Dark Moon Rising

Dark Moon Rising - Part I

The time has come
The end is nigh
Come sweet magic
Fly away, fly..

All the eggs are leaving their basket
Carry me away in a wicker casket
Float me gently down the stream
Merrily, merrily, this is no dream

The death of fertility comes with a sigh
No more twinkles in their fathers' eyes
And I who once was so forgiving
Bid adieu to the Queendom of Living

My grandmother's eggs and her mothers' too
Carried my patterns in prints of deep blue
She was no sucker, would take no nonsense
And yet, and yet .. the stories she told us...

In the womb the children come and go
We searched for them high and sought them low
Knew all the while that the schedule was restricted
Only those in the know, knew how to read it.
We looked to the stars and prayed for a reason
Cried for the moon, her bindings to loosen.
We hoped for a miracle, paid cash for a glimmer
Should we turn up the heat or just let it simmer?

In the womb the children come and go
We seek them high, we feel so low
My children's voices, our children's songs
Reverberate and echo through constellations.
Fiery lights that once burned bright
Can no longer hope to draw the night
And yet, I still hear their distant voice
Our cosmic ties leave me with no choice.

Now Luna turns her face from me
And I'm falling, dragged down to my knees
Pleading for another chance, just one
Before this bloody moon is gone.
An ache ripples dread around my heart
Pulls at the strings, rips soul apart
Is there any way I can have just a little more time?
Can the dream of three ever truly be mine?

My body pushes away from the spine
Pulls at the tendons and bindings divine
Tears flesh as tears fall in silent refrain
How will I ever feel whole again?
Red heat abounds, makes a deafening roar
Knows that the future can be no more
What we imagined and hoped it to be
Three and four magpies have flown from the tree.

A Harmless Lullaby

I can’t get out of bed she says,
I’m scared of Mannequin.

Mannequin sighs from ‘neath red wool hat
which Daddy placed on top
to hide the two neck bolts
that sometimes look like eyes.

At night-time whilst she sleeps soft
Mannequin comes to life
her fixed form glows
under moon enchanted,
bends and dips,
her one leg glides
‘cross bedroom floor,
bags sway like arms
in time to starry chorus
a constellation of notes work fire on dark skies
as Mannequin’s song sings soft -


‘Sleep soundly little one
There is no need to fear me
When this night is done dear one
Those night dreams will prove only
Flights of pure fancy little one
An imaginative journey
And when the moon is gone dear one
You’ll think nothing of me
A tall, silent mannequin
Single leg and no real arms
But I will watch over you little one
And keep you safe from harm.’

#VSS365 #VSSPoem 7thFeb2020

Coming Home From Paris...

The constrictions of Twitter have so far proved a wonderful challenge for my usually verbose impulses and I appreciate the regular opportunity to restrain the avalanche of words that tends to pour out when I sit down to write, or, at least, to hone that avalanche into a snowball without losing too much potency. 

Coming Home From Paris On The Eurostar is one of three micropoems I wrote for a submission in September. The constraints here were a limit of 11 lines (excluding title) - more substantial than Twitter's 280 character perimeter but still far shorter than most of my work. 

Thanks to Twitter I've learned that poetic boundaries can be fun though I'm not sure I'll be attempting a haiku anytime soon!

Coming home from Paris on the Eurostar
She sleeps, lips softly pouted,
cheeks ablaze with solar kisses
finest raven feathered lashes pour from lids
heavy with travel and late summer nights.
Golden mocha skin, loose untroubled arms crossed
fingers rest quietly, sated as freshly weaned bairns.
Her father’s hands wide, roomy, safe home-making arms
hold tight her dreams against his beating chest.
Drowsy warm aroma floats across charcoal slate -
her and him entwined, sprawling nonchalance disguising
complex root combinations, no beginning, no end.

The Papered Cracks

What is this pounding in my chest?
This hollowed out container, emptied
scoop by scoop; no vanilla tones here

only bitter spices, aniseed rising,
cinnamon smothering the airways,
coating sugar with lime.

Plates and bowls crashing heavily,
cupboard doors slammed shut too tight -
tightness in my chest implodes as

kitchen noise reverberates through the skull,
landmines collapse the heart’s will to live -
undermined, undernourished, underfed.

A repetition of epic proportions -
no portion too large to share.
Colour drains from all our faces.

Time stood still whilst pain kept falling,
washing away all sense of truth
leaving nothing but fear, catastrophised

upon the table, wooden boards laid
plank to plate - a guest house where
no-one wants to stay. Alone

in corners facing inwards, the child,
unhappy seeks redemption from the walls.
The papered cracks scream for attention

and a kindness that seems so obscure,
so impossible to reach, but I can see
it disappearing around each bend

and I follow, hopeful, scared but hope
will always be my friend even when
I can no longer feel his bones, fragile

pieces of him and me and him and them
ground down by the pressure cooker
releasing steam in erratic rhythms,

puffing and screeching her requirements,
her disappointments and regrets. Still
heaping overcooked piles of veg, steaming

hot as fire to burn your tongue -
stop the words from forming, throwing
us off our game. Whose turn is it now?

Biting down on bloody lips, whispered
words of attempted comfort evaporating
in the frosty air. Knives cutting

every string of emotion, all connections
severed at the nub, just below the bud -
there will be no flowering this year again,

no seasoning on this scorched flesh, dry
almost tasteless on the tongue and
who’s got yours now? So quiet,

tiptoeing over broken milk and spilled shells,
crunching precariously between the highs
and the oh, so low lows of teatime.

We Are Our Own Children

Right now, I am reading an astoundingly accurate and insightful analysis of the dysfunctinal but perhaps necessary parent/adult-child relationship in this extract from an article in the wonderful quarterly magazine, Fathers.

The extract is written as one paragraph but I've split it into three to highlight and reflect on three distinct and integrated concepts that resonate emphatically with me.

From: Zbyszek Milunski, interview by Jacek Santorski; Fathers Quarterly, pilot issue 2015; www.fathersquarterly.com
"I once read a quote from an African healer who claimed that we ourselves are the place where our ancestors can realize what they have done, and thus become a positive force for the future. I think that kind of consciousness is an extremely important part of the intergenerational process, since most of us sever our ties with our parents because we're critical of them. 
Perhaps that stage is a necessary part of our culture if we want it to develop. but I think that there comes a time when you have to mature enough to accept your parent, be it your mother or your father. They are our co-constituents, which means that if we're too critical of one of them, then we're also too critical of ourselves, which hampers our development.
There comes a time in your adult live [sic] when you just have to cut your parents some slack and let them be themselves. That's an important change, because the way it usually works is that we unconsciously treat ourselves the way we were treated as children. It's often the case that an adult who hates his parent treats both himself and his parent the way he was treated as a child..."

1) The idea of inter-generational shared suffering and thus how healing oneself can simultaneously heal all sorts of past suffering and pain.

2) I have spent most of my life criticising my parents and it's only been in recent years that I realised it was myself I was judging more than them. After all, judging others makes no difference whatsoever to the offending behaviour. Realising and observing the magnitude and harshness of one's self criticism is enlightening and full of sadness, particularly when one has their own child and couldn't imagine treating their own offspring with anything but love and kindness. After all, we are our own children and would do well if we treated ourselves with the respect, admiration and care that we lavish (or at least intend to lavish) on our own dear children.

3) Going through the stages of realising my harsh critique of my parents was unjust and often unfounded in truth; making the space to forgive them and myself whilst realising there is no real need for forgiveness as we all simply do the best we can with what we are given; acknowledging that there is no need or call for blame, shame and guilt in a world where life happens the way it will happen often quite regardless of our desires, hopes and actions, I came to see that the way I treat and value my self is paramount if I am to grow and develop in the wise and loving way I long to. 

Rache x