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 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.

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.

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.
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.

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

There I go, a child with a kite
playing with the wind,
There I go, deep within I know
There I go.
There I go with open palms
hugging grass that knows no blade
There I sit in trees
with rainbow leaves that do not fade
There I go dancing on streams with endless depth
There I dive with no fear
no holding of breath
There I go
I go there
I know, hold on to him.

I fear I can not
I lose sight
This fear cuts the strings of my kite
only seconds
only moments
in flight
Now I am here, I fight
I beg I plead I hope
God sees my plight
I have lost sight

There I go
I have seen
There I go, There I go
Soon that will be me, I know.
A child with a kite, playing with the wind

Do not pray the day away.
what a tragedy when one can no longer see
that today was not a guarantee
what a danger when you believe.
that you are asked anything more than just to be.
What wicked lie makes us hide,
tells us to become
distorts purpose from love to slavery
today is no obstacle to be fought or defeated
Today another feast prepared
be seated.
Today all has come alive to love you.
The morning and the birds
The wind and the flowers the sun and sky
The water and the night stars and moon
all have gathered to say I love you
Today, today.

For long I have battled for freedom everything was ball and chain, I kicked against the establishment and stuck it to the man I wanted freedom, I balled my fists and fought against the “musts” the “you have to”, you have to go to school, you have to dress this way, you have to study you have to get a job you have to walk this way run that way you have to, every place had a “have to”, and I was a man alone, the lonely freedom fighter waging war.
Now I see that my fight was miss guided, I felt an itch and scratched my whole body still missing the spot that brought the discomfort.

Freedom, what is this word that causes so much strife?
What is it to be free? Everybody has their jail and we blame life for our incarceration, and I thought that swimming upstream being different would bring me my freedom but again I was wrong. Freedom is this small word I flung around like a great ax cutting nothing, I want to be free, I was a feared heart shouting freedom.
Freedom evaded me because I went on a warpath and being in a war is a self-made prison, I fought shadows and ghosts I made the chains that bind me I built Alcatraz I was jailer and prisoner I caused my heart to live behind bars because I was blind I struggled to see what I was doing because I believed life to be one way and now with a new set of eyes and fresh breath I believe that I am starting to see, what this ting is called freedom.
Freedom should be more like breathing it must happen without thinking if freedom becomes a task it means you are only living in what you believe freedom is, an idea and that is a prison itself, freedom is what naturally happens when you are yourself.
(again not the idea of who you are, an action to do or statement to make that you are yourself, no, being yourself is also breathing comes naturally, we see it in children, they are themselves, and that’s what we see sense and sometimes envy freedom.)
Being yourself is a natural reaction to knowing that you are loved.
I don’t want to make it as if these are the steps to life or freedom but after years of war inside me I have realized that I often fought battles but it was only with myself and that often all that must be done is to let go and trust, I was on this path of becoming myself instead of being myself instead of to just breathe, I see now that the things I wanted, does not always need to be fought for because I already had it.
I wanted to be free, but I was afraid of being myself and then I would never be free, I was not myself because I was afraid that I was not enough that I would not be loved, only now I am tasting freedom I still have the keys to my cell in my pocket, because I don’t always believe the truth, the truth that I am loved and enough no matter what, I still stumble across the measuring staff and feel less than but now more than ever I feel the freedom of Love
Love is freeing and lives inside of us.

Thank you for reading
Peace and Love and…

Don’t get it right get it written –Lee child or James Thurber or most well-known writers.

A new week and new things to write and ideas are brewing in my head again a fearful voice in the far back of my mind try to shout but I don’t give it the mic.
I know what I need to do, I need to get it down on paper or even voice record the idea.
Something I enjoy to do is record the whirlwind of thought not bothered by the slowness of my hand and just release it as weird and scattered as it comes and then later I will sit down with, this recording and listen to myself and make senses out of the madness.
We all want the thing we do to be clean, right, and to be pleasing for the audience we do it for, sometimes we want it perfect on the first try but something I am making peace with is that I am not a machine that does a thing as programmed, I have to rewrite a line for a poem over and over and over to get it where it feels more right. I remember when I did the thank you to Amanda Palmer, my friend Mark taking the photo, he kept working on it, it broke my brain photo one already seemed right maybe I needed some adjustment but the photo was right, yet he kept calmly working at it and the improvement that I thought was not possible was visible and then yet again a small change of light another posture change another angle and whatever he kept taking a photo that was seemingly the same, he kept working at it till it was basically, identical to the cover I wanted even his editing afterwards was doing it a couple of times over.
To him it was not right at first but doing it and keeping on doing it, it became more than I ever expected (Thank you, Mark.)

I used to just write a poem almost once-off, might do some adjustments, it would still be good, it would be what I wanted to have but I did not spend time with it going over a line and asking myself is this what I wanted to say and play around and discover other ways of it, I was writing out of passion but did not give it love.

Letting the idea I have just live in the mind, will let it wilt and die, my mind is filled with all the day’s happenings and small events what am I eating and when am I eating (that’s mostly the question.)

I have lost many ideas, while it’s travelling down the train of thought, there must be a stop, where it can jump off with all its luggage and just wait, that’s what writing it down or recording it is.
It will kindly wait for you there on the page or memory card, they might gather dust you might forget that they are there but they will be there waiting. I recently opened a book that I did not open in four years and found a letter inside of it, it was there waiting for me and even some of my, own lines that I wrote and it felt special to find it there on the page I don’t believe that I would elaborate on them, but if I wanted to they are there waiting.
What I am careful about now is having fifteen things down, but not done and I think that is the point of the quote, get it written, get it done, not perfect. Most of the ideas that lay waiting for me is because I want it perfect or more clear without working on it, it won’t get more clear unless I sit down and write down and work on the idea even when it’s not clear I find that fun about writing and most creative things the more you walk into the unknown the more clear it gets but you have to walk into the darkness you will find the light but just standing in front of the forest the path will not become clear.

I am walking in, very excited I truly enjoy writing and discovering the story is a rewarding feeling. Have an amazing week.
Thank you for all the support and love.
Thank you for reading
Peace and Love.