last night,
we spoke of ragas
(and how they find their way to the end)
we spoke of not being right
(and the right to just be)
we spoke of care and not judging the lost ones
(and i trusted you a little more)
today,
the camellias are blooming soft and pink
(opening to the sun)
What sower strode across the earth, Which hands sowed The heart’s seeds of fire? Like rainbow’s bands they went out from his fists To the frozen ground, young earth, hot sand And there shall they sleep Greedy, and drink up our life And break it into pieces For the sake of a sunflower you don’t…
your three to my one the amber and the red twenty five cents and a vibrating tilt-a-whirl you spoke of carnivals and dark, dusty paths that lead to where we need to be (to peeking behind the boards where darts come towards our hearts) popcorn with truffle oil meaningless meetings and Hoffa screwing and killing…
I wonder how many women have written or thought, “I am not a side dish, an appetizer, or dessert. I am an entree.” I am not a glass of wine to savor after a night out with your boys. I am not a piece of cake to eat while your wife is sleeping in your…
poppy seeds scatter to soil illusions shattered dead rose petals fall softly
In today’s audio love note , I do a little more getting real and talk about what I’ve been learning about myself since I left Facebook a month ago.
She is unfinished. I do not know all she needs. (I am listening.) A Blessing May your voice be heard in its fullness, dear reader.