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Morning rolls around
and jolts me awake.
My eyes open wide with
the first movements I make.

This twilight twinkle
and my lucid mind
are the perfect recipe
for creativity unconfined.

Guess who else is awake?
The reptilian brain.
The one who mongers fear,
anxiety and pain.

He yelps “Aha!
Now’s the time to attack,
when she’s most susceptible
to me talking smack.”

This is when he whispers,
so faintly, so low,
all my unfounded worries
that life has bestowed.

He’s done this for decades.
And had me gripped for quite long.
But now I easily recognise
his stench and looped song.

My line of defence
against his useless pleads
is now a simple line
that shines light on my needs.

“First things first”.

I will listen to your worries
but first things first:
what needs attending to
is my bodily thirst.

I get up and quench
the drought of the night,
drink a glass full of water
and soak up the daylight.

“But what about this,
and how about that??”
he says now more loudly
right off the bat.

It will be attended to…
but first things first:

The music.
The movement.
The love-making.
The life unrehearsed.

At this point of the morning
he may still twitch and complain.
It’s already too late,
the dragons are slain.

I have done my part,
I’ve taken care of me.
Now I’m more firmly rooted
in who I want to be.

I can hear you out now,
my reptilian friend,
and to your woes and fears
I can duly tend.

But, alas, he’s curled up asleep
in a slumberous ball.
I guess his “urgent” matters
were not pressing after all.

This pen has been quiet
for months now on end
because of errands to tend to
and events to attend.

Creativity took a back seat
while productivity galloped ahead,
and slowly a grim cloud
took residence overhead.

Though I was doing “the things”,
my spark was dimmed low.
There was no hop in my step
and no creations to show.

What was a punch in the gut
was that it was noticed by none.
Not a single soul asked
“when is your next poem done?”.

As long as I seem busy
people assume that I’m fine.
Not inquiring about the soul,
whether it’s dusty or it shines.

I know were all “busy”
and our shoulders carry tonnes,
but can we please keep an eye out
for the spark of our loved ones?

The responsibility is ours alone
to light our own spark,
but what helps propel us forward
is feeling a hand in the dark.

Stop to look at your loved one:
have they stopped playing guitar?
Dropped their love for gardening
for no reason at all?

Make them feel seen
and let them know they are more
than the results they bring in
and the tasks they endure.

You don’t need to do much
just tap into your silly.
Bring out the lover, the joker,
the adventurous hillbilly.

Be a reminder, that’s all,
of how enchanting life can be.
They will do the rest themselves
to bring back the oomph and the glee.

We’ve all been there before,
in the eternal dance
of lovers and couples
who don’t leave things to chance.

One chases, one flees,
then for a moment they stop,
really see each other
and the stories they drop.

In that candid moment,
so precious, so raw,
the icebergs between then
crumble and thaw.

In that moment of ceasefire
there are no rights and no wrongs,
just one who craves silence
and one who wants to belong.

What consoles the chaser
is a warm touch or snuggle,
while for the fleer that feels
like a chore or a struggle.

The fleer keeps others
at arm’s length, at best,
because safety and space
is what their soul needs to rest.

Can this unlikely duo
(dare we dream) thrive?
I give a wholehearted YES,
as long as love is alive.

What reshapes this chase
into a consensual stroll
is doing work on ourselves,
more precisely – our trolls.

With awareness, acceptance
and the freedom to choose,
change can reshift our lives –
we really have nothing to lose.

By walking out of old shells
and growing new wings,
fear doesn’t run our relations
or pull the damn strings.

I don’t know about you,
but I want to see
how it feels to love
with a chest open and free.

Life is so damn fleeting,
so short it blows my mind.
There is no way I won’t try
to make it exceptionally kind.

Can we leave fear at the door, please?
Leave your bags and come in.
I promise to keep this a safe space
in which we’re heard and we’re seen.

Come on in.

I stir awake from a dream
and let out a sigh.
A new day arrived
to kiss the old one goodbye.

The room is painted blue
from the shy-faced sun
that hasn’t yet fully emerged
to say the day has begun.

I slip off the covers
and to the window I tip-toe
and the sight that I see
gives my soul an inner glow.

A fog has covered the city
with a soft cotton touch,
dampening all that it reaches,
not leaving out much.

Everything turns more quiet,
more gentle, more slow.
It is the more feeble cousin
of our winter friend – snow.

So I return under the covers,
still on the balls of my feet,
to savour the stillness
before the hustle I meet.

For now, just for a moment,
everything is shhh and hush hush
and here my soul can dangle
without needing to rush.

How to recreate this quality
even when of fog the blanket
is lifted and dispersed
making way for life’s banquet?

I will not wait for the fog
to gift me this state.
I savour it now
before it’s too late.

I let it sink into my bones
to embody it fully,
so that I can reach it at will
when I am again “in a hurry”.

Come again soon, my misty mistress.

I am walking a thin line,
the light’s not quite bright
and my surroundings are unclear
in this blurry twilight.

I make careful footsteps
as I tread onwards and up,
but I honestly can’t tell
if my terrain will buckle or not.

I know I’m going upwards,
of that I have proof
as the pebbles roll downwards
under my steps gone aloof.

But what am I treading on?
Is it a precipice or a ledge?
My churning gut tells me
it might just be my growth’s edge.

You know what I’m speaking of:
it’s that wobble-inducing place
of dangerous opportunities
that are so daunting to face.

But here is my question,
the one that jolts me awake:
is what I’m feeling truly growth
or a cloaked up mistake?

As I make my decisions
and course my path day by day,
I get lightheaded and dizzy,
a vertigo of dismay.

Is the unease that I feel
me growing out of my shell?
Or fear of the splatter
I remember from when I last fell?

This vertigo may likely be
fear of falling and failing
and of my dreams not availing,
as I plummet spectacularly.

But what if…what if…
if it’s not fear directing the show,
rather a wish to push off and fly,
trusting my wings have grown.

Look. I don’t know where I got them,
the insecurities and self-doubt.
But I am fed up with the hassle
of dragging them about.

All I want is to love well, live well,
by beauty be astounded
and leave the world I was born in
much better than I found it.

My heels are already raised,
I am about to ascend.
I kiss the doubts goodbye
and to my wings I tend.

I love well, I live well,
I make light in this world.
The time has come to BE
and not just “could, should, would”.