A cage without bars is still a cage
A prison without a door still a prison.
A lock with a key stays locked,
when open eyes see but don’t perceive.

A trap on a clear road remains a trap.
A loosened rope remains bound tight.
A maze perplexing even with a map
with an open mind recognising only old paths.

See Me

There is a song, a melody my heart plays.

If you can hear it, if you can comprehend it,
then you will know me.

There is a story, a fable my mind creates.
If you can read it, if it speaks to your
then you will recognise me.

There is a poem, a rhyme that my lips whisper.
If you can understand it, know it’s meaning
then you will hold me.

There is endless treasure, riches that is in me.
If you can see, understand, know it true value,
then my soul will enfold you.

If not, beloved stranger,
My song, my story, my poem
goes on.
Reaching out with unseen hands to the ones that will.

The River

Down the centre of the borderlands, in the no mans land between what we believe we want and what we truly desire, runs a river.

It’s a river of revelation of purification and discernment, in which everything without a true anchor will be swept away into oblivion.

Its waters softly whispers deception, bringing confusing, testing the strength and the clarity of our professed and heartfelt needs.

Sending torrents of water to engulf us as we cling to the anchors of our so-called hopes and dreams, the things we believe might sustain us.

When waters turn so cold that it burns our skin like a fire, shooting pain into our desperate fingers as we cling onto the securities we built.

In the moment when relief comes, believing it is all done and tested, the demons of our worst fears attack from the dark depths below.

In the pain and exhaustion, we release, we let go but are held as if by a supernatural force, the anchor of our true unburdened beautiful selves.


What is hope if it is not the creative force of the universe contained within a seed.

What is the power of creation if not a single thought contained in the artist mind.

What is love if not the simple acts of kindness extended in complete unawareness?

What is joy but the act of recognising the simplistic wonder of being alive in the moment.

What is gratitude if it is not seeing the beautiful mosaic of life being build one moment at a time.


In the pale moonlight of my melancholy I walk these shores.

Where the waves of your beautiful mind crashes over my soul.

Turning dark sand into sparkling diamonds dancing in the night.

Your words a twirling mist, creating shapes and streaks of joy.

I could easily wrap myself up and disappear in this cloak of peace.

Let the ocean that is you throw itself over me and hide me from myself.


In the words of my ‘hello’, you can hear the whispers of my ‘goodbye’.
In the tenderness of my embrace hides the sadness of my absence.
In the kind look in my eyes, you see the reflections of another place.

In the act of my unpacking hides the clues of my parting.
My settling down has all the trademarks of restlessness.
My tomorrows are occupied with the landmines of maybe.

The Candle

In a small room, in an abandoned farm house, deep in the heart of Africa, burns a candle.

An ancient candle of memories, drawing me back to that time, that place, that me, with invisible hands.

I must blow out this candle. This dark candle that’s dripping its sticky wax into my present life.

Making me see nothing of the now but only the shadows of the past its menacing light is casting.

I will light a new candle, in the here, the now, this joy, this life, this me to guide me to tomorrow.