A Gratefulness Prayer for Womanhood

K. Barratt

goddess breaking through rock

Let’s silently give thanks for the melody of life;

Let’s give thanks for the cycles of life,

Which allows us to experience its many facets,

From child, to girl, to woman, to mother, to wise one.

Let’s give thanks to the feminine light in us,

Which connects us to archetypes of beauty, creativity,

Courage, tenderness and love,

Be them called Great Mother, Venus, Mary, Diana,

Parvati, Osum or Gaia.

Blessed be our femininity,

Our mothering potential

That expresses itself in so many forms

Of caring, loving, creating actions.

Let’s give thanks and step with pride

Into the women we are,

Each with her own strength,

Each with her own gift,

Eeach with her own way

Of embodying the Eternal Feminine.

And do it is.

The Shadows

K. Barratt



We move lightly,

The shadows.

On the wall we stretch our fingers

Over the plaster to touch

The flower, whose fragrance

We’ll never know.

We dance with the wind

Scurrying down the door,

And the drapes in the

Front room, pretending

We are the princes and princesses

You read about to your child,

At night.

We hear you.


Hanging on to your every word,

As we squish into the corners,

Droop from lamps and bed posts.

And we follow.

Every step that you take.

We sit on the sofa with you

And see your eyes leak,

For reasons we do not understand.

We prefer the laughter we used

To hear, the morning run

In the early light.

We hardly ever can stay outside,

Yet we enjoyed our jogs,

The dew, the whispering trees,

The lazy, cold sun.

Sometimes we even

Got to go shopping,

Although we disappeared fast

Under the neon lights,

Now we are surprised by

Your choices, every time we return

Home, to the demi shade

Of the kitchen.

We know you love cheese

And dark, melty chocolate

That feels, according to you,

Like a vampire’s kiss.

We know all this and more.

At least we did.

Yet all we see is lemonade.

And cabbage, onions and carrots.


And we doubt.

We have always accepted

Our fate, the illusion we

Are supposed to be,

A dark reflection of the living,

Those deemed to be real.

The child is still real but you,

You look more and more ephemeral.

And angry and mean.

Nothing like the girl who was

Going to take the world and

Eat it with marmalade,

Whilst laughing and dancing

Ballet under the spring rains.

You are fading.

Becoming a mock of the person

You once were.

Is like the real you

Has gone away and left one

Of us, your shadows, in

Your place.

And we don’t want to play

With you anymore.

Not the short shadow

Nor the long one, nor

The tubby one, nor

The perfect fit one.

You are hollowed

And there is no being

In your eyes.

And we get scared.

When you hit her,

Scream at her,

Turn the key of her room

And walk away.

And the shadow children weep

Silently, with her.

Terrified, we are, of the

Ghost we are chained

To, of the world of ashes

You have buried yourself

And our child in.

We cannot longer be -not,

We refuse to be- with you,

Part of you.

We will brake our bounds.

We’ll fight and kick

And roar and punch

And scream and beat

And hurt and kill,

If the need be.

We shall release

Our child to the light,

And be at liberty,

Unbound, unafraid, unlimited,

Body-less shadows,

Roaming bulbs, candles, fireplaces.

Unformed, un-homed, undetected,

Yet, free.

Fully, finally, free.




Great Bear of the North


bear polar mystic

Great Bear of the North,

Keeper of the gates of Earth,

Bless with your great paws my steps

As I walk through the woods of life.

Be my shadow behind the trees

And open my senses to the beauty and the warnings

Of the vast net of Wyrd.

Teach me how to walk on the soft earth

Quietly, gently, wisely,

Oh great Bear of the North,

Show me how to find joy in the solitude,

How to walk away the expected schedules

And go into the womb of Mother Earth, to sleep,

To dream perhaps, about becoming a great

Bear in the sky.

Teach me to flow with the seasons,

Tall and low, loud and quite,

With mate, cubs or alone,

True to myself in all the changes of life.

And guide me, great Bear of Earth

And Sky, so I walk softly and wisely over the land.


Tar World

K. Barratt


I am not giving up,

Giving in, surrendering,

Yielding, letting go.

I am weathering the storm.

I will climb the mountain,

Descend the cave,

Find the oasis in the desert,

Plaster the scrapped knees,

Paste together the broken heart.

Kiss the boo-boos,

Wash away the fear, the tears,

Kick the monsters on the bum.

But I am not giving up.

I’ll breath the air

And run under the rain.

I will find the lost smile,

Fan over the dying flames,

Glue what’s falling apart

Inside my brain,

And find the light. My light.

Cowering behind the bulky fear.

This is my life, my time, my get-up-and-go.

Those are the adventures,

The failures, the triumphs,

Calling me on the

Other side of the door,

Trapping me in the tar land

Of my gloom.

I will find my rainbows.

I will paint them on canvas

If I have to.

Sew them together,

Hang them  high between tall trees,

But I will have rainbows in my life.

I will plant my seeds and let

That garden-to-be, be my legacy.

And I will embrace love. My loves,

Waiting for me to open the door.

I will hold them tight,

And kiss them and hug them,

And walk with them on

Whatever exists on the other

Side of the dark door.

For I am more, deserve more.

Faulty, scared, and weak,

Yet I am here. I breath, feel, live.

And I am not yielding, surrendering,

Giving in or given up.

Not one measly inch,

To my oppressive,

Life crushing tar world.




Happy family lying in the park with their dog.

Let’s be honest:

You and I know I’m not going to make it.

We play our games, dance our dance.

We say our “oms” and do our therapy.

We make plans for the future,

And if we were true, after looking at

Them, we would laugh and laugh.

But we pretend.

It’s the right thing to do.

It shows I fought until the end

And you stood there, by me.

But you know, and I know,

That one day you’ll lower your guard,

And I’ll take that moment to escape,

Away from you, away from the child,

Away from love, away from life.

You know it and I know it.

You don’t know the when or the how.

I just don’t know the when.

The how I have rehearsed so much

In my head, that sometimes it feels

I’ve already done it.

Hence you give me my pills and I take them.

And you love me and I love you back.

And we tease the child and play with

The dog and the rat, and for a moment

We are real, normal, common enough

to almost, for a moment, forget.

But you know it and I know it.

You cannot save me.


Not one can save me from myself.


Moon Lullaby


goddess moon hare


I am the Silver Phoenix that lives, dies and comes to be again. I am unchanged but never the same. Each of you, children of mine, are my reflections. From the moment of awakening to the closing of the eyes, your days are a likeness of my movements, changes, wanes, waxes, darkness and sudden light that clarifies it all.

Be brave my daughter, in your inner journey and you shall reach the realms of vision, where intuition and inspiration come together as one.

Be daring, my son, and go through the hurricane of bewilderment. At its centre you shall find peace and the answer to your heart’s uncertainties.

Everything changes my children, yet remains the same. My cycles are reminders of the phases we must go through to grow and fulfil ourselves.

I am the Heavenly Mistress that sings lullabies to your blood and make it rise with the power of the tides. Flow with me and dance the secrets of life with each shake of your hips.

Travel with me to the all possible futures. Sigh with me. Place in me your doubts and let them ripe to truths in the soil of your dreams. I am Juliet’s moon, and Plato’s, Newton’s and Copernicus’. Love poems have been written under my light as well as Gospels.

Flow with me and let’s dance together to the Universe’s reverie.

Triple Mother


triple goddess

Mother of the Earth, lady of the jungles and the mountains; giver of harvests and maker of deserts, be the dust under my feet and the cool water that quenches my thirst; whisper to me in the voice of the wind and wave hello with the gentle quiver of flowers along my way; make me feel welcome with you aromas of fresh bread and thawed the cold from my bones with the warmth of your hearth.

Mother of the skies, womb of comets and stars, colour my eyes with dreams and my spirit with rainbows; inspire me, in your cosmic silence, beauty born out of your essence and answer the questions of my soul with the glow of the full moon.

Mother of Love, seating between the pillars of eternity: call me to the temple of your mysteries and potentials, to your lotus throne, to your mantle of light, to that paradise found in the middle of my heart, and as I walk to the new beginnings, to the Summer Lands, on the Other Side, hold me, as if I were a babe, and with a tiny voice, tell me the truths of the Universe, of Death and Life.

Hug me against your bosom Mother of mine, oh Maiden, oh Mother, oh Crone, and with your song, cover me with compassion, grant me courage and give hope.


Little Girls


Little girl car rebecca


I once heard that little girls were made of sugar

and spice and everything nice.

And it’s true.

But they forgot about the butterflies,

And the adventures in golden meadows

To catch them.

They forgot about the trees and the ropes to climb them.

They forgot about the stars and the telescopes to see them.

They forgot about the skyscrapers and the bricks to build them.

They forgot about the pianos and the notes to play them.

They forgot about the jiggles and the breeze to carry them.

They forgot about the broken hearts and the audacity to heal them.

They forgot about the dreams and the courage to seek them.

They forgot about the monsters under the bed.

And the mettle to fight them, beat them

And make them your friends.

They forgot about unexpected thunders and warm parents’

Beds, where little girls run, to protect them.

They forgot about the moments of anger, and the squeaky

Shoes you need to squish them.

They forgot about the awe.

And the wonder.

The whole universe held in a little girl’s hand,

A girl made of shadows and lights,

Like sunrays spreading in a shady forest

At the magic time of twilight.


What are little girls made of?


They are made of life and possibilities.

Of challenges to come and visions to form,

And adventures to follow and smiles and tears.

Of loses and wins. Of boos and cheers.

Of this and more a little girl is made of.

Of hope and love

And the strength of her soul,

Ready to stand tall

And take flight to wherever her song calls,

To create, shape, destroy and rebuild

Her own, brave world.


Ode to my Hairy Legs


woman long skirt



Ode to my hairy legs,

Keepers of the sane,

Wilted part of me,

As I try to create

A zen garden with

The sand and rocks

Of my twisted soul.

Or is it my mind?

Can a soul be twisted?

Can minds be straight?

But I digress.

As I was saying.

Ode, oh ode, to my hairy legs.

They are not hairy

As a banner to my feminist

Anger at the dictatorship

Of Mr.Gillet and company,

Or as an embrace to my natural

Self, acceptance of my ape

Nature, or my wilderness.

Their mission is bigger than that.

They are hairy to keep my alive.

Because, for all my chants and meditations

And CBT and Psychodynamic talks,

And my love for the truth of

Everything and every bod,

Fat or slim, tall or short,

Deep down, beyond the love and light,

I am rather shallow and vain.

Like, really, truly vain.

I have a 50’s etiquette teacher

Hiding inside of me. A lady

Does not leave without a hat

Or undone lips.

And a lady shaves, if not every day,

At least twice a week.

So, when I hold the razor and ask

Myself if I truly have a reason to live,

And I run out of excuses and convince

My embroiled brain that the world

Is better off without me, I look at my legs.

And I’ll be dammed if I will let any police

Officer see me in that state.

The blood, the mess, eh…

That I can live (or die) with.

But strangers gazing at my

Hairy legs? Hell no.

Not tomorrow, not today.

I would have to have loss

My last inch of dignity and self-worth,

My last breath of humanity

For let that to happen.

So, I sing to my hairy legs,

That keep me alive, that

Keep me safe.

That give time to think it

Over, and find again the light,

And move the gravel of my thoughts

Into a zen garden in my mind.

So, ode, oh yes, to my hairy legs!

And my most sincere thanks,

To the flowy, long, bright summer dress.


The Shielder


23 06 2017 escudero 2


He could not save him.

He ran fast, with his make-shift,

Cardboard shield, and jumped before

David, a second too late.

They were no friends, not like, you

Know, from school or the boy scouts

Or the long-time neighbours kind of mates.

They were kin more like in Henry V,

Where all who sheds his blood with

Me is my brother on Saint Crispin’s day.

He jumped with all his might,

But the bullet fired with hate found

Its way to David’s neck.

“Don’t died on me,” the shielder said,

As he pulled David away.

But he did.

On the street that was their battleground.

David had no lethal weapon, except his

Youth, his naivete and maybe a rock.

That, and his hunger for freedom.

Enough to make the national guard

Feel threaten and make him pull his shot.

Some comrade-in-arms took his body,

And shielder stayed behind.

And he sat on the pavement.

And the child-warrior cried.


(This is based on a true story that occurred on June 22, 2017. David Vallenilla was shot dead by a Venezuelan national guard, as he protested foe freedom, and the picture above shows when a “shielder” as Venezuelan call them tried to save him)

23 06 17 escudero