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.


Improvisation 1 (inspired by Susan Cavaliere Art’s photo)


unicorn by Susan Cavaliere Art


So, I recreated myself from the mist and the drops and the tears of who I once was. I put myself together from loosely dancing atoms and bonded my parts with dreams that have never come to pass, but that I am not willing to give up; dreams of light and colours and crystal sugar plums -I have died with the rain and risen from my earthly grave with the heat of life’s inner core, to a cloud, of former me(s)and former then(s) to become the future I(s) and future when(s). Once more.



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

Universal Law




It is a universal law that no stranger can break your heart.

Not the deep, truest, intimate inner sanctum of it.

Perhaps the pain of others will wound it, crack it, with time even harden parts of it.

But no stranger can break it.

It will not be your boss or your nemesis,

The rude passer-by, the indifferent or hateful people crossing your path.


Only love has that very exclusive and powerful power over your heart.

Only those whom we love can break us down.


Flaming Tower

towar inferno@KaremIBarratt



Sometimes you just run out words,

Out steam, out of tears.

Sometimes you become a dried river,

And your heart a cracked piece of land

Where no seed can grow.

Sometimes the world is just too much.

And although you are faraway,

You can hear the screams, the crackling

Of the flames, slithering up the building

Like a winding snake, a fire snake,

Searching for it wings and take flight,

Caring not for a little child, an old man,

A family of five. The fire snake wants

To become a dragon and fly.

Was it the gas? Was it the cladding?

Was it the alarms? Was it the policies?

What turned a gigantic block of flats

Into a torch, lighting up the night,

Breaking it with shattered windows and shrieks,

With the sum of all fears,

Falling down with the debris?

And amid the emptiness and broken heartedness,

The anger and the pain, they see us, in shades of grey,

Plastered faces on a wall, scrawled names and post-it prayers

Asking for a glimmer of impossible hope.

And sometimes the world is just too much.