Brown veins reach toward a sky we call blue
Not wearing her summer dress
She seems to bare a scarier appearance
Not ashamed of her nude presentation
She knows winters do not last.
At night when few are willing to look
She dresses in wishes,
Engagement rings twinkle on the betrothed
bony fingers.

Many pass her, outstanding as she is,
they pass without a glance.
She stays standing
knowing spring will come
seeking fruit and shade.
they might see her dancing in that summer dress
so too autumn will come and they will fall away
as her leaves
she will be left, maybe even forgotten
for another winter, she does not anger nor judge
She stands.
still outstanding
that’s the beauty of being you in all seasons

Five nights passed and seven stars had to die to grant him his wish, seven stars was the price for a priceless pen, The aspiring writer held this heavenly pen tight as if it was the answer to his dried mind ready to write till the rising of the sun, yet not a word, not a line could he write, cursing the stars he walks to the well of good wishes and started casting coin after coin wishing on the right book to write a good story all night and the whole of the next day he cast coin after coin even asked passersby for coins as it took all he had, and then some, was the price for the well to grant him his wish, next to him a steel blue book with moon white pages, it was lunar parchment, each page had a glow, was soft and textured, the greatest book ever crafted and the moon was never full again.
The writer with his wishes in his hands sat down expecting words but not one came to his mind.
Not a good story, he could not write a word afraid to waste ink afraid to waste a page, for what more could he wish?

What makes a good story?
There are many things that make a story good the characters the themes and the plot, how your characters grow, and the pacing, and how the themes are there, but not predictable, and countless other things that accomplished writers have written and made videos for us to learn from.
Focusing on the craft and all its elements are important to a good story, I believe the story is good before the crafting and elements, they are the fuel to the fire, and can make the telling of the good story amazing, but we can focus on every element and seek all the best ways, and drink as much caffeine or get as drunk as possible or do whatever is the next thing we believe is the best thing, but that is not what makes a story a good one, the breath of the fire, is the spark.
A spark does not always create fire at first, sometimes we have to spark a couple of times before something is lit.
The spark I speak of is that feeling that there is something, that pull, from within we all have this spark but as a spark, it is often fleeting and many just move on giving up on that fire and sleep cold and hungry soul, hungry uncomfortable and not satisfied looking at the stars and casting wishes, thinking that we need something to inspire us or create us, we are afraid to focus on the spark because it feels distant and fragile, but you cannot deny it a spark is a flame it is a fire inside you, we all have it, you have it.
The spark is you, that feeling of an idea that just sits with you sometimes it’s a small thing like a hunch and sometimes it is an idea, it is that you inside you, you are a fire of sparks and trusting your fire will make you a wild one setting all alight, believe in your spark it is a good story.

I think of the writers that wrote the stories that have lasting ripples in my life, how they must have trusted word by word as they write the story, trusting that this is worth telling, Their courage has left a mark on my life, and it all form trusting that spark, I think a story with all the good techniques and all the best ways of writing can still be a bit of a blunder if not honest, it will pass you, but a good story is an honest story, an honest story comes from a true spark, comes from you.
Thank you for reading
Have an epic week
Peace and Love.

“I am tired,” words I hear more often each day, “I am just tired,” “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I am just so tired these days.”

We face the day as if it will be a battle as if we must be prepared for this thing called life that will punch us in the face so we try and try to evade and block its punch but it always gets us.
Mondays are often the heavyweight and then Fridays are kinder more like sparing, facing the day as if it is going to be a fight will eventually make you swing, and it is tiring jabbing at air.
Every day we make people and circumstances our opponents, invisible enemies all around us, the world has even made 2020 the bad guy beating us all and we hope for 2021 to be the hero to save us, a mind that is always at war will make a soul fatigued, everything is a battle for us and I don’t know why.

What occupies the mind will trouble the spirit or lift it, in the back of our mind we always have that thing we need or want to do, but because of fear or fatigue we place it on the shelf and go on and we try to move on and yet that never settles it keeps us up, keeps us tired we do not rest because we did not handle this thing that keeps us troubled, could be a phone call you have to make or talking to someone or applying for that job or quitting that job or whatever we postpone and our spirit does not put things on hold it carries what we try to ignore.
Our heart always speaks to us, often it speaks courageously and it speaks spontaneously, and it speaks with passion and speaks of love, and we with our daily battles often do not feel brave for such things. We place our hearts on the shelf we basically ignore our own existence, passion pounces often without appointments and we have our day planned so, let’s shelf you, for now.
Our heart whispers let’s go be, and we say no, not now, now I have to stay and do, our heart jumps and bleeds for love but even that we shelf because right now it does not make sense or bad timing or…
Fill the gaps, we have this constant battle with ourselves with our honest self, and I can not think of anything more tiring than the constant killing of the heart.

Mind your heart because it does not lie to you, trusting your heart can be a scary thing, I honestly believe that God is the whisper of the heart, saying to do such seemingly ridiculous things, it could be a silly thing like take this way back home instead of the usual path, it could be that feeling of waiting before you buy, or buy that now, it could be the more daunting things like, get out of this thing you are in now, could be a job or a people or a town, it could also be, stay, these things are scary and that is the why we often place it on a shelf but I believe that is why we are so often fatigued and with that fatigue, we won’t feel ready to make such scary choices and that is how we often stay in situations for years,
being in a job you don’t like for years or at a place or in a bad relationship or not in one at all, or don’t have a job, not at the place we want to be because we are fighting ourselves, we have this battle with our heart, because often our heart does not make sense

“Fatigue makes cowards of us all”- Vince Lombardi.
I believe we are tired because we deny who we are, we fear the choices we need to make or want to make, mind your heart start listening, I can not guarantee that each feeling is your heart and even if it is the outcome will be rainbows and sunshine in Lala land, but I believe choosing the heart leads to discover you, and that is your greatest gift, don’t be afraid if your heart whispers love it is already there, act on it.

I hope that you had an epic week and that you enjoyed this read.
Thank you for reading.
Peace and Love.

In my skin, I live
Yet alive I have felt just outside it
The day I braved outside normal
caressed the uncomfortable brush
Then a fresh breath visits the lungs
Brave, the desire even the path unclear
A heart, as compass may entice fear
but the path of Love
Is a living path.

I prayed without knowing your name and nature
I heard from others who you are and how to speak
As if my tongue was not fit
My breath not true
I could not say to you
my heart,
I believed you could not listen or hear
such a troubled tongue.
What an affair,
I prayed in the only way I heard
bargains deals wagers and records
As if you did not care about me but for my deed
So I say let me insure, give me the cure
What is the cost of my soul dark, broken, and foul.
Often desperately wailing, with callused clasped hands
god oh, god hear, this beggar’s plead.
Your name and nature I did not know.

Now I whisper, giggle and guffaw.
Speaking with You.
hands now open
untroubled tongue sings Your name
With the wind, trees, flowers, bees, we all say
Your name
Your name a favorite breath to breath
On bicycle free and flying
sitting writing, everything
everywhere You and me always
Never away
I now pray
I pray
As a child plays

Standing with coins in my pocket, I face this giant with lights and buttons filled with colors I have to choose, which sugary treats will be worth my coins. Having made my choice, a packet of sour worms, I wonder was it the right choice was it a fair trade the packet is quite small, and someone next to me walked away with Astros did I make the right choice?

When I look back at my life I see that most of my life I have lived according to the exchange rate, I have swapped almost everything for everything, when I was young it was simple homework for playtime, and sometimes it would be a Pikachu, Meowth, Bulbasaur, for a Charizard.
Now I see that I made many transactions often unspoken ones, exchanges to be excepted and liked, exchanges that would only coast to conform not knowing I was actually exchanging myself, rather not wear this shirt, this one is “cool” rather not go barefoot, or whatever it was was small exchanges, unseen and almost unnoticed.
I have realized that to this day I still live with this exchange rate, what we call manners often is only exchange for being accepted, walk barefoot in a mall and see what happens, fart loudly while walking down the street, I can hear all the buts and protesting. We force smile and wave because if you don’t then you will be perceived as nasty or mean

I have seen how this exchange rate has influenced my relationships, and even how I saw and treated God. I often treated friendship as a trade you buy today I will tomorrow, a message for a message, a gift for a gift, I could not be the only one receiving nor the only one giving, we all have heard it or even said it, earn my respect, that’s saying earn my kindness, love, and my friendship what are you exchanging to be in my circle?
I often worked for love or friendships I did this trade subconsciously because that is how it worked it was how life is all around me.

Dear God I will stop swearing if you can just let me win this one time, God I know I have been bad but I won’t be anymore if you can just help me out this one time, the exchange prayers are endless, we even live in a state of constant exchange, God I give you a good life as good as I can in exchange for heaven, ever wonder what you did wrong when things go wrong in your life, today was shit but yesterday I was rude to that other teller and now I got what was coming to me, my bad deeds in exchange for punishment, and sometimes we chuck a coin into the vending God and two cokes roll out instead of one, and that might of been because I was exceptionally good, the exchanges are endless.

I still catch myself bargaining with God, I want to go on this trip, I explain why it would be good and what good I will do, I want to earn more money so I lay my budget down before him with hopes that it would reveal that I will be good for this raise or more income, here God I will give you this if you could give me that, God here is my talent it’s for you now please help me publish, or God here is my voice I will sing for you as if singing can ever be void of God as if our talent is separate of God.
I wonder it and heard it form others; I did not use my talent for God so God took it away, what a bad investment God made in me, I only gave my voice for money and fame, now I have lost it all, what a tragic exchange.

I can only speak for myself, with no relationship exchange makes sense because we believe in the worth of things and actions, not in the worth of self, I think this is probably one of the greatest lies we believe and that is that we are not enough or not worthy by just being us.
We are.
You are.
I am.

Dear God, I won’t… again, if you can just…

Standing with coins in my pocket, I face this giant with lights and buttons filled with colors I have to choose, which sugary treats will be worth my coins. Having made my choice, a packet of sour worms, I wonder was it the right choice was it a fair trade the packet is quite small, and someone next to me walked away with Astros did I make the right choice?

When I look back at my life I see that most of my life I have lived according to the exchange rate, I have swapped almost everything for everything, when I was young it was simple homework for playtime, and sometimes it would be a Pikachu, Meowth, Bulbasaur, for a Charizard.
Now I see that I made many transactions often unspoken ones, exchanges to be excepted and liked, exchanges that would only coast to conform not knowing I was actually exchanging myself, rather not wear this shirt, this one is “cool” rather not go barefoot, or whatever it was was small exchanges, unseen and almost unnoticed.
I have realized that to this day I still live with this exchange rate, what we call manners often is only exchange for being accepted, walk barefoot in a mall and see what happens, fart loudly while walking down the street, I can hear all the buts and protesting. We force smile and wave because if you don’t then you will be perceived as nasty or mean

I have seen how this exchange rate has influenced my relationships, and even how I saw and treated God. I often treated friendship as a trade you buy today I will tomorrow, a message for a message, a gift for a gift, I could not be the only one receiving nor the only one giving, we all have heard it or even said it, earn my respect, that’s saying earn my kindness, love, and my friendship what are you exchanging to be in my circle?
I often worked for love or friendships I did this trade subconsciously because that is how it worked it was how life is all around me.

Dear God I will stop swearing if you can just let me win this one time, God I know I have been bad but I won’t be anymore if you can just help me out this one time, the exchange prayers are endless, we even live in a state of constant exchange, God I give you a good life as good as I can in exchange for heaven, ever wonder what you did wrong when things go wrong in your life, today was shit but yesterday I was rude to that other teller and now I got what was coming to me, my bad deeds in exchange for punishment, and sometimes we chuck a coin into the vending God and two cokes roll out instead of one, and that might of been because I was exceptionally good, the exchanges are endless.

I still catch myself bargaining with God, I want to go on this trip, I explain why it would be good and what good I will do, I want to earn more money so I lay my budget down before him with hopes that it would reveal that I will be good for this raise or more income, here God I will give you this if you could give me that, God here is my talent it’s for you now please help me publish, or God here is my voice I will sing for you as if singing can ever be void of God as if our talent is separate of God.
I wonder it and heard it form others; I did not use my talent for God so God took it away, what a bad investment God made in me, I only gave my voice for money and fame, now I have lost it all, what a tragic exchange.

I can only speak for myself, with no relationship exchange makes sense because we believe in the worth of things and actions, not in the worth of self, I think this is probably one of the greatest lies we believe and that is that we are not enough or not worthy by just being us.
We are.
You are.
I am.

They are playing with paper guns, I think sometimes it’s a phone, then a boomerang, and then the funniest it seems to be something gross a bug or a snot I don’t know but my heart is light as I witness them playing with these pieces of folded paper.
I know that is still in us all, we often act that growing up kills the child in us that is not true the child can never be killed, only placed in dark spaces and ignored till the banging on the door only becomes part of the daily noise.
The world is a limitless wonder, we can never run out of breathtaking moments and marvel.
The world will always give opportunities for exploration and play.

We stop to play mostly because of fear, fear of what others might think or what we think they will think we are taught what looks foolish and we fear how we are perceived no one wants to look foolish, but, children do not have that care, only this gorgeous moment where a folded piece of paper can be anything and we as the adults encourage this and do not judge them for acting like this paper gun is a snot or whatever we laugh with them and if no one is watching we play along because all we want as loving parent or friends and adults is for a child to play, be free and healthy.
Growing up I have never felt the child die, the only thing was I became ashamed of him, you know the moment you did something that just busted out of you a moment you were childlike and you heard the words, that is not what adults do or that was not cool.
We are composed and put together we are walking in line and say hello and goodbye people, not come and play with me, jump in a crowed and say tea party or crack a joke with your whole body, even our laughter has become muffled and revised, not too loud, no weird rhythms, only a good amount of laugh, and not too exuberant, dare not giggle that is for little girls.
Laughter is the child even if we suppress or deform the child never dies, creativity is the child fun and play is the child, we only hide that part we only become shy and fearful of our childlikeness.

There is this illusion that growing up means hardship, and that a child’s life is light and filled with butterflies, and an adult’s life is the nightmares that have become real, we have responsibilities and work,
“A life”
Kids are these beautiful angels pure and innocent, and then we transform into the monsters guilty and ugly, we won’t say it but look at our actions there is no mercy for adults and no mercy on ourselves. I think most of us went through that stage where we did not want to become an adult, I believe it is because it looked like the opposite of who we are, I did not want to grow up because I did not want to lose believe or my wonder, it is as we were taught that the opposite of adult is child, we cannot see it that way we can’t transform into the opposite of what we started as.

It is scary for a child to grow up, we often say that’s life (only when bad things happen), and talk about the horrors of life and we promote it as a selling point as if the harder it is and the worse it is the more you are adulating (more successful)
As a defense to our lost passions, we tell kids, wait till you grow up, as if we are butterflies that turn into caterpillars or worse worm monsters living only for the grind. Work monsters that know only of pain and what life truly is, we have moments of play but that is tamed and only for the weekends, and holidays but even that has the cruel whip of life.
The child lives inside, paper guns or boomerang is still inside, we try and suppress it that is why so many of us are often tired and that we feel so fatigued because we hide who we are.
We forget, there is a quote in the little prince “growing up is not the problem forgetting is.”
Don’t forget, don’t let the lies of how you have been brought up make you shy or ashamed of that child in you, don’t forget to play and be, excited a child loves the day no matter the name, today is Monday but we have paper and our imagination, we have our laugh, we are the beautiful innocent child, we grow but not out of our “childship” we are not the broken and forgotten, we have not transformed into monsters, don’t be ashamed don’t be shy come out that dark room now is the time to play, this is a life full of moments to marvel and Love.

Thank you for reading
Peace and Love

They doubt us now.
Don’t fall for their real words
For it’s not the truth
Love your dreams
Enough to offer them
Your bruised skin
Hard, hard work
Offer them your tired eyes.
Offer them your time
Blood, honesty, and Love.
Dreamers
Your dreams are true
With a true life!
The Brave act on their words.
Their heart whispers, dear dreams I know you.
I know you’re scent, you smell like God’s breath.
You are what God whispers to us personally.
You are the language of the heart
That’s why others often don’t understand.
Pain blinds the eyes
Nothing is more painful than losing yourself
even if it is not often felt.
Fear deafens the ears, open violent mouths.

Do not hate who do not see
do not hold, them hostage for your fear
Dream and act
Dream and work
Dream and be you.

I nervously sat in a room darkened with my fear, the gloom sat on the walls my melancholy a tangible feeling to anyone who passes this room of darkness, it was not what I intended, all I wanted to do is write a poem, but a fear-filled mind quickly can conjure nightmares that even makes sunlight dim to nightfall, I was afraid that I will fail. (I fucking hate failing)

While my mind entertains these lies I cannot think clearly, I cannot put pen to paper I cannot move all that keeps popping up inside is why are you doing this, who are you fooling, why even try, you will get exposed as a fraud, with my cluttered mind laying heavy on my heart I could not write.

Walking outside in the light trying to breathe I go about my day as normal, knowing that today, I still need to write a poem.

I cannot recall what poem I wrote on that day but I know I had many similar days not as dramatic as that might have sounded but we all know that voice that pops up in the quite with your fingers on the keys or pen at hand or whatever you doing that voice that pops up often in the quiet spewing lies, lies that disqualifies and breaks down, lies that tries to avoid true quiet, the quiet that settles in your heart like a leaf on water, the quiet knowing of truth, that quiet place where you are still and you know you are. 

Writing often requires quietly sitting and thinking what to write, what to rhyme, thinking of the characters and all their why’s and the what if’s in the stories, whatever you writing, sitting, and doing nothing is a part of it, drifting in thought sitting in the quiet.

It was hard for me to sit in the quiet because of the voices I mentioned, I believe all expression, has this challenge whatever your art, there is a stillness that must, for us to truly express our heart.

I believe many of us struggle with this.

Life is just one enormous conglomeration of noise, alarms wake us, notifications on our phones now we always have music with us in our ears, or podcasts and radio, traffic, peoples voices, and opinions, we move from noise to noise, we go home and watch shows or listen to music, always noise, my mother will work around the house but the TV will be on the news not watching but listening, we always have noise, I think we fear stillness, quiet, not moving, well I know that I struggle with it, I always have to do something, have to seem busy, someone must not see me just sitting for no apparent reason, we have to make noise and “hustle” that is a successful life.

The quiet will bring stillness and awareness of the moment and a connection with you that is what I believe we fear, ourselves facing the truth of us.

I don’t want to go on this too deep for now but I am reminded of the quote in Coach Carter 

“It is our light, not our darkness, that most frighten us. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do.” 

I think we get glimpses of our light when we are still and that may frighten us because often that light seems contradictory to what we know as normal, but I want to write more about the practical things that happened as I forced myself to write a poem every day from Monday to Friday for ten weeks.

I got used to the quiet, instead of having this epic battle with my mind and the fear of not getting anywhere I found peace within the process a comfort with that bit of discomfort and my mind started to work with me, I found stories everywhere. 

Often I would sit in the house and nothing is coming to mind, maybe only words or small ideas but nothing substantial, not that epic flow, and I would often sit two hours having written only three lines or less or more but it’s not poetry it is just words or phrases, I would then still not worry or fear I would do something ells and come back or what I recently started to do is go to another place, jumping on my bicycle and go I like nature so I would find a place near water and sit and write sometimes, I would go to a place to buy a coffee, I did not always like that because that felt too stereotypical (also just a battle with an illusion.)

I would like to go to this pizza place and sit at this certain booth order a cappuccino and write and stories would come one of the poems was about a girl building her own pizza.

I would just walk outside my house find a place to sit and write about that spot, there were bees just humming above me as I sat in the shade of a tree and that became a poem everything started to whisper to me as I became comfortable with the stillness, even noisy places make for amazing poetry but I needed to be still within.

The noise in my mind was lies, mostly just what I thought people might think, and not living up to their expectations that I decide that they have, weird how we work( I don’t believe that I am the only one doing this) I immediately had a mind of disqualification before I could even write, I first had to battle this noise, I don’t have answers to a noiseless life, nor the five steps to becoming the world’s best selling author but what I have discovered for myself is that spending time with what you love will require a stillness of heart and that will force you to face you, and facing you, will reveal you and the lies that you believe then it slowly happens without you know, you are, I don’t know how it works all that I know is that it does and that we must, most of us want to become forgetting that we already are, and stillness of heart helps reveal that truth. 

Now I am a lover of quiet places it encourages stillness.

Thank you for reading, have an epic day.

Peace and Love. 

I wrote a poem a day every Monday to Friday for ten weeks.
What happened well I have discovered that we are not limited, I wrote and thought that I am going to hit a blank I am not going to have a poem to write that my creativity will run out, and it did not somehow I found more and more words more and more ideas and I got better at it than I thought, I got more excited for what I was writing because I have discovered that there is just so much more, weird that the less I wrote the harder the words came and the less creative I felt.

Writing often I felt fatigue at times and that made me lazy and that I want to give up just that I just have to give up or skip the day and if that feeling was strong I hit some of my old books and wrote, rediscovered them and edited them and posted them felt a bit like cheating, but I just needed to get over my silly issues and enjoy giving new life to old pages.
One of the biggest things that happend is that I disovered how I write, call it a process but I started know mysself and trusting myself to write, my poems started changing it was a voice that was always speaking yet I have never gave it the time of day I could not always recognise it but now I have and I hear the diffrent tones and depths, and I know there is still much to discover.

I have a new confidance when writing my poems, I have become comfortible with the sitting and quiet, I often got fustrated (Fbomb)
with myself I need to get this poem out why am I just sitting here why cant I get a line written down, its going to look like I am doing nothing, what must I write about all the voices are just noise that builds wall around creativity, sparks need air, when I made peace with how I write knowing that it will come the more free I wrote the more I could write my heart out.
There is a beauty that comes with freedom and acceptance a trust that I can not give voice to yet for me it is still a young discovery, I have excitment in this new knowing and trust.

I will write more aout this “gump challenge and the discoveries with blogs to come.
Thank you for reading
Peace and Love.

When I decided to start blogging I was unsure what I should do with it, I knew that I want to write, share and express I have enjoyed the discovery and enjoy the process of writing something, being that it was unclear and that it felt like I was only starting I wrote what was on my heart writing about writing, random moments and writing more about the act of writing avoiding to write something down, this went on for longer than it should have and a friend once told me (now I will paraphrase) “but you are not writing”
He was right so I decided I will write and post my poems and that is when I had it a small “Forest Gump” moment I just decide that I will keep writing a poem on the blog every day for five days and somewhere I broke my stride but then it came again with vengeance I just kept posting poems, not knowing for how many weeks I would want to write I knew that I want to write at least one week worth of poetry but I kept writing and writing not sure when I will stop, I just kept running.
It went on for weeks and there were times when I cheated a bit well I had no rules but I posted poems that I have previously written, they needed some revision, more about that on a later blog the main thing I did was force myself to write and work on the art I love, I just kept writing a poem, each week I had five new poems I never thought I would have, all I did was write.
In the blogs to come, I want to share just what I have experienced in doing this Gump challenge and why it has changed so much of my writing and how I approach it.
When the words was said that I am not actually writing I felt it, I knew what I was doing, I was hiding, first class hiding if I have to say so myself I was hiding in plain sight I wrote and had the blog to prove it and yet a true friend saw the bullshit I was selling and I did what I do best run and keep running, running in this case straight into the direction of my heart and the more I ran toward my heart the less aware of fear I became I don’t know if I passed fear on the way to my heart or if I was running away from fear or through it but all I know is that I just posted my work and in a weird way became less and less worried what you the reader might think, now that might seem like I became lazy or not involved, that was not the case at all, all I wanted to give was honesty, I had more freedom to express and create, to cut and add what I wanted with very little thought of what might seem interesting to you, I just want to express this poem as I felt it should be as honest as I could, more on that later.

I did not think that a simple commitment to a small task like this would transform my writing as much as it did, or let me phrase it like this that it would reveal my writing as it did because for a large part we are always in the discovery of ourselves, we get revealed trough our art and that was the magic for me.
It is a liquid always moving and different but the same like an ocean or flame you see it, it is the same and yet there is always a reason to keep seeking and watching it, as it keeps revealing, so are we if we just keep in the direction of our heart.
Thank you for reading
Peace and Love.

How do you express a heart with so much life to share?
I have been only posting poetry for a while and now I feel like I want to let you all in on the things I have experienced in life and just committing to writing a poem for five days of the week every week for an undisclosed period of time.
I have to follow my own advice and just breathe, honestly, I feel like I want to explode.

I am just going to fall in with a rose, I have simple eyes when it comes to roses all I notice is the colour, but recently my horizons have been broadened about the different kinds and their names and I was reminded that there is always more to everything we see, roses are not just beautiful flowers with thorns.
I had the privilege to accompany Mark and Kelly to an art exhibition in Rosendale, and again my mind broke as it often does, inspired, overwhelmed with life and all its possibilities.
It was beautiful art of all kind, photos, paintings and sculptures, it felt special to be at a small town in a little place with tiny rooms and the world is going on with all its beauty and madness but there in that place at that moment we are just walking in a place with things created by other roses with wonderful names and layers and stories, appreciating their time and hands was an amazing privilege.
Realising the rose we see most often, judge the hardest for its thorns and only see as dull, is the reflected rose, it’s hard to see our own splendour and magic our own vibrancy.
We often feel guilty when we catch a glimpse of our beauty.

Walking seeing what people made I felt my heart resonate, as if there was soul music playing bouncing off from the art and the people, I hear the song I felt my hart harmonising with this song, and I got excited for my friends that I know have sweet music to share to sing, hum and play.
I got excited and I frustrated, with our hiding and feeling inferior or whatever the excuses are to not just let it all out, maybe it was more for me then for my friends maybe, sometimes when I stand on a mountain and watch the sunrise I honestly wish the world could just stand still and appreciate the splendour of light, and Mark and Kelly are such splendours rising suns of warmth and colour.
We all are, it is just easier to see in others.
On the drive back I broke into a badly spoken speech with what Kelly calls F-bombs of how FRUSTRATED I was with them because I want them not to hide or doubt their own light, they should create and go for it, the words I flung on our way back was aimed at myself as well.
Now that speech with some revision.
I am excited for all of us, there is not one dull rose, and the beauty of a sunrise and a rose is that it does not beg for an audience when it is just purely itself.

I often walk with Mark and we go to places and take photos of beautiful nature and wildlife or entertaining streets filled with structures and moments but I catch myself often taking photos of Mark taking photos, why when all around me is there waiting for a photo why am I taking a photo of someone that I can photograph at anytime? Life, life, he is alive there is a tangible passion a heartbeat that pulsates off of him, you can feel it and you are drawn to it, I have just stood and admired Kelly at being Kelly, playing the piano, creating a garden, I have been witness to many roses and rising suns, being themselves with no audience or recording just passion erupting, a moment of unforgiving no questions asked life. Honestly, I know of no better beauty than those moments.

I often think of worth the price tag or seats filled forgetting about depth.
The depth of the moment alone on a mountain and you see the sunrise or set or looking at the ocean only you and all its splendour there is and indescribable power and intimacy an unending depth, no need for an audience or a price tag only the awareness of this beauty, and that it is a reflection of us, there is no dull rose, seen or not seen, plucked or not.
I am more excited, for my fellow roses and rising suns, exited I see us growing I see us rising I see us reflecting, I am excited without expectation a peaceful excitement knowing that there is no dull rose.

The question we have
Am I good or bad
is it okay to feel this good
or that sad
why do I get so mad
and why do I still wonder

Years and years we ponder
years and years we ask
lives have asked the same
over and over again
we faced with what to do with this thing we have,
life.

Often questioning feels in vain
and guilt climbs in my heart
for why do I complain
The questions we have all before had.
But answers, answers seem to only live
with a few quiet lives
some poetry, some songs
on old vinyl and paintings, protected from mould
art, of the dead who only left us with clues
How could that simply, be true
Who can believe that life with all its questions is that simple?

You have to be you.

Inbetween some sheets of poetry
I found that some words
pass the ears and speak to the soul
Thank you to all the poets and artists of old and new
That shared the language of the heart

I fear that I will hear the words
but not heed to the words spoken
I see how we all resonate
to the whispering ghosts of the past
calling for us to live more
worry, less
fear, less
Love more

Art has always been the way of the soul
The awakening call
here at my desk filled with those gentile voices
I hope that first my life
then my words do the same.

An honest life a rare find
most hide
unaware of the treasure inside
Buried and ocean swallowed
nescient of what masterpiece the chest holds
no map no compass no x
A hart burdened with lies
struggles to stand
if only you could see
your glint and shimmer
only from your self, you conceal
with trust, you will reflect and reveal
Your hide will not prevail
for you truly are
Nonpareil

Living to be enough is painfilled
Worth will cost your life
how tragic is this game of more
build the more and more
the game of possession will take you over
build yourself up,
build and build
Build so much enough and you will become plenty nothing.
nothing.

Tragic acquisition to gain everything by the exchange of self
worthless lies layover lives
seeking to be of enough worth
as if birth
your birth was not abundant
superabundant.
What an opulent event
Your life
your life as you are for you are
what magic conjured you, love magic
Love
Living
Loved
Alive because you are love and loved.

I love the rain.

I step with the same feet yet light-footed, I feel.
My eyes the same as yesterday, today everything seems brighter?
My heart beats a little faster but, I am sure it is the same.
What is happening to me?
I don’t mind, nor do I seek to blame I, wonder about this change in my veins, the rush of life pulsating, same blood, same body.
Maybe it is the rain.

Stubbornly drought walking has left a soul scorched brittle breaking like the crust of forgotten baking bread.
Have we baked too long?
Curiously, we stay, warm we stay, fresh.
Difficult to see, for in the same skin, same shoe, foot, and soul
Different we reflect
Maybe it is the rain.

Change, only noticed after it has happened.
like these lightfooted steps from the same feet
the vision from old eyes
it is the rain within the rain
a heart of mizzling changes, not the day
but a life.

I love the rain.
It has been an unnoticed storm in our hearts
consistent precipitation of life
and now how alive have we become
I love the rain.

I love the rain.

Here I sit, the page waits for the stain
trusting that I will do right
I don’t know if the page remembers how it once was
house for birds and shade for writers
I wonder as I sit by its kin if they know of each other
I sit and wonder
why it trust my hands as if I never cut down
why do you trust me to write these words I call poetry
I sit and wonder.

In wonder, I sit and cry only a little bit
For I think I may not be weak
I manipulate this ink to speak
what my mouth struggles to word
like
I Love you
I honestly do.
This blank is loving arms for a heart that longs to be, embosomed
it is ears to a voice that knows far too much of silence
this blank trust my hands, for that
in wonder, I sit.

Wonder sits with me
under this tree, or by the stream
or on this page, or the gathering dust collecting books
by the loud and quiet of my heart
wonder sits with me
because you are close to me
I know what a silly thing to write on the page,
that trusts for something called poetry.
don’t you wonder?

Long have I filled cups with water
Hoping it would be wine
Trying to be Jesus
Miracle hunting to be good.
Long have we looked at Heroes
with empty eyes,
Hungry to be them,
discontent with ourselves
Heroes are more dangerous than villains
If we try to be them
forgetting ourselves
Missing the divine within
don’t hide behind the storybook and scripture
the lure of better
the message is not to be like them
but they like us are.
the song of the hero is to be you.
you.

I have drifted above the ceiling
These bright wings hold me up, only when they are open
I am, drifting in a bright daylight sky
while my body waits
for a moment I am not sure will come
I hear my spirit susurrate “make it”
He rattles the bars of my illusions
while my mind clutches at gravity
hands that seek a key
now faced with the battle I clearly made
what tragedy self-imprisonment
“Let go” Howls my free spirit
You only fly with your wings wide open
Trust.
Trust cant be done with a closed fist.

O’ Lord it is hard to write
language, words I count
hoping that they are sufficient and true
but nothing seems to be enough for you
yet I still write this
A poem, prayer, page of complaints and praise
for with my words I seek
what is true, love, kingdom, You.

Rolling on some tongues I hear
what I do not feel.
A concordat, a deal
They say; Only your life it will cost
selling me, not you. Miracles and eternal life.
A full course meal at the cost of taste tongue and teeth all grief.
but when death comes I might, have paid for relief.
A tragic sales pitch
Sounding like a bargain for the bastards, bitches, and excluded
Eager for the key to the great gate,
willingly go through shit to get the T-shirt
Fearfully hoping for their size yet
The team promise to make you fit, for their credit.

Rolling tongues sing to absent Gods
Lonely worship like reaching hands
Hungry to be lovingly lifted
often I and some want to do.
seeking a measuring stick, the worthy task
the whip and lash, desire the going trough hell
to be adequate for you
but nothing seems to be enough for You

Children captured, imprisoned in sinful sacks of skin
the curse of our long remembered apple-eating kin.
What you made
Assemble You cold-hearted
limited grace a God with no face
No hands, no embrace only thunder and rod
staff and fire.

O’ Lord it is hard to write
the sentences served seems short-handed
and nothing seems to be enough for you
I seek, You, kingdom, truth.
Between religious pages and Sunday places
I found tasteless, dull mold molded meals
inside everything feels, sad heavy and despairing
what red herring have I come across
distracting, misleading, diverted to walking the path of meaning
yet nothing seems to be enough for You.

O’ God it is hard to write
my heart out the words
I count don’t add up to what I feel for you.
nothing seems to be enough for you
All rhyme and wit are just rhyme and wit
no extra credit all ready full marks
What I believe I found by long walks, silly talks,
Birds chirps and childish giggles
between friends and quiet sittings
I started knowing You by You
from us, you never departed
From sun to Son till now not a day away
A love that remains, and will always stay
What I realize that in your sight I am.
In us, you delight.
and nothing is enough for You.

Do not contain your life
How much do you hold back?
hide tuck your wings and say you cant fly.
Dust will gather on pen brush and tools
throats grow dry and quiet, hands will slow
but you.
You will never be contained,
life will beckon, blow away your dust
inspire unpracticed hands
rain on a voice in drought.

Hold tight, yet it is folly attempting to contain love
love lines your hands
sparkles your eye
it is life, your life, hide no longer
fear will erect walls disguise as safety
or cast shadows as shade
yet.
Loves bright may seem a dangerous light, blinding the path
don’t hide don’t hold back
step be courageous
you are that light
you are the bright
you can not be contained
Love.

On this page, between thin blue lines

My heart beat, beats

You can hear the rhythm and blood I hide in these sheets

Words like seeds of oak

I plant my forest. Find me or not, find the wild of this place, I stay.

Not every word I write I will say

Not everything I feel I reveal but in this, what most call poetry, is a boy I call me,

Often I find him dancing between beats

Don’t hold back your passionate heart.
Dreams may be the language of the soul.
Speak.
We wait for your fiery voice.

Listen how the sunrise converse
do you hear the stars whisper
Dream passionate heart
your life is a warmth to many
kindling flam for the fading

Dreams may seem insignificant or odd
Ask the moon about the brave feet
that walked and jumped
small and giant steps
A heart lived alive leaves footprints on the moon
Don’t hold back your heart
Your passion is breath to us all
Thank you
don’t ever hold back you are alive
keep burning.

Why do we live such secret lives
none must know, none must see,
strong we must be.
Contained hearts lives jarred
swallowing tear chokes the soul.
Like dogs, we need to let go
after we go through cold winters
break the façade of being strong
a waterfall is not strong if it holds on
it needs to fall, vulnerable, beautiful, and strong.

Even our spring we contain
ashamed of the jump in our step
as if joy is wrong.
As if our happy can be overweight
our scales weigh us down, in its dark chasm, we live our secret lives
Secretly we hunger to be
desire to love and smile, to cry and jump
but mannered and contained we must be
so we fade, secretly we fade
gently we tiptoe around eggshell lives
afraid, of the crack, holding back

These secret lives
secretly want to love, jump, kiss and cry
in the quiet, a soul wonders why
why hold back, why live contained, why hold breath
yearns to be free before death
yearns to be

I hunger for a bed of water to help me rest
A quiet place, where the wind inspires
trees, flowers, and grass to sing
I hunger for shade and a book
where shadows dance like a river on the pages
I hunger for a place where all go about their business lovingly and true
I hunger for a place most would call lonely
But I say nature is enough company

Beauty was once what my I’s could behold
one dimension desires
it was a broken matchstick
Not the fire, not the flame
I now embrace
beyond sight, I see

Beauty was once, just for me
a thing to achieve
it was a hand full of holding
not this free fingers playing with the wind
now truly touching.

Beauty was once, many things
and now, as I sit, I don’t claim to know her
now beauty
beauty is trust, and I beautifully trust
beauty is

For long have I stood
At the edge of I
Looking down on me.
Who I am, a distant wish, no penny made the bottom.
My feet stay grounded
My soul tingling to jump
For long have I teased running
off the edge
would I float or fall
only those who go will know
Trust we must, trust I…

Scramble up the wheel
run do not stop
Don’t listen to your heart
what you feel matters not,
just scramble up this wheel
run do not stop
believe what they sell
The promise of the top
Run and run, wear out your weary heart.
Run and run, break your mind.
Run and run your body will go far
run and run, forget who you are.
scramble up this wheel
by the time you forget what is real
maybe you can stop and buy an expensive car

Dear Sun
When I was young, I drew you
on the corner of a page with shades on.
As if you are aware of your bright
do you look at the ocean and marvel at your glimmer and sparkle?
Forgive me,
I have a mind full of questions and a heart of wonder.

Do you see the morning birds, the lovers’ horizon watching
The dedicated risers’, the afternoon flowers Do you see us?
Do you ever want to come closer but fear the burn
Do you ever want to go away but fear the guilt
How much space do you need?
Does your heartache, knowing that you are never truly seen?

I wonder how you keep rising
I wonder how you keep the light
I wonder why you don’t show us what we owe you
I wonder and wonder how you are.
I wonder, are you part of the twinkling stars?
My heart tells me that you are a ray of light
to show us that if you are you
you shine.

P.S.
Thank you.

I do not fear going bald
it is just age that gives and takes hair
Today I have, tomorrow I may not
What I fear…
To not have played.
Did I enjoy the cut the comb the color
The braid, the wind, the fingers run
The rain, the jump, rise and fall
the breath.
All of it, every moment laughter and tear
have I been bold despite the fear
did I enjoy, did I play?
Before I, like my hair go away.

The arrows that wound me
I have shot myself
The pain I feel I have collected
Left them treasured in my chest
Past living has left me without presents
No gift to give to anyone
All I had was negative tipped arrows
Scabs of the past, I kept scratching.
When vulnerable
It seems that my muscles have
A memory of their own reacting in old ways
My arm reaches behind my back grabs an arrow
Draw the bow back till the string is taut
aim at my reflection
But I do not shoot, I do not shoot.

Kind is a child’s heart
to see his thirst brought a cup of water to his lips
but it is his heart she flood
tears crashed his face
this sip of kindness
relief to a soul caught in grief
a moment so small and brief
lasts in the memory
Like a good dream, you can not recall yet won’t forget
such is the power of a young girl
that saw an old man
with a thirsty heart.

I see the crumbs on the kitchen floor
I know that there is more
The bland walls and small cupboard doors
may fool the eyes
My soul smells and knows it holds more
Knows within somewhere within
there is a feast

I see the crumbs on the kitchen floor.
I know that there is more
beyond redundant days and monotonous weeks
between adventures and do nothing streaks
there is a feast

I see the crumbs on the kitchen floor
I know that there is more
I can not tell where, but often I smell
A whiff, a sent known to the soul
this feast not for happily ever after or once upon a time
there is no expiration, no rot.

I see the crumbs on the kitchen floor
I know that there is more
if only my eyes could see
what my soul smells
This feast is always.
For you and me, nothing to do or be
already we, at the table
What a mystery but not a fable
smell, and reach out
Taste and see that there is more
than crumbs on a kitchen floor.

I am,
Held by the loving arms of a grey sky
Falling to the opportunity to dance, splash, and splatter
My spirit rains with joy

No soul on this fitting shoe
What marvelous feet
barely, containing this helium heart
I am a burst of daisies
A church of foxglove
A bubble of color
I am ice cream in child hands
find me on the corners of a smile.

This is who we are when we forget.
who we are when, we I am, with The I am.
for me its a handful of rain
a mountain
a quiet night
a friends laughter
and I am.

written in the embrace of a grey sky.

I sit under the canopy of a well-dressed tree.
my skin finds peace in its shade
A choir of bees hum hymns, I do not know words
But I agree,
I know their song is true
I suppose the truth is felt, is known, seldom understood
the wind lightly conducting this praise
if I forget what needs to be forgotten
then without noticing I hum.

They will call you broken
They point to the moon and call it half
They call it as they see it
They do not see true
The moon is always full
so are you
A Sun is not broken when it sets.
though, it may be dark.
The sky is not broken when it rains.
Though, the land becomes damp and muddy.
The world is not broken when the earthquakes.
Though, everything trembles.

You are not broken.
though the cup fell
they rejected
failed the test
one pair of shoes
wrong choices
trail of shattered hearts behind you
You are not broken.
Though, you might have forgotten yourself
the sun never stops to shine.
So do you.
The rain brings life.
So do you.
Earthquakes cause the world to dance.
So do you. Shake it up.
Let them tremble.
Do not believe eyes that judge.
You are not broken.
Do not forget yourself.
No matter what they call you.

What is thunder with no sound, but a flash
A moment of light
A quiet brilliance.
A heart filled with traffic. A jam of unspoken words
A tragic crash of anger.
A heart must not beat quiet. Speak.

Do not let the desert dune your lips.
A breath of drought
Do not be a book with no words, your story won’t be written
You will be a cover of you
Your voice hungry for the conductor
Sheet music waiting to be played.
Is a song unsung, music?
Lost and found has no voice boxes

The moon waits for your call
The mountain longs your echo
The world needs your voice
beat your bloody drum, beat loud
Your sound, your song, your voice
You, you, you.
Please Thunder your brilliant light.

I arrive at the field and home
I walk in the dark of night to regain the breath I spent
I hear the howl of an owl and a shriek of the same creature I think
I breathe by the only tree far from the middle of this field
standing like an upside-down jellyfish
frozen
Then unfrozen be the wind
The night brings a quiet as it often does.
With Him, I am reminded who
I am.
I thank Him.

I sit and be counted by stars
I hold prayers in my breath
breathe them with no sound as I gaze and listen
Listen how everything gives praise
this is a beautiful night
This is a gorgeous life.

They stand before you like a bouquet flowers
You admire them as if they are placed on a grave
Hoping to see them soon
Yet kin you are not.

They often gather in crowds
You observe their laughter
Finding the cracks in their false thunder
Have they gathered like clouds?
Or some of them knocking on doors
Of strangers hoping its home

Outsider, they are like you
Giant feet in dwarven shoes
Attempting to fit in
Outsider, you are in
You, be proud
Look behind you often you will find
An outsider observing you

Let go like rain from those crowds
There is ground beneath you
Hungry for your life.
Yes it is your life
Your laughter
You
They hunger for.

The darkest of nights are filled with light
hard to admit for pain-filled eyes
A canvas of wishes lifted Van Gogh
Van Gogh, in turn, lifted his brush
In turn, we opened our eyes
even our hearts

Light has always been here
just ask van Gogh and his lifted brush
just ask the mirror
lose your ears and hear, here you are light
lose your eyes and see.

She builds a tower that barely stands
Keeps adding height with excited hands
that can not keep up with her passion

Picking up her messy
Masterpiece with arms, that know little of weight.
She walks proudly
unaware of balance
Stumbles with grace only know by butterflies
her whole body wrestles with her sculpture.

She is so proud of her
leaning tower of pizza

He stands by the door and knocks.
Could it be He knocks within
eager to come out
to play, taste, and try.
Could it be He lives inside
not playing hide and seek
but find and find
could it be
Maybe a door or wall is just the mind
Tilt your head squint your eyes
see anew
see what is true

Set sail, you are free.
Where to go, only the soul will know.
The mind might battle to lead,
yet only the map it must read
The heart points true
What a beautiful vessel the body
Set sail you are free.
you can be here and go there
Everywhere, waits for you
fearful storms may come
hold fast for they don’t last.
Trust the soul knows home.
You are free
Set sail.

No, giant, lion or dragon
is as threatening as a crowed of my kin
A gathering of they
They will look & whisper
look & laugh
look & judge
look & exclude
look and gather away, away.
Sharper than a giant spear
More fearsome than a pride of lions
more hellish than dragons breath
Their Rejection
This battle we all face
The fear of they
Standing before they
Standing with them rejecting another

O’ how easy our fingers point
our mouths talk
How easy we gather.

Trust its not about the catch or the fall it is about the hands.

Little bird teach me how to forget about tomorrow
Teach me how to build a nest without worry
Teach me about flying
Do you think about how high you can go
Or how it will hurt if you fall.
Burning sun do you have a tomorrow
Teach me to always rise
how do you stay so bright
even when clouds come and dim
Little bee how is your labor so sweet
teach me, how what you freely give can never be stolen.
Burning star how do you shine
teach me to sparkle without comparison
how do you shoot and give hope
does it bother that we wish on your death
Teach me to stay true even when not seen
Or when others outshine
Teach me about the beauty I do not see.
Little ant teach me about devout work
how do you carry such weight
teach me how you trod amongst trampling feet
how do you make home with such little limbs
Teach me please teach
all of you how do you exist being you.
teach me about the little burning inside
Trust teach me trust
Do you know that you do or are you just?
am I just I am, and trust is not about the fall or the catch…

Because you breathe

Your wounds
Your heart you left on lovers lips.
you are here.
By honeymoon or dark alley tragedy
because of all the prayers and wishes
all the laughter and the tears.

Because of your skin with all its history
your hands that loved or your fists that fought
if you stole and got away
or got caught
friend, foe, or last resort
all of the crosses you carry
your guilt and your believed sin.
your heroism and nothing
all that was done or not
whatever is still to happen.

You are here.
Always meant to be
You are here.
You are Love.

Because you breathe.

By the ghost pail building
I see a religious troop gather
Seeking, seeking
To find
To fit
To be
Afraid to be outstanding
By the splintered, stained building
I see a broken school gather
Seeking, seeking
To find
to fit
to be
Afraid to be seen
By the neglected, struggling park
I see a hungry stampede gather
seeking, seeking
To fit
To find
To be
Afraid to be apart

Oh’ what a battle the mirror can be
We all gather and struggle with reflection
We see it clearly on quiet nights.
Busy mornings, we rush past.
Often creeps up on us in crowds.

The seeking, seeking
to fit, find and be
the afraid I see everywhere
is a reflection of me
what we all miss is
Already
we outstanding, seen,
and a beautiful part.

It feels like I do not belong.
Along this path, most take
one must first die.
Must hunger for death
they are well-dressed coffins
groomed and slick
It seems inside matters not.

It’s all a battle
fight to get to the top
vultures battling for position
around a carcass
I try but belong I do not
Kindness strange
Love, a lack of vision and purpose
Lord
even You have become a goal and task
They flock and land
Picking bones with little meat
fly away victoriously
I don’t have wings nor the hunger
I can not see I can not be
not like this not this way
Still, I stay, I try and play
this gain game

The hold, hold, till knuckles turn white
clenched fist that can hold and swing
gather, gather, gatherings
teachings, breath, quiet, meditation, techniques
All to be more efficient, better at holding, gathering
How to build castles out the bones you collect
I do not know what it is
but it infects, spreads
I want to be sick
I want their wings
But

My soul knows another song
The words I have yet to find
inside with time I will
But for now, I am
A bird on a tree chirping a song
A little afraid my humming might give me away
I might be their pray
I know I can not stay
My own wings and way, I must find
It’s this song inside
I can no longer hide.

I can not tell you where to go.
The path of self only you will know.
Anywhere
By mountain or river, inside you must
By the ocean or highway
Within, there you must be
Reflection asking you to dive

If you are not you
You truly were not alive.
I can not say how.
The way is only known by you
you feel it,
you know, you always knew
Afraid?
Most are, no matter
scarier still is a life lived not being you
All I can say
what I believe
that even just a day of being you
is a well-lived life.