Bellydancing Yogi on Obsessions and Passions in Empty Nests

Majickal Bellydance is resting, not forgotten.  For now I have a new obsession: Yoga. Yoga isn't new to me. As dance teachers we borrow many yoga poses or 'asanas,' performing the movements as stretches for warming up and cooling down, rarely emphasising the breath practices or 'pranayamas.' My yoga mat had lay mostly rolled into dusty storage for long enough to raise a child. My daughter now focussed firmly on her own burgeoning life and my last bellydance class for now at the end of 2015, I needed a brand new obsession. Having finally finished writing my first book I showed up still in writer's rapture to my friend and colleagues yoga class. I had taught bellydance at her beautiful yoga studio in the past,, but had only attended a few yoga workshops. I had been struggling for several years with P.T.S.D (Post-traumatic stress disorder), keeping mobile through my years of illness by tailoring my dance classes toward health and by

The Book

I'm resting in the quiet place created as the peak of creative accomplishment subsides. The long reached for celebration of submitting my first book manuscript to a publisher is a bittersweet thing. During the creation of a final draft I experienced some of the most peaceful moments of my life. Transitioning from those moments of pure hope and idealism, to the slow reality of the physical world of manifestation is a drag. It can be hard to keep my hope strong. Fortunately the principles contained within the book itself help to keep my mind focussed on the meaning and purpose of my chosen life path. I would love to discuss my new book but the time is not right. I hope to splash the principles of love, lovingly crafted by me, far and wide soon enough. Being a determined sort, no matter what dark mood threatens to bind my forward motion, I know from past history, that forward I will continue to move. For someone as easily bored as me, moving is the only way, forward the preferab

Whirling Dervish

Tight and slow with winter chill We were received into creation. Music strummed our lighted limbs. We were Venus and Mars. Earth centered our whirl and we warmed. Our hearts opened into ‘yes.’ Empty as space and full as eggs, Spinning chakras of a dance studio. Crying at the voice of the ‘call of the soul,’ Joyously answered. Creatures of earth en-souled. We remembered the big bang Back when we were stars, Sneezing planets into being. Orbits force spiraled energy, Like old dusters we spun away the junk, Opening our minds to catch the fractal light. He channeled stars and I could hear. Mercury spoke where language faltered. We became ourselves again, as light. Some were sick and wild with homecoming, Others danced their lifetimes of spinning. Spinning tops, laughing, falling, followed - A comets tail arced the room. White lights whirled above and below, Spinning colours of red, blue and violet, Scent of flowers, bread and even f

I Am a Horse

I must be a horse. Slim limbs twitch hyperactive, Spacious eyes on every gate. Irritation ripples them easily, They pound the ground, away. Dangerous when hostile; Willful beasts, prone to kicking and Snorting their temper all chunky veined. Mouthy and Hyper-responsive. Uncontrollable, unless broken. Easily damaged, they abhor force. Mild as doves, then bold they run To find remembered spacious fields Away from the herd. I am a horse. Leanne Margaret copyright  2015

Maroon Pride

Her armrest rumbled loose, His maroon pride: “This is how a real engine sounds.” Leather, dusty as an old man’s couch, My eyes tighten against wheezy vents. Second gear jabs my ears, Skull shuddering Throb of oxygen, Ribcage resists. Teeth set stiff as a Cheshire cat, Laughing at his trophy: “My brain hurts, Where’s the window button?” Air’s escape relieves some. When her muffler grates He ‘hi-fives’ his mates! Vintage Prestige Vehicles Are still old cars. Leanne Margaret © 2015


Crashing down from predators flight Inky tipped thorn on mountain bright Covetous of shield of knight To sever lashings grip of fright. The desert set the winter free From summer's fig, to 'Hecate tree' She dropped her leaves, revealed the bones Her howling, petrified summer's rose. Stripped, the branch revealed its source Trailing, rising, jutting, force Twisting, ever toward the light Even through soul's long dark night. Seasons flowed in streams of change De-slodging ancient mountain rains Pinecones calling thought to form Turning till the stories formed. Time's mirrored space collected Dreamtime forests there reflected Unknowable as spirit veiled Spirit eyes saw time spun tales. By such crossing roads were razed Times multi-headed serpent staged Mirrored there an older face Put to death and raised. So it turns in perfect form Summer's leaf will colour all Winter's dreams will-lit with bright Forging clear a sword of f


Frozen, timeless still World swirls distant Bones, resting, now Patience opens serenity Resist not, apathy Winter seeds rest. Rest Rest seeds winter Apathy, not resist Serenity opens patience Now resting bones Distant swirls world Still, timeless, frozen. Leanne Margaret copyright 2011