PUBESCENT

Sunrise.
Eyes open,
begin to bleed,
begin to need.
Feel it
moving through you.

Hormones raging.
Falling madly,
all the wrong ones.
Rebellion:
inner tempest
boiling over,
misdirected.
Parental alienation.

Lessons skipped,
bunking off.
School Inspectors,
a perpetual curse.
Spots plaguing,
constant teasing,
mortification.

First betrayal:
a prettier girl
with perfect skin.
Tears falling,
heart fragmenting,
world crumbling.
Vulnerability.

Shocked to find
you still need
your Mother's love.

THE ADDER

Little Adder, much maligned
by human minds unrefined,
your fate's decided by their fear.
For you I often shed a tear.

To see you slaughtered mercilessly:
so brutally and thoughtlessly
by those who in total ignorance dwell,
prompts me to your story tell.

For as the only poisonous snake
upon Albion Isle, your place you take
within the Tradition of this land -
oh yes, my little friend, you're grand!

As prime totem of Morgan, you are
the most important player by far
in the Battle of Camlan's tragedy:
but also in it's remedy.

As Arthur with Mordred in uneasy truce
attempted to the threat of war reduce,
you suddenly darted into view
so a soldier his sword instinctively drew.

The rest is legend - Arthur was slain,
bringing upon us the wasteland and pain.
Then Morgan bore him to Avalon
where your venom revived him from oblivion.

So, fellow humans...
please give me your word that from this day
if you see an Adder you will not slay
this symbol of the Goddess' darker phase,
or you'll surely set Her wrath ablaze.

IDENTITY CRISIS

For Monika...my friend and fellow misfit! ;)


My nature is dual:
I am of a land of ice and snow
that freezes the blood,
yet also of a country of drizzle and mist -
a green place, temperate and overpopulated.

I was conceived beneath Finland's midnight sun,
then planted in England's fertile plain.
My duality linked two lovers
barely able to speak
each others language -
except through my genes.
I cannot tell whether
I am dark or fair.
Should I wear chunky knits
or delicate silks?
Will I tan easily
or burn to a cinder
in a rare English heatwave?

They call me British, but
these crowds frighten me -
prompt a craving for the vast open spaces
of my maternal land:
those barren wilds that endlessly call
through ancestral echoes
to my evolutionary Soul.

An identity crisis looms
like a lengthening winter shadow:
Who is this person in the mirror
whose feet leave imprints
in British soil?
Has she any right to be here?
She is certainly no thoroughbred,
so is she mongrel?
Perhaps...
for I do speak English
while thinking in Finnish.
Does this, then, deem me impostor?
Or simply a cultural conundrum:
identity unknown?