He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who […]Read More of gods and cats
When it rains, The little cat sits in the window, Watching. The choices are ours to make And some are honest mistakes Like the rain falling in sheets. He does not know how Vapour rises, how long It takes for the clouds to grow heavy. The love we fall for, that Strikes like lightning, so […]Read More Samson
Klausījos, kā vilciens nolaižas uz sliedēm; te mana pietura – naktī, kaķu dziesmās un putnu aurēšanā. Liepas piejauca medus smaržu sikspārņu dejām; kad tevi vairs negaida, atliec sīknagus vecas mājas spārēs, Jasmīnu ziedlapas putēja nesakārtoti, viss krustu šķērsu rakstos, lietus iesistos pelēkā zemes palagā. Ko tava uguns gribēja, tumsā plaiksnīdama? Nepratu salasīt, ai, neprāta mīlestība […]Read More pietura naktī
Sometimes we snap. Like dry branches, like frost, And bury the others with us. Chips from a lightning-struck oak, Splinters of pine, unruly cones All in a heap, rushed To a conflagration. Sometimes the ragged Edges know only to tear, And heal all crooked. Flames lick at the dark Fluid inkiness Stabbed with stars And […]Read More dry spell
Today he would have been 36. Three dozen years on this earth, under this sun. Who knows how life would have turned out, what his story would have been. We, who loved him, still do, I’m sure of it. We measure the time by his death: before he died, the year he died, after he […]Read More june 3, 2019
The sand has lost all colour. No, maybe it is the colour Of small, sharp stones that Make up gravel so simply. Yes, the colour of the sharp, Grey, cold and merciful. Her song went unheard. She And the sand now are intimate. Intimate much more than one desires. Grey, cold and so sharp that […]Read More Anguis fragilis. Slowworm.
Up to my ankles in pollen, floating in recent puddles, whilst grumpy grandchildren watch, restrained by frantic grammas, I laugh. To be grown-up sometimes means to step into puddles and smell roses and jump to a tune played inside your own head. I laugh, and walk into rain envied by children, seen by the shuddering […]Read More between the mud and the blue