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


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


A wild call from some

ancient dream

drives the rapids

thrumming her veins.


Split the wood—

spit in the fire—

while arcane whisperings

drive her bristling bones


as she rolls the tent come dawn.


Only the water knows where it is going.

The boat is haunted.


It’s no less a decision

To get in and ride.


If we only knew that the soul is constantly active, that it is using everything, every choice, every haunting, every moment of chattering mind to bring us down the river into who we really are.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014


From the Void

Dark drank the moon,

a cube in her drink,

contained sin

in a glass quarantine.

The cream of water

lay between her

legs like ointment,

dabbing at a sore heat;

earth stabbing at her

red, poor feet

each dawn of spring

in white socks,

no shoes,

blind with no reason,

sequestered each season,

like this one,

for a verdict:


a red potato was born

this day

in the palm of her empty hand.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

Photo by Keith Grantkeith-grant-void

An Ode To Outer Space

Synchronistically the apple tries its flight

and wind blows;

the fish parts the waves for a glimmer of air

and wind blows;

whispers of the darkness

that holds it all together

thunder past your ears

riding a bike, running.


The darkness—not the light—is the source.

Without air, it holds the air,

without movement,

it holds all movement,

as space, as emptiness

it holds all the crowded places,

the claustrophobic closets of mystery.


Be still in the terrible darkness,

feel its silence run through

your veins, until your heart beats

with the emancipation of

timeless, airless, empty

nothingness—where everything

lives. Such darkness reveals

the soul.


© Andrea Mathews, 2014


Cracking open

Slip of sheer white, soundless–

a design of strength

cracking open sky,

an open space for wind

visible on fog,

roiling in the sails. 


I take up the cross and follow

the sound of whales–a league of seasons–

dry my shells on the sand.


There is this cataclysm of universe

on universe, this crater in the known,

this blitzkrieg of earth, wind, fire,

all turned retrograde in the fourth,

the dogma, the credo, the alpha and omega–

this coming from that,

the egg that planted the lightning

that planted the seed of me

from the corpulence of soul



Lightning struck

the same man twice,

once to make him blind,

twice to make him see.

Trouble is just another pathway in.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014