence of traffic noise and human conversation.
let's look at each other.

yes, you. look at him. he too has a wisdom to share.
she, there, she also is a part of this wonder.

in the silence we may find not only birdsong and wet earth, not only this lifegiving sunlight and windwhisper.
we may see each other.

for tom robbins

writing a list gives all the pleasure of a sinkful of dishes.

Writing letters can create the glow of happy hours spent in good company.

Writing an article, essay, critique- well it'll give you a knowledgeable smirk, it can feed your fire of enthusiasm. It's an admirable achievement, no doubt.

A story now, a story frees the tongue and the mind, widens the prespective, presses buttons in the psyche. Writing stories is an art form to be valued; reading them a treat.


But if you want to really dive in, to mine the depths of your consciousness-
if you want to know the mystery behind life-
well it's poetry you're after

the playful wallowing in words
the delicious sensuality of language
and the sudden sharp
that cuts to the truth at the core

oh!
let me burrow down
amongst your vowels
revel in your adjectives
let me swim in the soup of your imagery

I come to worship