I am woman magician a Medusa armed with rabbit power my crinoline boxers flaunt the colours of my own landscapes I am laced in my own naked truth and my spiked high heels are meant for walking tall never mess with my illusion my glasses intend to magnify your details
Gerrit Photography a stone face your blind soul is fixed behind the wall of glass level and dressed in the webbed music locked in your system my sighs outside spin kick bust and trump the reflection mess yet for you inside I am less than a mirage a reflection my visit does not exist
all the mystique and glamour and flashy photos spewed like sticky honey from the relentless Hollywood marketing machine cannot compete with the passing of time tastes and stardom move on just like your fancy doll's house for your fancy doll abandoned buckling to the ravages of loveless dust while I stand and I see and I conquer and this ordinary smug doll moves on
I remember the day we decided to go far south
far far south south of the mainland south to an island we found a piece of valley paradise by a river hugged by mountains our island legs were not too steady do you remember one icy morning when your boots leaked with ice and in the near distance you saw your first tiger snake? that ice saved you from moving too fast and do you remember when we decided to have some music in the gardens we bought a large tent with a fancy fringe hired a quintet and sent out invitations to everyone any one and hardly a soul replied then the night before the day of island days it rained rain turned into a wild early morning thunderstorm sleep eluded us but next morning the sun glowed the garden glowed and colourful cars a tribe of colourful cars carefully meandered up our muddy driveway our home was humble with a home-made feel but our views were grand our lake fringed with magical spruce danced with Merlin our platypus Dry's Bluff rang with sunset colour our mini rainforest spun Celtic questions do you remember why it was we wandered away?
a healer lives within quietly airing multi-layered folds of sphinx-like beauty ****** sometimes I walk back to my beloved grandmother's cottage on the outside the cottage seems neglected choking with weathering and weeds gateless fenceless there is little visible appeal at least not to strangers but inside in a dusty webby room hangs a lone painting of a humbly elegant woman gently bending to admire her precious selection of peonies **** I know just when to view this painting it must be early morning light spring light softly streaming through smudged glass as if some beam from afar scrambles to connect for a little while it is then the painting glows **** she looks so young so sacred so at peace with her healer she is her own god and each visit here I feel a painful longing to be more than some adoring child at her altar indeed sometimes I need to damn the insane urge to stay