Poetry

Woman

Wade me in the waters of sensuality,

sweet ocean of mine.

Show me the girl that I am.

Call to me the woman that rises

within.

woman on holding her head while standing on body of water
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Life

Once Upon A Lifetime Past

I couldn’t tell you how old I was. Seven or eight, maybe. However old I was, though, I was old enough to know what I believed. And what I absolutely did not believe was that my Mum had been killed by Jack the Ripper in a past life, like her meditation session had seemingly ‘revealed’. Ridiculous. Impossible. Absurd.

But I’ll get back to Jack a little later, shall I?

First: some background.

As I’ve mentioned in some of my earlier posts, I was a highly sensitive child. A soft little muffin, and a deep one at that. But what I also seemed to be was an ‘old soul’, and none of the adults in my life ever were quite able to explain how that part of me came about.

The ‘old soul-ness’ kept popping up all the way through my teenage years and manifested in all sorts of different ways. Perhaps one of the most profound came in the form of a monologue I performed in the year eleven drama class play. It was the science teacher who mentioned it. He said—in fact, his whole entire body said— it was surely impossible for a sixteen-year-old to really know the feeling of ‘glass grinding in my spirit.’

‘How did you know?’ he asked, his eyes far more serious now than they had been when he explained to me that a Bunsen burner works best when it’s actually switched on.

‘Umm. I’m not sure,’ I said, slightly alarmed by the intensity of his usually playful eyes. It was an odd thing, I agreed, and honestly, I didn’t know where the depth of my performance had come from. But after seeing those eyes of his change so drastically…part of me wondered.

And part of me has wondered ever since.

So let’s get back to Jack then, shall we, and how he very rudely slaughtered my Mother once upon a lifetime’s past. Because it sounds bloody ridiculous, doesn’t it? Sounds impossible and absolutely, entirely absurd.

Well…yes. It does.

But I have to tell you, I’m not so sure anymore. As a matter of fact, I have been very seriously rethinking the nature of just about everything in this old universe of ours. And I’m thinking, now, that maybe—just very slightly maybe—my Mum might have been right about Jack.

What if the unexplainable really could be explained by remembering further back in time? What if the uncanny childhood wisdom that so many young children seem to possess, actually does come from someplace they have actually been before? Like…another life, perhaps?

Now wouldn’t that be something else.

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A Blog a Day in May

A Perfect New Day

I’ve fallen into a bramble of life’s loose ends.

A body, a mind, a heart—

weary,

and in a tumble

of the most beautiful ugly day.

Come find me

when my words are a song,

once again.

Come meet me at the rise

of a perfect

new

day.

(Hello, you lot. 🙂 I just wanted to take a moment to break the fourth wall and say: I’ve so adored meeting you all here, every day in May. You are one of my happiest reasons. Thanks for being such a lovely part of this perfect new day. xx Brooke)

girl standing on grass field facing trees
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A Blog a Day in May

Not Like The Others

There is a little girl

in me

who is trying to be

a big kid

just like the others.

Just like the others.

One day,

I think,

she’ll learn to be

happy

with just ‘being me.’

However different.

However ‘not like the others.’

green manicure art close up photo
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Poetry

How To Be Good

It’s funny

isn’t it

that the secret to becoming

a good Mum

a good wife

a good friend

a good human,

is to realise that

actually

there is no good or bad

anything.

Because what’s good

to her

and her

and him

may be absolute

nonsense

to the one who truly

believes

they know.

pexels-photo-459800

Poetry

The Ocean of Me

I close my eyes

and the warm wind becomes my breath.

This wind—

it whispers into the ocean of me, into the dark

of my waters, deep.

It hands me the calm of the moon,

and it grants me the strength of the sky.

This wind—

this warm, lovely wind.

It reminds me that sometimes

life is best left as a question

without an answer.

It reminds me that

it’s okay to let the dark water rise,

sometimes.

body of water across sunset
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Poetry

Imperfectly Me

This honest girl.

This kind girl.

This sweet girl.

This loving, gentle, patient girl.

She has been this girl forever.

This perfect human girl—how delightful she is.

How loved and cherished and needed, she is.

But.

If she is good, she is also bad.

If she is kind, she is also cruel.

She is every part of her whole.

Every beautifully broken part.

Imperfectly perfect.

Imperfectly me.

blue red and yellow chalk
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