Disagreement

There is no aspect of driven snow
                                             in me.
                   It is more a coffee coloured mud puddle
                              of emotions, views, theories, testimonies.
Just as I settle and clear
                  someone walks through my
                                      equilibrium
and muddies me with a slant on
                                      an issue
that ripples with credibility
stirring me to the depths of my
                                       muddies mind.

I am not isolated on a mountain top
where purity is driven to rest
by querulous winds.
I am on the street
where people walk through me
and curse when I leave
splotches of muddy intrusion

on trouser legs.

hello out there!

Here is a poem from my book Eve's Tears. It is about dreams and about dreaming of houses. Hope you enjoy!

                                                       Houses
To dream of a house is to dream of yourself.

She'd dreamt of houses many times.

The first was a chimney
       standing still among charred remains.
And she was travelling away
      from its sad epitaph.

Her houses had a myriad
rooms
                    some
sheek and complete
                   others
dark and menacing
harbouring ghosts
of despair, traumas
impeding completion.

Houses where the door
                  was opened
and she could not halt
the flow
of people

filling the halls and rooms
that travelled on forever
with words and actions
she likes
                 does not like
but she is just there
host to it all.

Houses in the country
semi-detached in the city
gardens neglected
or radiant in bloom.
All these houses
a reflection of herself.

Her last dream left her calm.
She dreamt again of a house.
This house one of love
and she its centre.
Japanese rice paper
home looking for
its place to rest.

She woke happy.