Low fat love

I dont want

Watered down
lack lustre

Luke warm

Medium rare
Not quite crispy

Half empty
Low fat

Give me

Full cream


Runneth over
Full cream

It’s not worth it if it’s not full cream

My Hat Collection

I have many hats. I wear them very proudly. Some hats I only wear for short periods of time, others I wear for longer and spend more time perfecting them. For example, my daughter-in-law hat, it doesn’t match any of my clothes, its ill fitting and very much “not me”. But I wear it on birthdays, Christmas and anniversaries. I pretend to enjoy it and sometimes I do, but mostly, it’s too small and makes my head itch.

My wife hat is one I am still learning to wear, but I look so good in it. People stare at me in amazement when I wear it. They ogle it and touch it. They comment on how spectacular it is. It makes me feel unique and special. It fits me perfectly. The colours and textures of my wife hat are magnificent. They blend well and they bring out the sparkle in my eye. My wife hat makes me smile whenever I wear it. There are days though, when my hat annoys me, which is very normal for wife hats.

My wife loves it when I wear my sex goddess hat and nothing else. I only wear it for her. Don’t get me wrong, others have seen it, but she’s the only one I wear it for now. She’s the one who brings it out in me. In fact, before her, it was just a sex hat, she helped me sculpt and mould it to what it is today. When I wear my sex goddess hat, I feel like a purring tigress. Like a wild woman, free from bondage and inhibitions. This hat is red with black lace. It’s a work of art. It makes me feel sensual; it brings out the sexy in my smile. I get goosebumps all over when I wear it.

My mother hat is the one I wear the most and love the best. It was made for my head. When I wear it, I feel strong. It’s the hat in which I learn the most. And boy, do I learn?! I learn about boundaries, about unconditional love, about acceptance, about pure joy and I learn a lot about SpongeBob Squarepants and Barney. I need energy when I wear this hat. I need to be able to run around, jump up and down, climb things, have things climb me and generally be a jungle gym. I smile a lot when I wear my mother hat. I giggle, tickle, roll on the ground and laugh out loud, A LOT! My mother hat is cool, I will have two mother hats someday, but for now I am perfecting the one I have. My mother hat is cute too. The cutest hat you’ll ever encounter. Ask anyone!

Then there’s my lesbian hat. I like this one. I’ve shared it with many other women. It’s well worn. I’ve been around the block a few times sporting this hat. It’s like my security blanket. It comforts me. I’ve done some crazy things in my lesbian hat. The stories it would tell! It’s seen things. I’ve worn it to marches and rallies. I wore it to poetry circles, clubs, parades and more clubs. I’ve worn it to softball, soccer and rugby matches. I wear it to work and at home with the people I love. I feel proud when I wear it. I feel a deep sense of belonging around other women who wear lesbian hats. I feel a sense of camaraderie, a sense of being bound to others because we wear the same hat. I have listened to coming out stories, told my story and cried so many times wearing my lesbian hat. My lesbian hat is one I will always wear, to show other people that wearing it is not wrong. To show people that my lesbian hat fits me perfectly, just as yours fits you. Come to think of it, I am always wearing this hat, even when I wear others.

Then there’s my poet hat. This hat and I go way back. It took a while for me to recognize that this hat is mine. I denied it for many years. Thought this hat wasn’t good enough to be worn. But as time went on and I spent more time wearing it, I realized that it does suite me. I realized that it looks bloody good on me. I wear it often now. And I invite others to wear it. So we get together once a month and wear our poet hats, and we share with each other. We laugh and talk and learn with each other, wearing our hats.

I long for

I long for the familiar smells of pots of stew cooking on the stove on cold winter days
Winds blustering and blowing,
Bodies reaching saturation point,
Hour long bus drives home,
Falling asleep with sheer exhaustion from the days learning.

I long for the hugs which always came when I felt the weakest
Strong, comfortable, reliable hugs,
Hugs that cushion not only the sadness, weariness and heartbreak
But those tight embraces that protect from the blows.

I long for the long holidays spent playing with siblings in the sanctity of our aloneness
The days spent being playful children, laughter permeating the walls,
Tumbles and tickles on beds that felt safe,
Days that led to nights which are not longed for,
But days that felt so good, that the dark night could come if it may.

I long for the constant stench of cigarette smoke soaked into pores
The well known fragrance of hugs and nicotine,
Not bad, not good, but familiar, real and constant,
Nervous energy infuses with the light hearted play
Causing a deep routed, life long dis-ease that lingers.

I long for the unconditional love that I called home for so long
The motherly love that nurtures and builds,
The care that made my bones strong and taught me to be a good mother,
Love that points you in the right direction, when pointing in the wrong direction seems natural.

I long for the uninhibited joy that was only allowed to surface when the monster was in the dock
The joy that made my heart feel light and carefree,
Like a child’s heart is meant to be,
The type of feelings you get when eating your favourite food, around your favourite people, talking about your favourite things,
The joy that stays in my heart and makes me love life despite all the reasons I shouldn’t.

Voiceless Masses

With hands tied firmly behind backs
Our hearts bleed drops of sorrow,
Dripping, soaking into the ground.
The screaming sounds so loud in our heads
But there is no sound
We are the voiceless masses
The silent faces.
The blank ballot papers.

Anger surges from our pores
Emerced in feelings of helplessness
Meat falling off the bones
The decaying carcass of hope
Lies lifeless
We are the voiceless masses
The silent faces
The blank ballot papers.

We are the ones who must change
Change to fit into your paradigm
Your narrowed, skewed, hurtful view.
We must wear flowering dresses with bows in our hair and pink lips,
We fail to exist if not for the gaping hole you so brutally rip apart
Bricks smashed bodies, hate perforates our souls
Protection eludes us.
We are the voiceless masses
The silent faces
The blank ballot papers.

But we are not victims
We do not crawl into your boxes and hide.
We do not lie down and play dead because you are theatened by our might
We are powerful,
in your face,
fists in the air,
And you cannot break us.
Because our voices will be heard across our beautiful land
Our faces will be imprinted into your consciousness
And our ballot papers will be marked with the blood of our slaughtered sisters