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Thursday, May 31, 2012


He among you who is without sin, let him first cast a stone upon her.”
John 8:7

A Stone's Weight

A private conviction,
a public persecution.

Ignorance was the rock
laced with anger’s fingerprints
hammering down on
delicate living tissue
sealing the blasphemy of
a hand’s fate.

(Are we governed by god or devil?
Are we lifted by hand or conscience?)

Put another stone
on the dignity of my breast;
I need more weight
until I can feel the truth--
I want to taste the gravity
of your haste.

Peine forte et dure--
(hard and forceful punishment)

Hand-prints left as
fossil bones in stone;
feudal memories
destroy thoughts
and their
heresy like a
double-edged sword.

Monday, May 28, 2012


Happy Memorial Day-- Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal. ~From a headstone in Ireland

Smile Therapy 17

I am in smile therapy
when I turn off my street
and I see my neighbor
attempting to
mow his lawn with
his weed whacker.

I am in smile therapy
when I hike with
my friend and play
in a waterfall
on a beautiful
sunny day in the

Thursday, May 24, 2012


Where does the fragile yet pliable language of art reside? I, as a writer, believe art in all forms has a universal consciousness. Living inside the soul of an artist, an image begins, this idea germinates and evolves to a moment where the internal world can no longer house its need, and art is born. Born of its own cognition. I wrote Authentic Inspiration by my need to string words together to form the intimate language of poetry. TJKG

Authentic Inspiration

The beginning of life blooms
a promise of fragile inspiration,

just as you are.

An organic pattern of
self-proclaimed truth, the extraordinary

without meekness,
a medium mistress.

A muse nibbles around natural control,
driven into crazy consummation,

a passionate kiss.
However slight,

the shadows are following you,
a comeuppance of neglected memory—

as you try to create a silhouette to hide,
the gray outline is what haunts you.

You can’t silence yourself from me.
You can’t escape your mind of me.

The apothecary of the brain
creates primary shades of realities like

our memories, like our bodies; we return
to dust after we slide into death’s fa├žade.

It is not life or death, it is all life.

Or is it a simple stand for a painted canvas, a portrait
of a face that can surrender to the allusion of

horror or eternal beauty.

The indescribable mania of authentic inspiration
each time happiness settles in the green of your bones;

your art is the one breath forbidden to be taken and yet

you breathe.


Monday, May 21, 2012


I'm not offended by all the dumb-blonde jokes because I know that I'm not dumb. I also know I'm not blonde. ~Dolly Parton

Smile Therapy 16

I am in smile therapy when
I was driving my daughter to school today,
and she looks at me with that all knowing look of
a ten year old...
I look at her and say,
"What?" Cause I have seen the look before--
like when I am dancing in the kitchen to Justin Bieber.
Unacceptable for sure.
She says,
"Aren't you embarrassed by THAT gray hair on your head?"
I respond like a good mother.
"No."(well maybe a little)
"We all get older,
and with that we get gray, but don't worry
I am going today to get it colored."
She looked ahead to her elementary school and said,
"Good thing,
and I want you to know...
I will never let my hair get gray."

From the smiling mouths of babes.

Thursday, May 17, 2012


“The hawk with talent hides its talons” unknown

A Swell in the Throat

In the kindness of the word,
the tenderness of the voice,
kind is harder to swallow
than the harshness of hurt.

I know the tone, I know the
tremble which calls from
a place unknown, a voice burrowed
deep in the well of my soul.

The curse is a swell in the throat,
a heart locked into a pulsing silence,
a dream that seems surreal,and
a flower lost to the spring equinox.

I am connected to the recollection when
distance is thick like midnight water,
hope lost to the storm of hurt, and
the calloused words of forgiveness repeat.

My past is mixed with the other side,
blending a visceral memory living in me.
And as I look out the freshly cleaned window,
I see someone that reminds me of me.

Monday, May 14, 2012


                Complete peace equally reigns between 2 mental waves. Swami Sivananda

Smile Therapy 15

I am in smile therapy
when each of my children
sits and shares
their life with me.

I am in smile therapy
when each of my kids
goes to school
even after a
Mother's Day.

Sunday, May 13, 2012


In a moment of faith, I hear our mother's voice guiding our actions with compassion. It is a blessing of truth to be given the gift of mothering.

Semantron Heart

Far away
church bells

balance on
ribbons of wind--

the ambiance of
your voice,


echo in the
sanctum of each

breath in the
nave of
your soul’s

floating upon
the intonation of

living in the
of our passing

Friday, May 11, 2012


The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.
Audrey Hepburn

The Irony of Marilyn

remind me of
a little girl who
has a need
to be
like a bunch of wild flowers.
are a
woman who has an
insurmountable want
to be
held tight by certain
infused with freedom
as you
play in the
harvest grass
of passion's impulse.


Monday, May 7, 2012


The image of this smiling Buddha is enough to put me in a place of peace and bliss.
And maybe giggle a little that we are all sharing the same universe staring at the same moon.

Better than a thousand hollow words, is one word that brings peace.

Smile Therapy 14

I am in smile therapy,
even on Monday, as
the world continues
to rotate with the rhythm
of the fullest moon.

Friday, May 4, 2012


"Do I still enter the avenue of your yesterday... Where we kissed in boulevard of broken dreams...Do you still call my name silently in the corners of your mind...Can you still paint my face in the crossroads of today?... in spite the long and winding road to are to me beyond all my heart can are silently beyond forgetting." H. Ramos

May Day

Under the many moons of Mars,
I keep slipping back in time, searching for
that moment where I knew nothing
other than you.

If I would have known
our ruddy world
was written as a
burning love sonnet
by some famous poet—
for you to win the honor
of a heroine—

I would have graced more
of our memories;
I would have repeated your
tender words,
illuminated the silk of
your hair captured in
my constellation,
sculpted in marble
the curl of your shoulder,
the music of your laughter.
I would have scored you to my soul,
the dusk of your touch
into the rhythm of my step.

I would have
kept Mars alive, an unveiling
captured in a telepathic locket,
our globe elevated
over our
hearts, our green
love story whispered
across one night’s sky, as
our universe is lost to a
falling star.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012


“To all the girls that think you’re fat because you’re not a size zero, you’re the beautiful one, its society who’s ugly.”
― Marilyn Monroe

You Look Like a Woman Caught

She looks like a woman caught
unaware by a camera
as she walks through life
as her own private muse;
an esoteric beauty glowing
through her reclusive truth.
This woman wants to feel beautiful
by the simple act of allowing
herself to be loved.
She is someone in the
transition from blur
to focus.

Her high black heels
tied around her neck,
a shortened skirt,
a gutted suitcase, the
unabashed pleasure of
chocolate and smokes.
Her red lipstick,
Chanel No. 5 perfume,
dancing every Thursday
as tea candles burn
the pink of her flesh,
a kilo of coded barbed wire,
ignominy mirrored in
this woman’s mind.
Beauty and depth, she insinuates,
occupies the dark years,
and now the sky is less dark
with smoke and mirrors,
and eluded captures.

She puts on a kind of show,
jumping from a staged warplane,
free falling and hearing
slightly in the distance,
the discipline of a knotted cane,
"someone was beaten,”
says the rising echoes of the wind.
This voice ricocheted from
the clamoring of beauty’s chains--
The silent sound of women’s
hearts remembering
as they are
beating, beating, beating.