When the world is a hostile ocean
throwing me up like a rag doll,
tossing me brutely into a cavernous sack
I light candles in my bones
celebrate the cathedral of self
that pushes through the tumult,
knows where it is going,
who I am.
I will not be defined by the storms
or drowned out by the choking tides.
Thunder will not strike me down,
nor my troubles name me.
I am my own refuge
and I shine.
My human condition can feel to me like hot coals of painful intensity
quenched by some momentary, cooling, restful waters
that ease the distress & create some freeing steam
& then we start over, on loop (if you can feel what I mean?)
I am the hissing, forming steam, the scream of the camping kettle
increasingly pressured, heated, hurting, jiggled fast
a little part of me happily escaping for just a while
testing my mettle but it doesn’t last!
I am the moving surface of expansion & possibility upon the scalding bath
The thrill of flying away bit-by-bit until I hit
another surface & condense & drip back down into my heaviness, no less
with a slowly growing desire & willingness to try & fly again, be more truly free
probably in vain but we will see
The mixture of pain & balm, the sticky, sweaty palm
The cooling, soothing ice on the banged bump, the engorged lump
healing, freeing until the flames return
Burning with a yearning to begin yet again & play a different game
A desire to quell any burns from the fire & to be the alive flame of life
powerful but not harmful to myself nor full of strife
Oh to be grounded deep like the roots of the oak!
& from here to sun-shimmer & free-flutter expansively up high at the top of the tree
Like the thousand wind-dancing oak leaves & also to be
like the birds who alight on the branches wide & who dive off
into the seemingly endless space of air held in the arms of day or night
where they dare to let go & free flow & fly right up & through the sky, oh my!
How I wish to trade the painfully hot coals, the occasional, soothing splash of water
& trickle of excited, escaping, ephemeral steam for the image of my dream:
the free-flying-bird-refuge oak tree, swaying with the breeze
deeply safe-rooted & spreading out, with a core of steady aliveness glowing majestically.
Speak of words.
Speak of words that will allow.
Speak of words that will allow you to say how you feel.
Speak of words that will allow you to say how you feel in a world that does not understand.
Speak of words that will allow you to say how you feel in a world that does not understand your native tongue.
Meaning of a specified place.
Move from one tongue to another with the fluidity of inspiration and broken barriers.
Exhale terror, inhale calm.
Speak of horrors.
Speak of horrors to be shared.
Speak of horrors to be shared, unburdened, diluted.
Speak of horrors to be shared, unburdened, diluted in a world that does not understand.
Speak of horrors to be shared, unburdened, diluted in a world that does not understand, but wants to.
With sound, with silence.
For we are listening.
With a help of a mental thermal imager
I am looking for the remnants of something alive on the floors of my soul:
Maybe there is something there, stupid enough to have entered the kitchen,
Maybe something has lurked in the hallway, behind the two walls,
Maybe something has felt danger and dashes down the steps,
And something is, maybe, already sneaking around the heat hub in the basement,
It thinks I won’t get it here,
So here I go grilling it up!
I am looking for it, but there’s nothing here.
I wanted to consult with the sky,
Do you remember, there was such a symbol of space and lightness?
When you have nothing to say, no one to ask, just refer to the skies.
Now the chat with the sky is completely different.
Everyday it brings something New.
The Earth, on the contrary, has become a symbol of calmness,
If you go deep enough,
If you entrench,
And willy-nilly hug it.
Have found some phrases in the glove box of my memories.
Staying and wondering, should I take them with me or should I abandon them together with this hunk of junk and thermal imager which is good for nothing.
«the sky became the earth»
«the new sky» 
«there is no me» 
 Adam Hlobus poem «The new sky» Valiancin Akudovič concept and book of essays «There is no me»
Today should be Mother’s Day – it’s my birthday, but the day belongs to my mother.
I sit in a darkened room lit by fading fairy lights and a soft touch-lamp-speaker that gently lullabies an acoustic tune, quietly reverberating through the cool mid-autumn air of this small room. A piece of quiet, sage solitude, my face a reflection: brimful of anticipation from past plays, devising memories for the future.
I had dreamed of eggs: juggling, they cracked in the air moulded by the spinning of time into an eggshell bowl, glazed with smiles.
I do not have the recollection this day 35 years ago, born into the darkness of dawn. 35 years today, here I am, ruminating how destiny’s map of choice and decision converged onto this page of here and now, pen in hand. For a moment,
like an actor, I slip into her shoes her age, my age her moment, my moment and retrace my mother’s footsteps envisioning tears of pride and pain and hope and relief and love.
I awaken from my mother’s dreams. Tears travel down my cheek, a river through the topographic contour lines of my DNA, seeing both past and future in my eyes, in her eyes and we see the world.
I am Refugee
But not what I say
I am seeking refuge
Wherever it may be
A safe place
A roof over my head
A place to rest my weary bones
I’m human first
Regardless of what you think
Yes it stinks
All the hoops I have to jump through
To prove myself
But for what and why
Just hear my words
As I am Human first
In shades of brown,
Your beauty does reside,
A symphony of hues,
Like natures gentle stride.
Your eyes ,
Like rich mahogany,
hold secrets of the world,
beneath their skies.
A warm embrace of cocas grace,
Invites the touch,
A tender, sweet embrace.
Auburn dresses, flowing like a river flow,
In brown’s soft cradle,
A radiant timeless glow