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Wednesday, December 28, 2011

ONCE AGAIN, Blue Night

I am planning on re-posting highlights of 2011...Enjoy

Blue Night

Blue night,
I will not sleep, I will refuse you,
I will trick you and dream awake.
One hundred nights died for the truth of one day.

It is you I become in the night.
It is you I fade into the dark shadows with,
my heart swells in the shallow of my chest. I am
shivering inside, with no where to hide. A forest of
imaginary creatures creating fears in my blinded mind.

Swaying in the dark of the night, leaving
bloody footprints at the doorstep of my heart.
I fight to forget our last kiss,
I fight to forget our last touch,
I fight to forget your smell, I fight your image
as it drags me through hours of black hell.

Blue night,
I will not sleep, I will refuse you,
I will trick you and dream awake.
One hundred nights died for the truth of one day.

In the cerulean darkness,
lapping at the gritty beach,
your cracking sky emits truth over a
complex collection of hidden lies.
You know no other light but dark,
rejecting truth in favor of illusion.

Blue is my resurrection.
It is the color of my blood moving
through the rivers of my veins;
it is the color I turn when cold;
it is the color I will be when dead.
It is you I fight in the night.
I am what morning counted on last night.

Blue night,
I will not sleep, I will refuse you,
I will trick you and dream awake.
One hundred nights died for the truth of one day.

Monday, December 26, 2011


Here is to the new beginnings, the balance of yesterday and today, the balance of holding on and letting go, be at peace, and embrace the blessing of your present moment.


An excellent man, like precious metal, is in every way invariable; A villain, like the beams of a balance, is always varying, upwards and downwards.
John Locke

Center of Mass

I am perplexed
with trouble’s pain
where the sketches
of the world
seem contented
with their pleasure,
unmoved by the
fissures of hate
even as

fingerprints are
left to churn
inside the truth
of the metal bell
of the succulent pear
of the conception
the fig trees love.

My soul weeps,
when my eyes
see ripened hands
upon another’s
flesh as a
mother’s milk
is exchanged
bodies of life.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011


“Men go back to the mountains, as they go back to sailing ships at sea, because in the mountains and on the sea they must face up.” Henry David Thoreau

Drinking Wine at Sunrise

It is dark when I wake and it is dark when I sleep--
How is that good for the soul?
A candle burns at both ends, I am told.

I breathe and die and I hold me inside for you
to find me like a growling fire, a signal hill bonfire,
a hot inferno and then cyclic still cool ash,
twice torching the rocky hillside of the past,
dancing like paper-white snowflakes in the soft air.

Life is superior like a sky painted in crimson and gold;
I wonder what you have seen in your present moment…
My hands have touched the beating of your
quiet heart inside the changing earth of my soul--

I am a woman, who is restless with propriety,
perching in tree tops with black crows, and
who knows how to define water from land,
even the reversed allusions of the two.
Mine is the heart of a dandelion who heals
and loves as it blooms in between broken
concrete with the burst of a silent bend or a
salutation to a sunset or praying
to an awakening eclipse.

I am a woman whose heart
wears the crisp demands of boldness;
a friend who sees tragedy’s heart drip through
the winter trees like the silver sun
rising in the heat of the morning; a mother
who teaches the taming power of the small,
illuminating the fissures in the hearty spirit,
and a lover gives more love than one soul
could feel and this knowing
is the breath of my driven truth.

I am altruistic and raw as the burgeoning sun’s
tiny tendrils creep from a further horizon,
giving unnoticed life to each place it’s rays touch.
I am a hill of thought defining the
fluid integrity of my rolling essence, and yet
I die a little as the light arcs and
burns through the barren branches as
I mirror my life through the eyes of the sun.
I live even more knowing I know how to love.

Thursday, December 15, 2011


“Life is nothing but a continuing dance of birth and death, a dance of change.” Sogyal Rinpoche

Le Petite Mort

Death is handed
to each word
that slips carelessly
from your lips
like the tongue
of a knife
flaying the inside
of my beating heart.
Those words are
a public pillory,
a tethering noose--
each held hostage in
the brain of my
silent voice.
Words define us…
as my actions
are my birth.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011


One regret dear world, that I am determined not to have when I am lying on my deathbed is that I did not kiss you enough. - Hafiz of Persia

Who does not love that quote, I mean, seriously? There are apparent obstacles on the journey of life, so remember to keep breathing even in the midst of the pain.

A Year of Truth

Each piece of sadness
has been stirred,
swirled around
like brown leaves
or inflated
plastic bags, sucked
into tornado alleyways,
littering my heart
with voices.
Unswerving air settles
like stillness at the end
of a soaking rain storm,
or breached tracks
halt the
scent line
of a blood hounds
chase —


A branch is snapped
in life’s dash,
two pieces
unchanged and never
to be whole again.
Caution towards
blue skies,
following twisting
clouds and
weaving vines
emptiness seems to
unravel questions
leaving slivered
in labyrinth sections;
I breathe in
their delirium and
another swallow of
breath is released.


Friday, December 9, 2011


I feel it all I feel it all
The wings are wide the wings are wide
Wild card inside wild card inside - Feist

Hanging with my girlfriends for the weekend rejuvenated my world... To my dear friends and to every woman, I dedicate this poem.

In a Weekend We Feel It All

Before we get where we are going,
lets figure out where we are. (Unknown)
We are living within integral presence at all times
interwoven in the innate fabric of our trilogy’s trust. (Known)

Reborn into two days of moments with
active integrity we laughed and
loved, and flew with wide wings and
serendipitously sought reason, each holding
a calm voice of hope, and
a healing whisper of wisdom,
a circle of spiritual reason; each
quietly send their intention
to the wind,
and return inside
the witch’s tree house where
we unveil with wine,
we dance with abandon,
we feast with meaning,
we sing with freedom,
we lead each other
to the balance of the universe
to BE ever present and not fear the intimacy
of sharing the depth of one’s heart, and once again,
we depart knowing each woman has a place to call her own.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011


The question of happiness linger in my mind like the coming and the leaving of the tide, and as Nietzsche said, this is in fact your life.

“Amor Fati – “Love Your Fate”, which is in fact your life.” F. Nietzsche

Weeping with Happiness

She buoys
between the shimmers
of moon light,
melts between
broken and whole passions,
flashes between
worn out words
heard a thousand times before,
and hides inside the tides of
a waxing

From the beacon of her
double mind
burns a single fa├žade--
her life radiates
around her pretty face as
she whispers hidden wishes
under the perfumed
portico of the night;
she wades into the soft wind
pleading to her apparition that
one day she too
will feel full and devoted.

Her head turns and
swirls like a metal
compass hand in query,
spins in the direction of
an omniscient certainty
(east on truth's face)
of knowing that her
breached lighthouse
unlocked waves of questions,
like sparkling sand
on the shores
of her beautiful heart.