Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history ~ Plato

Saturday, November 14, 2015

Let us NOT be like the monsters...

It was never
About colour
About race
About religion
Will always find a home
In the hearts of those
Dead set on domination.
My father taught me
Absolute power
Corrupts absolutely
A poison desire
That spreads like disease 
Through the tributaries 
Of our connected hearts.
Be brave enough
To be better 
To stand against this fear
That would have us
Turn on each other 
Is their biggest weapon
Their biggest lie
There are no enemies
Save for those of us
Who have accepted our roles
Swallowed the fear
And now insist
On spreading it.

Natasha Head

Sunday, November 1, 2015

Burning Bridges

It's been a certain kind of loneliness
One I'm not familiar with
Living in a town
Where people seem afraid to smile.
More than once I've felt a fool
When greetings and salutations go unrequited 

There was the volunteer for charity
Who chose to ignore me
As though my money
Would not help their cause.
I wonder how many dollars were lost
Due to sour disposition
Or was this a gift
Just for me?

Perhaps I smell like an outsider
An invader from the south.
They are defensive of the beauty
That surrounds them.
Have colourful names for those who only visit.

I am susceptible to unkindness, selfishness
I have found myself changing. 
What would staying have done to me?
I still can't quite shake the northern chill in my bones,
Nor have I found the words to describe the borealis that once danced in my back yard

Tomorrow, it's the long road to home
Where people smile when you do
Even if they don't want to.
The words will find me.

Natasha Head

Friday, October 30, 2015


It's dirty
It's dangerous
It's not for you
If it's not for all
Understand what you're fighting for
Before you fight at all

Natasha Head

Thursday, October 29, 2015


This is what it comes down to. Long before we're dead and gone. Long before we're buried. We throw away pieces of ourselves. Our stories, our memories, detached and separated. What we so desperately longed for, tossed away, left to rot, once we came to understand, happiness could not be bought.

But we still look for it in castles and cabins. In plastic and oil. The one true lesson of our history is our absolute refusal to learn from it. 

The mountains in the landfill grows, a testament to our food chain. The worms and crows die happy and fulfilled, death by the poison of our dreams.

Natasha Head