Leaf-Bud

I saw a tree cut down today
its remains cast aside to fade away
young branches a fresh lush green, decorated with buds
their youthful beauty now covered with mud
and as I looked at them they resembled me
those leaves my dreams never meant to be
but like those leaf-buds I ignore the pain
and put my hope into the rain
to sprout some roots, grow and transform
to become a tree unwavered by storm

 

Falling

My soul is aching for you, my love
it lifts me up and hurts so much
the thought of you, your passing smile
the lust you bring, joy and denial
At night I toss and turn for you
call out your name, a lover’s fool
in dire hope to find you there
between my sheets, asleep and bare
not just a shadow from my dreams
a hopeless crush, or so it seems

 

Requiem to a Dream

“Did you already stand in line to get tickets for the Berlinale?” Angus sits across from me, his eyes resting on mine with a casual smile.

I shake my head and sip on a fruity cocktail, waiting for the ice to freeze my brain. I’ve been thirsty coming to this place. The bagel shop on the second floor. The store next door is being renovated once again. Something always changes in Berlin and yet it strangely remains the same.

“Me either.” Angus glares at me with a look that leaves me guessing. He pauses, then sighs. The way his spikes an olive from our appetizer plate almost seems volatile. “Too many years have passed since I last won a Bear. No accreditation for me this year.”

I watch how he picks the olive from his toothpick, his lips glistening from the oily dressing. “I don’t know what it is with this film festival. Last year I was too ill to attend, the year before I was struggling to keep my job. Must be the season. I don’t feel I’m missing out on anything.”

“Berlin is gray in winter. They say the festival brings color to a dreadful season.” Angus picks another olive and chews on it.“No shopping for investors at the EFM this year?”

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Deprived

I had a dream of you last night. You were lying in my arms, it felt so right.
“Are we friends now,” you laughed.
“I’d like that,” my heart beat fast.
I felt your breath against my neck you were so close, I couldn’t breathe.
My eyes drank in the sight of you, your features softened, your eyes half-closed.
Just for a moment there I wondered, “Should I let go?”
But my body craved your warmth, your touch.
And as we both leaned in to kiss, my dream was over and I was left without your love.

 

Between the Lines

You remember watching television with your parents as a child. A film, a show, a play – you didn’t specify but you told them, “I can do better than that.” And I listen to your words in the interview room and nod my head. I was exactly the same. Eight years old or nine, convinced that I would tackle a part differently from what I saw on screen, that I had the emotions I saw someone else play right up my sleeve. And yet the difference between you and me? Your parents were actors, they took you seriously. They knew what it takes to get you to audition for a part I longed for but would never play.

So while you started following your heart, I was just thinking what you said out loud, because my family mocked me whenever I expressed my wish to be in front of a camera. And whenever I got frustrated or acted out against the restraints I felt, they would just kid me. “Stop being so dramatic and save that for the stage you claim to crave,” they’d say or, “The circus is in town, maybe the clowns could use your tantrums as inspiration.” No support for my honest wish to be a performer, just words that hardened me as I grew up.

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Hope

I saw her in my dreams today – her hair was curly and blond, her eyes blue with a touch of petrol green. She was only three and oh so beautiful. I saw my little daughter, felt her name so gentle on my lips, her laughter warm and comfortable in my heart.

I was having tea with my muse who is very real, of flesh and blood, and so alive her smile is bubbling over. In my dream, I visited her home, shared stories with her about our work, our lives, the faith that holds us both together. I listened to her as she told me about her family, of the many changes she has faced in her life. I felt like her grand-daughter for a moment, reminded of the last time I truly felt like coming home – before my grandma had died so many years ago.

I moved my hand over my belly, so round and firm, felt another life growing inside of me while my daughter was running around the coffee table, her laughter bubbly, like my muse’s, when I softly shouted her name.

I woke, moments later, full of hope, humbled, cushioned; my heart bursting over with love and trust. I closed my eyes and saw her again, my little girl, heard the echo of her voice as I chased after her in the backyard of a welcoming home. Too fast for me to catch, she stayed with me in my mind, lively and innocent in the presence of my muse. Together, they smiled at me and I felt whole, blessed to have that image, that afterglow of something real and fresh – it gave me faith again in what comes next.