Escaping the deliverance of well-meaning friends,

she found her way to the lake,

pearling the edges with the foam of yesterday’s ripple effect.

She sat down to draw her heart

and damn if it didn’t crawl back up her sleeve

into her chest to pound the blackness down.

She couldn’t see. Had gone deaf.

Picked up a stick and began doodling

in the black soil,

found again her soul.


~Andrea Mathews

© 2016



When the rains came

she held her spear upright,

flooded the desert plain

and scattered the birds

scratching across the sky,

bleeding light

into the darkness of land.

When the rains came

she lay down in the mud

and drank in the light.

When the rains came

she suddenly realized

how thirsty she’d been.

When suffering comes our way, we often respond with a fight, for we see only despair even in the light.  Eventually, if we are wise, we learn to surrender to its message, lying down in the mud and drinking in whatever it has to give us.  Finally, one day, we look back on our suffering and see how we have transformed–indeed how we might even be mildly grateful for the suffering because we swim a deeper more meaningful river now.    

© Andrea Mathews 2015

Heavy Downpour


Wind shapes
cathedral shadows
lisping into openness
from the edge of a mound,
grasses whisper
and repeat themselves,
sensing when leaves, branches,
fruits fall.
Can I move in the evenness
of this sense
without disturbing my right hand?
Are the edges drawn with pencil
and ink, thin lines of reason,
or pauses in the rhythm;
will I find my own time,
cast my own sacred shadow,
bend my own limbs,
drop what I own
into the sound of earth
going round?

Nature has this way of being natural, that we lack. We have worked hard at complying with all that makes us unnatural.  In fact, we fear the nature in us, for we believe it is also savage.  But actually it is organic authenticity.  How do we find that rhythm, that organic sincerity that just does what it does because it is in it to do? 

© Andrea Mathews, 2015  

Photo by weiweihua on Diviant Art



Seething through the floor boards,

hacking through walls,

laughing down the chimney,

giving up the past,

recruiting all her limbs,

revisiting all her loves,

she squeezed in through her pores

and made herself some blood.

Her eyes were leery,

would not see,

her neck, heavy with brown dirt,

fingers stroking round her bones

etching out her skin.

Finally, she built the place of magic,

a curious mix of hope and uncertainty,

so she is sure that

when the time is right,

she’ll find the proper place

to put the holes

for air.

After the traumas, the sins, the wrong directions–when soul returns to body–there is the work, the building of a place to breathe.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

Photo by enzzok.diviantart.com

by Tracy Love Lee


Birth is such a bizarre event,

bleeds through the sheets

like light peers around solid objects

for shadows to lean against,

as evidence.


Coming here, being here always has the surreal quality of living inside a dense body. We look for evidence in both shadow and light. We can lean against our lives to prove we exist, or we can simply be.


© Andrea Mathews, 2014


The day of my birth

I folded clothes till midnight

and shacked up with the moon,

I shook my rattle at everyness

and made my maker quake.

I stayed up till dawn

and drank my whiskey dry,

singing songs to whales,

lost at sea.

I mattered to myself then

in the hemispheres of sky,

mattered like land

to sliding water;

landed soul in hand,

scattering me across the ground

like seed,

bowing to air

with each gravitational blur.


Awakening can only be described as looking deeply into the mirror.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

Full moon over Catalina AZ

She is…

phantom moon,

haunting the empty night,

chilling the wind,

misting sand.

She flavors the glaciers,

empowers the grasses,

sounds like

a wing.


She doesn’t need to know a thing,

she knows so well,

Rides her horse

across the desert

in waves

of rock,


in the silence;

setting the depths

of the darkest sea,

crying with the joy

of weight.


There is a quiet essence to Grace, a breath of motivation, for everything from the push of a seed to the change of seasons. What else do we need to know?

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

Cape Gannets