my growing edge
comfortable but not complacent
happy but slightly discontent
safe but still taking risks
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likes (not on facebook)
I’ve been doing serious writing for weeks. My mind is wandering to stuff I like. Here goes: love fast cars open hearts dark chocolate strong men (and women) morning toes in wet grass kissing (lots) puppy breath my kids singing dancing flowers petting (both directions) friendship artmaking of all sorts smart people creative people truth…
a slice of now.
There is no poem in my heart today, only a deep recognition of my growth and my humanity. I realized today that I have reached a place in my life where I can sit with sorrow, grief and “imperfection” without looking away or trying to fix it. Not every day, perhaps, but often. I realize…
divine | mystery | poetry | self-excavation | sexuality
His Futile War
His Futile War He and she The space between Push Pull Plunder Pillage Penetrate– Her earth Her womb Her mystery. She will not be contained. She engulfs– like the ocean or quicksand. She envelopes– like a carpet of sky or hot lava. She is volcanic mystery overflowing. He tries to contain the uncontainable.