In the Spring

Rebecca carruzel Wales 1


In the Spring a breath

Of hope and light

Brakes through the clouds

Harbouring storms in my heart.

In the Spring I can be six again,

Run wild over meadows,

Kick legs high on swings.


In the Spring.


Rainbows fly across my mind,

And my arms are kites

Dancing with the air.

And Fairies, those old friends,

And Angles, those firm hands,

And Dreams, so long forgotten.

Come out and play with me.

In the Spring.

The breath of love and life.


I can be anything.



A Warrior

A Warrior

warrior woman 2

(image: artist unknown)

A warrior, a sword, a path un-walked, a call,

The flow of life birthing stones for the warrior to

Step on, caves for the warrior to shelter, dragons

For the warrior to tame and ride,

Rainbows for the warrior to dream,

Arms for the warrior to embrace, tears, for the

Warrior to taste; anger for the warrior to feed on

And then stand against. Mercy, to sustain

The warrior at that moment when the sword

And the naked flesh draw gasps from the universe; hurt,

For the warrior to forgive; doubt, for the warrior

To drink and swallow and spit, and ties for the warrior to brake.

Love. To nurse the warrior in the warmth of its soul.

Solitude and silence, life did create for you, warrior,

To cocoon in, and open the back of your existence.

There are no promises in this path. No golden treasures,

Nor glory nor fame nor thanks. There is only you.

At the end, warrior,

There is only you.

Rain Stars

Rain Stars


(image: artist unknown)


Let it rain stars in my life,

Let my steps harvest roses

And my fingers free away butterflies.

Let it rain stars in my life.

Let my voice sing spring winds

Into trees, and scatter seeds

All over the land.

Let it rain stars in my life.

Let my hands rise twiggy nests

Onto branches and gently shelter

The red ladybird as it marches over

Leafy savannas, under the midday sun.



(image by Dashinvaine)


They came like a storm, like black birds

Picking clean my bones,

Breaking, hurting, raping, slashing

Trusts, honours and backs.

They came like a storm

Of red cloaks and red blood,

And forged the lance in my heart:

Out of my tears, out of my hate,

It rose, out the screams of my babes,

My daughters of flowers turned into mud.

They came like a storm,

Flushing the goodness from myself.

And I knelt before the dark goddess

And asked to be made merciless and brave.

No more tears have I shed.

No hesitation has stopped my steps.

I am the queen who will be no slave,

The bringer of the scream,

The painter of the red.

I have become their lighting and their thunder.

The mid-wife of their fears.

I have crushed their spears and howled

The call of war.

I am the lance and I am the sword;

The avenger of chastity turned blood,

Of freedom chained, of broken oaths.


I am she, who teaches terror, to those who brought the storm.


The One




Temples of mist, floating over table-top lands,

From where sweet cascades topple

Like diamond earrings in the lobes of young bride.

A dream. The priestess of my soul cloaked in red,

Silent. Expectation hangs in the stars, silent,

In the dancing sands, silent, in the glowing eyes

Of owls and elves, silent,

In the breath trapped in my lungs, silent,

In the tear twinkling from the corner of my lashes,

Silent, silent, oh so silently, the wind, still, the I, stirring,

The bush about to burst in flames, Odin’s knife

A breath away from his iris, Kore about to step out into

The light, Hades watching, silently, the mirror, misted,

Waiting for my hand to clear the mystery,

For my heart to gather the courage to strip off

The coats of myself and see, truly see, what the

Whole universe has been waiting for, since the last time it

Collapsed into a white dwarf, a black hole,

To unfold in a big bang, the unseen seen for the first time,

Once more, the silent truth we have known since our

Bacteria days, the look, the watch, the world behind our

Sight, the link, the light, the unknowable form, molding,

Stretching, emanating, dancing with itself, within itself,

Projecting a without onto the silvery surface of its mind,

Hoping to be the flesh of its own dream, the Me,

The All, the Unknown, the Force, the I.

The One.


I Was Not in Love in Lebanon

sea lebanon

I was not in love in Lebanon;

Not under its fragrant cypresses and golden sunsets,

Nor over the white sands of that little cove, hidden

In New Hampshire, only known to a few New Yorkers and I.

I was not in love in Paris, nor by the azure waters of

The Mediterranean Sea, nor was it in a small café by

Piazza Novona that I knew love, not in the hallways

Of Sissi’s castle, one autumn afternoon, in fair Vienna,

Serenaded by the notes of Bach, played on strings.

It was not in the streets of Buenos Aires that I fell in love.

It was not over a white sail boat playing seagull with a Canadian breeze.

I was not in love under the lights of London; I was not in love

On a Caribbean beach; I was not in love under tapestries of the Japanese

Cherry blossoms, nor did I write the name of my beloved somewhere

In the Suleiman mosque of Istanbul. I was not in love in the Africa savannah,

Nor did the pyramid witness our first kiss. I was not in love in Peru,

Nor was love with me when I walked the cloudy heights of Macchu Picchu.

I was not in love in Brazil; nor was it in a cruise that I met his eyes.

It was here, in this cold, wet, unassuming little village

That I was in love, that I lived in love,

Somewhere between Manchester and Leeds.

It was here that I lost myself in the eyes of my beloved;

Here were I made a nest for my soul in the fold of his arms;

Here where I was always warm and my voice was the song

Of the sparrow in spring. Here, that he made me laugh and

Ate my burned apple and pecan Wednesday pie. It was in this

Almost nameless place, a speck in the map, that he turned me

Into dancer, mistress, goddess and slave. Where the moon smiled

At our naked bodies by the lake, dewy and chilled, burning and hot,

Laughter and kisses, lickings and hugs, the two of us,

Embraced into one. Here.

No more.


The Silence




There is something about silence;

Something empty, something sad, something

Like a hand, reaching out, fingers stretching,

Touching nothing but the void.

There is something about silences that is maddening;

Like an empty glass that quench no thirst.

Like a longing, like a wanting,

The good-night kiss that never came

And then it was day time again.

There is something about your silence

That is breaking pieces of my heart,

Like a door shut in anger, like being left –no- kicked out,

Like reaping a child’s card, drawn with wax crayons and glitter.

There is something about my silence that tastes like death.

Like giving up the struggle a few meters from the shore,

Like surrendering to the great blue sea and sinking in,

Deep into oblivion, too tired to fight back, to

Believe in second chances.

There is something about this silence that seems like a tomb.

Like crumbling books, and ending Sundays, and abandoned

Birthday tables, cream roses melting in the heat, no one

Ready to clean the mess. No one ready to accept defeat.

And I wonder if our silence is the white flag erected amidst

The battle field, or just a truce, a time to go back

And redraw plans, lick wounds, light candles of hope against hope.

A silence created so you can hear the echo of my soul, calling you.




bus stop boy girl

What if it ends before I reach my hand and touch, as if by accident, the edge of your palm? What if I don’t make eye contact, and you pass by and we never meet again, meet at all, and that is the end of sleepless nights, never to come, waiting for your calls, caressing your lower back, kissing my way to the nape of your neck, never kissed, because this, whatever this may be, never gets to start. It dies like a zygote on a petri dish; it dies like a dream forgotten before dawn; it dies and I don’t get to see if your eyes are grey or brown, or those greenish type ones that have golden specks all around the irises?

 What if I don’t find you here again tomorrow or the day after?

 What if you are here only for a day, a business trip, a last good-bye to your past, a broken car that has left you stranded in the bus stop, waiting. For me. Perhaps? Waiting for all those words I have harboured in my heart for you, for the one like you, for the one, and you are it, and I don’t know it and won’t know it because I refuse to believe in “cute-meet “and karmatic encounters -because it’s crazy, too crazy and yet it somehow  would make sense if I had the faith; if I trusted the beating of my heart; if I kicked Darwin’s butt and send all his evolution down the drain and trusted that there is someone out there just for me, a love affair designed by angels and gods and you are it, him, and all I need to do to get the ball rolling is look up and smile?

But I can’t.

 Because it’s stupid.

 Because love stories like that don’t happen -they never have, except in the minds of balding, fat, beret -wearing poets with foreign accents. Because life hits hard and it hurts and I don’t want to cry again and I don’t dare to look up and find you there, looking back at me, and the awkward silence, and the half smile, and me pushing my hair behind my ear, and you sitting next to me on the bus, and I asking the time, although time has become irrelevant, non-existent, and Einstein was right, and it’s escaping through my fingers, so fast I feel I am gasping for air to keep it still, this moment frozen, while I find the Juliet in my heart and open my soul to hope, to the belief in the extraordinary: in you and me, in this meeting, in this bus stop, in you sitting, next to me, in the rain threatening from above, ready to fall, any minute now.

I can hear your breathing and sense the musk, the smell that makes you, you, and not another. I swallow hard and feel like slapping myself silly, because things like this don’t happen to people like me, and if they do they end  up badly. And you seem to get closer. I wonder if you like the music from the 50s and I can hear you in my mind, telling me how you are the last rat form the pack and I find myself smiling, at us, strangers in the night, Frank and Dean and trips to the moon and the rain falls, finally. Instinctively you embrace yourself and I want to be your arms: to hug you and mother you and lose myself in your warmth. And if this ends I will cry, weep, bawl, so hard I’ll brew my own storm, mightier and worse than the one encapsulating us, right now, just the two us, under the flimsy bus stop. And I can take it no more. I can’t take all the “ifs” and the “buts”. I can’t take the possibility of a life time, lost. I can’t swallow my own fear and cynicism anymore.

 And I look up.