Saturday, August 31, 2013

Being in the now

Why is it in this insane world
that what I do is wrong,
despite the fact that at the time,
it was all there was to do?
Decisions made are cast in stone,
and sit along the path,
I've walked and crawled and run
upon, to find my way at last.
And then to find that what I did,
was not what others want;
that what was good is really bad,
and makes no sense at all.
It's time to laugh and tell myself,
that all is as it was,
because there was no other choice;
don't blame me - blame God!
We do our best, however flawed,
we make our way with doubt,
which rides the hump of sanity,
to drag us from the swamps.
But what is right and what is wrong,
and how much does it matter,
when life is just mere moments pulled,
through time's eternal mangle?
We are all flawed, we are all weak
and yet we are so strong,
to make our way through all that is;
to live what was begun.
What counts in this deep vale
of tears, in this mad, crazy world,
is living love, forgiving self,
and being in the Now!

Friday, August 30, 2013


In seagulled soar surrendering
the soul took flight as birds
and danced through distant heavens,
as life disguised in words.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Small stones

Stone has one and ten and son,
and ton and nest inside,
and also no, a tiny word,
but one which can provide,
a settled world, within the word,
which tumbles on the earth,
reminding all that much is said,
when brevity gives birth.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

I find a feeling

I find a feeling,
fleeting fleeing
filling all my soul
of pain remembered
long ago-
a loss which split.

It touches, tastes
of bitter seed
and sews itself cell deep;
sings a song of old,
wild fear.

Eyes reflected dark and sure,
as child walks away
and carries clasped in firm,
young hand - woman;
future framed.

In her eyes and smile I seek
and call myself to be
the very fullness that she is;
the child, the woman, me.

Monday, August 26, 2013

Ancient heart

The ancient heart of blood red sand
sensed season's slide and felt
the slow parade of life's rough hand,
yet sighed beneath that touch.

She knew of more than we could know
and thought before each breath
which opened to eternity
and led us to our gift.

And yet no sacrifice was made,
she bowed, but only as, she sought
the true communion, mankind
with mother earth.

Within that freshened moment
when worlds were made and lost,
became but  humble servant
of all that Gaia sought.

There was no need for us to know
of what true path she drew,
the only edict ever wrote-
that we must mark her rule.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Henry and Adele

Henry and Adele by Judith Clay

Image: Henry and Adele by Judith Clay.

Moon sighed in sorrowed silence,
adrift on deepening shades,
where doves lament the passing;
and lilting notes are made.

Fluted furrowed feelings rose,
blown through tears of grace,
twixt rivered wash of grievings;
the lilt of love debased.

Mellifluous the music wound,
as watered realms did wind,
and Henry dreamt into the night;
Adele long lost in time.


Grey skirts gleam in liquid folds,
the rain falls fast and sure
as monsoon makes her stately way
across the land red raw.

Her blessings drench,
the seared earth sings,
each leaf is washed and clean,
as in her wake she leaves the gift;
an old earth, newly green.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Wild things

They said the wild things were out there,
in deepest, darkest night,
within the jungled world of form;
but I know that they lie.
The wild things live within us all,
those teeth are bared in dreams,
and in the fears of brightest day,
as well as sleep revealed.
Like any wild and wanton thing,
they ask no more than this;
that they be honoured and embraced,
so you may know yourself.

Friday, August 23, 2013

The floor

Tiles spread silent, judging in their cold application,
a falling through the room of black and bitter white,
dusted with moon's bright and shadowed drifting tears,
held within the spreading arms of birthing, darkling night,
reminder of the mute, dead chill of obligated fears;
that moment when the demons dress again as hellish fright.

Feet, bare, frocked in brutal, unforgiving, slippered ice,
as if they knew the way across the deep and blinded past,
which surged from cellared moments, born in groping pain,
those tendrils of impressioned, helpless, heeding, fully cast,
into the now, which trailed such raw and rooted substance;
what was revealed again in grief's searing, endless draught.

Heart beat, against the drum of sullen, unremitting time,
a calling through the Soul of that which was deceived,
in songs resilient, redolent of  notes so finely crafted to endure,
that nothing but the greatest love could ever bring relief,
and that was woven fast, braided tight against the scalp of hope;
reality, the hard and rigid floor,  her Self, received. 

Thorny walls

Through thorny walls of fears I broke,
to find within the box,
of thought, belief and fears and hope,
which was mine to take.
In embryonic dreams of birth,
I opened up the lid,
and found within, what I had known;
the truth of who I was.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Thoughts on feelings

Feelings do not fit into the shape of words,
for their form is not so easily compressed,
and they demand, in the very nature of their being,
to be heard and seen exactly as they are,
and in the doing, are honoured as expressions,
of the best and worst of all that we may be.

It's hard sometimes to say what you feel,
to put it all into words.
it's hard sometimes to know what you feel-
and then words are often irrelevant.
feelings have their own language
but we are not really comfortable
with the way they speak.
we find them coarse and crude
and not at all the sort that one admits
to having as an acquaintance-
let alone a friend.
it's a pity really because when you come down to it,
feelings are probably
the only true friends we have.
Who else will tell you exactly
who and what you are?
Who else has the courage to say you are wrong,
change yourself?
Who else has the strength to praise and curse
and comfort you?
In the same breath.
If we listened to our feelings more often
we might learn some respect for them
and in the process,
learn to really like ourselves.
After all, a friend is someone who knows
your faults and likes you anyway.
There's no way you can hide yourself
from your feelings. They know the worst
because they are the worst.
But if you let them they will like you anyway,
because they are also the best that you are.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013


The mark is made in birthing,
that moment of release,
when soul takes on its costume;
astrology decrees.

This brand which we are given,
the flavour of our being,
created in the world beyond
and worn as life revealed.

This nature we inherit,
was chosen through our will,
and guided by the angels;
our destiny distilled.

It is eternal imprint,
to shape us for this place,
and form our world material;
that god may know our name.
BRAND (noun)
1a : a charred piece of wood
  b : firebrand
  c : something (as lightning) that resembles a firebrand
2: sword
3a (1) : a mark made by burning with a hot iron to attest manufacture or quality or to designate ownership 
     (2) : a printed mark made for similar purposes : trademark
  b (1) : a mark put on criminals with a hot iron 

     (2) : a mark of disgrace : stigma <the brand of poverty> - See more at:

BRAND (noun)
1a : a charred piece of wood
  b : firebrand
  c : something (as lightning) that resembles a firebrand
2: sword
3a (1) : a mark made by burning with a hot iron to attest manufacture or quality or to designate ownership 
     (2) : a printed mark made for similar purposes : trademark
  b (1) : a mark put on criminals with a hot iron 

     (2) : a mark of disgrace : stigma <the brand of poverty> - See more at:


The Ego takes the driver's seat
in this material world,
and moves the vehicle of Self,
toward its distant goals.

But sitting by the Ego's side,
is Soul, in wise support,
to offer words of wisdom;
to keep us on our course.

We do not have to listen,
to what Soul has to say,
but when the Ego feels secure;
that is the only way.

When both are brought together,
the way might still be hard,
but all will be accomplished;
and Self is truly found.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013


It is a natural instinct,
when feelings rise within,
which make us feel uncomfortable,
that we demand to know,
just why it is we feel this way,
an answer now and sure,
which takes the blame to others,
is that on which we call.

In looking out upon the world,
to find a hook nearby,
on which a story can be hung,
which lets us stand aside,
from doing all the inner work,
the feelings would reveal;
from changing something in ourselves,
that we may truly heal.

It's easier to hang it all,
out there, away from us,
on person, place or circumstance,
than take it on ourselves,
of being full responsible,
and holding to account,
the only one who makes our world,
and all which comes to us.

As long as we can blame someone,
or some thing in our lives,
then we can hold our fragile world,
and selves as we would be,
despite the fact that there's no truth,
or deep reality; just stories
we will tell ourselves
of who we might have been.

Monday, August 19, 2013

Magpie's morning song

The liquid crystal carol
of magpies' morning song,
the fresh, wet crisp of eucalypt,
the grey, green haze of dawn.
it touches me, envelops me
and speaks of moments born,
which make the day,
prepare the way
for all that will be done.

My mother and I

My mother and I both smash
our words, as we try to speak,
pressed close against
our windowed worlds.
We see each other clearly,
but each is barely heard.
No-one is prepared
to break the glass.
My head aches
from, the fog of thoughts
which stream and melt
and fall; a mist across our vision
no message passed at all.
And still,
my mother and I both smash
our words as we try to speak.

Sunday, August 18, 2013


In sacred, pure accounting,
archetypal and profound,
does number lay foundation;
creates eternal ground.
From zero to infinity,
above, beyond, below,
these energies are waiting,
their mysteries to know.
Universal building blocks,
they gather and array,
to hold creation's destiny;
their part in life to play.
Solo, sets and synthesis,
they stand beneath it all,
vibrations pure expression;
god's sure harmonic call.


The grief is never done
when life takes childish hearts
and flays them, shredded bare,
leaves them lost, alone.
The memories are written
deep in scars which will not
heal when trust is lost
in children's tears;
duplicity revealed.


The mother breathed herself to being,
silent by the shore and sighed the time,
a new beginning - life for evermore.

She watched with patience at the birth
of other worlds which grew,
within, without and by her side;
life forever new.

Her thoughts would shape eternity
and raise it to the sun,
with homage paid she gave the gift
of life - our world begun.


Thursday, August 15, 2013

There is a silent place

There is a silent place
so hard to find
within the harsh black city walls
it creeps, and nestles, cowers
just a little to the side, refusing
to give way and yet in careful watch
that borders do not blur nor merge
too far so self is lost
and distances prevail.
It is a time which takes itself
and stands, upright, full glory
called to hand, to show the way
that others follow still
and know that Logos leads
and all is well.

Art of love

Will bone beware the art of love,
in filaments of charge, which call
in sticky pearls of dream;
as air knocks light as art?
When skin and heart are tantalised,
the body gathers mind,
and crawls into the lover’s cell,
where life is re-defined.

Autumn days

Misted red and chill-kissed gold,
Autumn's silent stare
with patient watch and fingers
stretched, reveals the heart laid bare.

Undressed, full-stripped before the world,
all honours, glory paid, in tribute
to the darkening lord
who comes to take her place.

Creeping edge of cold's soft breath-
winter's crooning call, with one last
look and skirts kicked free
she drifts again to death.

Life's print

Life's print is placed upon the face
of every flower and field
and written into blood and bone;
the unseen signature.

Life's mark is writ upon the soul
of every creature born
and links us all for time to come;
our legacy ensured.

Life's message meets with empty minds
and slow gaze surveying dreams,
a blink or two, the moment lost;
with nothing ever seen.


Wednesday, August 14, 2013


The strings of love did play without material hand,
fingered lightly, plucked as if they knew,
phantasms ghostly and in dubious, ancient shape,
were standing, waiting, holding to some hidden plan,
that took with slender, sure, musician's touch the heart,
and struck the notes mysterious and pure; to truth create.

In revelation Soul did write the chords divine,
this rite of secrecy and worship so decreed,
which echoed through the halls of hallowed dreams,
initiates in lips compressed, soft, closed and full defined,
that sacred words will whisper in love's waiting, open ears,
ensuring world becomes so much more than it had ever been.

For Eros in the service of the law decreed,
does master us and all that we would have inspired,
as occupation, trade and service to the cause of purity,
he crafts, with closet hands the form which will be soon revealed,
holds the beating orb sublime; the crucible which bubbles endlessly,
in the doing, weaves in mystery, ephemeral threads twixt you and me.


Love's close cords in cobweb cling
throughout my very world,
sheer-shimmering, they spread their threads
to clothe my shivering soul

They weave the shawl which sheathes my fear
and warms my shuddering heart
and bids me still, to know again
love will not leave me hurt.

This cloth which wraps reality
in fulsome folds of warmth,
transforms the world eternally
and keeps me safe and sure.

This flimsy guard against the world,
this cloak of fragile weave
can seem mere wisp of nothingness;
its strength so barely seen.

The power of love, this shielding sheet
intangible may seem and yet it proves
impregnable, holds fast
and will not yield.

This gossamer which gowns me round
and decorates my days,
comes from within and from without
and from Soul's very grace.

It's strength is greatest when I stretch
and take the ethereal threads,
to knit a garment glorious;
God's armour unto death.

I am

I am just this and more than this
and much, much else besides.
I am the sum of all my parts;
the total me resides.
And yet I offer bits of me
when to the world I turn
and show mere shadow of my soul
when others seek to learn.
In truth this separation comes
without I bid it so -
I am divided, handed out,
that no-one else may know.
It's only in that silent place
with love's bright, mirrored walls
that I can find my real self;
totality clear calls.
And then I see, reflected clear,
the story which has grown
to be the full, God-given me,
her face so rarely shown.
I wish that I could take you there
that you may truly see
and know your own reflection
lives within the core of me.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Like and love

I don't like you,
and I wish I did,
because it would
be easier, and I
would feel less
guilty because
the should word
is in there. And
yet I know that
there are people
in our lives whom
we will always
love, but sometimes,
perhaps for short
or long times, we
do not like them
because of who
they have become
and because of
what they do, and,
really, that is okay,
and Love has more
than enough wriggle
room to cope with
that for as long
as it may last. I
just wish I believed
myself more than
I do, or can, or will,
so that the guilt
would go away.
But perhaps that
is the reason for guilt,
the push to remember
that even in the absence
of Like, we can always
choose to Love.


He felt responsible for her happiness,
he said, as if he believed that it was his
job to make someone else happy just
by doing things, or being something than
other himself,

as if she had a right to
demand that he serve her in this way,
and that he, God-like, could somehow
put to rights everything that was wrong,
or at least, everything that she deemed
to be wrong, no matter how right it might
appear to him and to others looking on,
whenever and however it appeared; as if,
whatever life brought which she did
not like, could be turned around by him,
must be turned around by him, transformed,
set in accordance with her needs and desires,
and forever tuned

to prevent the slightest
discord, or upset, or lack of happiness to
enter into her being, or her life, or, God
forbid, her consciousness, which was, no
doubt, still there, somewhere; clever really,
for that meant, from the moment that he
accepted the impossible task, that everything,
would always be his fault and the future held
eternal promise, like Sisyphus rolling his stone,
uphill every night, only to have it roll back
down again by morning,

the goal would never
be achieved, and the elusive pursuit of her
happiness, would keep him busy to the end
of his days and long past, the end of his integrity,
his independence, his sanity and his truth.

NB: He and She and her and him can of course be swapped. This is not particular to either sex but exists in both in some relationships.

The Goddess waits

The Goddess waits with patient smile
for tides to turn and then
she draws the homage duly meant,
transforms the world of men.

Her time is now, her day is when,
her ages past recall, this ancient
crone and guileless maid who
knows before we know.

She has the duty to perform
and non can stop the flow,
of her timeless thoroughness-
creation come to now.

Her role is written placed upon,
the ether, marked and full
for it to be eternal shown
that woman also rules.

I feel her power in me now
and know where she has been
and still she guides my inner eyes
and bids me ever dream.


There was that time of reckoning recalled,
when you would claim I did not grasp the facts,
and yet it was so clear to me - like day;
the image vivid of the words and acts.

You spoke of love and caring carefully,
and yet in demonstration said much more,
revealed the opposite of what you claimed;
left marks upon my soul - pure weeping sores.

In grasping to the shreds of hope I gave,
myself into your hands and you displayed,
a Self so cavalier and cruel that none believed,
the stories that I told of heart betrayed.

There was no more that I could ever do,
but hold my truth so closely to my mind,
and tell myself that none could understand;
and others, like yourself, were truly blind. 

Within that silence of abandoned self,
I found that letting go brought great relief,
and holding on was what brought utter pain;
surrender led the way to inner peace.

GRASP (verb)

: to take or seize eagerly
: to clasp or embrace especially with the fingers or arms
- See more at:

GRASP (verb)

: to take or seize eagerly
: to clasp or embrace especially with the fingers or arms
- See more at:

GRASP (verb)

: to take or seize eagerly
: to clasp or embrace especially with the fingers or arms
- See more at:

GRASP (verb)

: to take or seize eagerly
: to clasp or embrace especially with the fingers or arms
- See more at:

GRASP (verb)

: to take or seize eagerly
: to clasp or embrace especially with the fingers or arms
- See more at:


It is loss which dismembers us,
severs head from body in the cave,
fillets flesh and scrapes it from the bones,
rips out guts and hearts to be consumed,
reminds us, in the agony, of why we are
called to become, more than we have been.

As each eye sits, watchless, at the side,
and limbs are jointed and torn apart,
so is the Self reduced to small, quiet pieces,
and the task of resurrection, can, in time begin,
in darkness, and in suffering which is not believed;
birth can be brought from the very gobs of life.

As hook and knife and anvil do their work,
so what was known is dissected, pulverised
upon the hard, unforgiving, breathing stone,
and blood runs, freely, lightly into crevices and cracks,
pouring hope and vision into that which was cold and dead;
sacrificing in ironic clench, all that was once called truth.

Distant songs will drive the work of restoration,
to sing through notes sublime and cellular,
as destiny draws itself from dregs and liquid dross,
and daemons craft with small, fine hands new weavings,
which connect, what was, to what must be and ancient dreaming;
initiation will, in time, repeat, and circling, fall complete. 

Monday, August 12, 2013

Bush ballad

Mallee seared in distance,
horse made sullen steps,
day hung hot and brutal;
cattle lost and spread. 

The rider drawn as image,
dark, leathered skin not seen,
arm high to shade his vision;
a world devoid of green.

In snap and drying rustle,
twig, branch and lifeless scrub,
movement in a song of death;
drought did slowly suck.

Heat held shimmered court,
beat of rising day,
where crucible confronted;
mortality displayed.

Inhaling slow and steady,
inferno's raging breath,
bush and man became as one;
nothing else was left.

NB: Mallee is a bush/tree which survives  well in desert/outback situations. It also burns brilliantly so the logs are great for open fires. Scrub is the name for dry, outback - sparse, bushy plants but can also be used for woody areas or country. Bush is the Australian name for the country, outback, forest - it can be desert or it can be lush.

Spring sown seeds

Spring sown seeds in silent shower,
skip past rolling day, touching wings
as new-born dreams carry them away.
Drawing breath and flinging free
they cling to future's tail
and ride the currents carelessly
from tree to fertile grave.


Silence slipped in sensual slide,
like waves across the sand,
with sound so surely full denied,
that senses could expand.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

The Fool


The earth threw rocky arms into the sea,
in landscape wild and unfulfilled,
the wind a breath to thread through shadow;
she stood barefoot, no sense of any fear.

Embraced by tufts of sullen grass the bread,
lay listless next to her discarded shoes,
her mind devoid of any hope or plans;
her head drawn back to taste the salt of air.

If life is just through gravity maintained,
then it sends justice in eternal ways,
so when we leap, like fools from bitter cliff,
we fly like angels into better days.


In Africa there is nothing unusual about losing light,
for there are few gaurantees of anything,
let alone electricity, and always, nearby, there will
be candles, matches and sometimes, a torch.

For those who are fortunate there will also be batteries,
an inverter, or even a generator, so the times without
power, are short, and barely noticed and the darkness
is rarely allowed to shoulder its way into life.

But when there is no backup, nothing on which to rely,
then, in the sheltered, flickering dance of flames,
can be seen the shadows and shapes of a world ignored;
a place where things are not clearly defined, or even real.

In the guttering swallows of burning, incandescent wax,
time falls silent, sighs, drapes itself on unseen floors,
and realms of poignant vision draw themselves mute;
mind summons imagination to full and unexpected heights.

The walls between the known and unknown stretch,
grow thin, sheer like skin pulled slowly paper thin,
until with breath-held, blurred breadth of reaching vision,
it snaps; light restored, in brutal, blazing conquest yet again.


Through retinal reflection mind dictates,
what image we will find and draw as true,
in order that the world beyond makes sense;
calls meaning, from that which is obscure.

There is no right or wrong in how we see,
just ways of pulling line and form to shape,
and finding purpose in all that we dream;
with life made manifest as source creates.


Saying good buy to Summer

Shadows shorn from shouldered shapes declining,
drawn from rested elbows of the turning path,
draped across the lap of listless sun and sorrowed earth,
casting darkness, mottled, through reflected light,
to hold the image constant, drifting, dappled shades,
which lead the way to distant lure and dreaming sight.

Potential held within the arms of curving branch,
that moment on the road to hope - horizon's call,
where what lies far beyond does promise more it seems,
and yet, is harsh reflected, burning silent on the dusty road,
in contrast sharp and rigid, captured in the glare, unsheltered,
sweltered, aching in unforgiving vision, as freedom is bestowed.

Saturday, August 10, 2013


Symbol of empowerment,
first tooth reveals age
of independence, physical;
then, when time decrees,
second  teething, initiates
greater understanding,
beyond material and
visceral,  out of diffuse
awareness and into realms
of focused consciousness.