A Calling Home

come back to me.


draped over my heart

curl in my belly

tingle in my toes


cupboard-born boy

so loving




little girl

with muck on your face



all of you – return!


we have never been whole.

imagine dancing together

not as shadows

but as one.

for this place is yours

you are ever-welcome

you are loved.

Late bloomer

Late Bloomer

I live with immense shame about what my upbringing, PTSD, institutionalisation and heavy sedation during my teen years, and finally what my neurological disability has taken from me. All the stolen opportunities.

When this new tiny seedling I’m trying desperately to nurture, is spat on, trampled, run roughshod over….

by people who have not lived my life – have not walked in my shoes….


often times,

I feel like grinding it into the dirt myself.

Finishing it off.

How dare I have even dreamed

of a little something.

Two cats and a delivery truck

from the perspective

of our two, housebound cats

the idling truck

yeilds not a delivery

but an excitement of groceries.

the familiar stranger

stands at our door –

darting feline eyes

coiled haunches

await a chance

to spring toward escape.

failing that,

the plastic bags

are alive with fascinating sound

and filled with promise;

perhaps a treat for cats themselves

or something else

that can be made theirs

when nobody is looking

We sat to meditate

mother and unwilling daughter.

an anger arose

when you yawned


when you scratched

raspy skin.

I desired to hold you

physically lunge over and keep you still.

hot anger.


fear as to madness.


I want you to be me

but a better version of me.

a sweeter voiced

sweeter faced

sweeter life-d


for whose own good?

mud settles.

once more,

skin rasps.

an inward smile.



it’s all you.

it’s all you,

allowing me to see

where I am caught.

at the sound of the bell:

“you don’t have to do this anymore.

no problem”

smiling daughter

moves on into her own day.

I sit with new awareness