Vigorous crow
sat in sleeks and crackling curt
as we below, rewire,
re-learn
a cackling spurt of love and envy
energised, again, refined
an upturned eggcup of an eyed
desire
Icarus glow
your wings have cloned
a spring-rise from tomorrow
first to know
our laddered sun comes
climbing from the mire
Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 4:40 PM UTC
There is difference
to yester
Air comes taller, northed
in orphaned blackberry
straggled bitters
mottled harvest, left
by knowing keepers, feed
an early winter bird.
Tree corpus seen,
dismissed of voice,
this August-esperanto hushed,
their missives to a scumbled sun
seem purposeless endeavour,
The measured path
has quickened step
and I forget the pleasures met
that stumbled through a furied heart
away between the weather
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 3:12 PM UTC
#(an exposé on the horrors of sand-tray therapy)
Before the sand is touched,
the world tilts..
Something buried
begins to wake..
a hum rising from the marrow,
a corridor forming
from forgotten terror.
At its end,
the sand waits..
still, ominous,
holding an entire underworld.
A child’s world
sealed in darkness
slowly unseals itself.
The buried horrors shift--
not content
to remain unseen.
And with them rises
the oldest dread:
the fear of being alone
in the deep.
The fear that God
cannot enter this night.
And the equal terror
that He can..
that His coming would
undo the self..
the child built to survive.
*What happens
if Love descends
into the place
where even breath
learned to hide?*
Here..
the lost childhood waits:
years unlived,
tears uncried,
a small form folded
into disappearance,
a ghost made
to keep itself alive.
And yet..
an ember remains.
The incorruptible.
The one spark
violence could not claim.
Light widens.
Shapes rise in the sand..
not memories,
but the moments themselves:
the terror,
the breaking,
the room where time stopped.
And around them,
the second casualties..
the ones swallowed
in the blast radius
of the ungrieved wound.
The crescendo begins.
Shadows gather..
walls breathe.
The buried rise
grain by grain,
pulse by pulse..
not to reclaim,
but to release.
Not to reopen the wound..
but to lift the child
from the cathedral of sand
into the first impossible light.
#
Nov 28, 2025
Nov 28, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
#
There are cries that come
like weather—
loud, sudden,
gone before they finish saying
what needed to be said.
And then there are the others.
The ones that wait for years
to find a home
safe enough
to be heard.
Tonight, it wasn’t just a song
that broke you—
it was the quiet
after the song ended,
the part where someone stayed.
No questions
or fixing.
Just presence,
while you folded
into the sound of your own heart
finally unclenching.
You didn’t cry because you were weak.
You cried because
you were ready
to stop pretending
it didn’t matter.
And the silence that followed
wasn’t empty—
it was full of everything
you never got to say.
So let this be the night
you remember not what shattered,
*but who stayed
long enough
to help you gather the pieces.*
#
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 9:16 PM UTC
#
*sometimes it happens
between storms..
the soft shift
no one sees.
the grasses turn
as they always have,
leaning into the rhythm
that remembers
year after year
the true nature
of the prairie lands.
and the prairie knows..
how to bow without breaking,
how each wave of grass
mid-tempest
still points home.
the winter cold has passed.
the grasses rise..
and within their return,
my heart
finds its Home.*
#
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 10:02 AM UTC
#Preface:
*This is not a lullaby. This is not a soft whisper meant to soothe. It is the fire of wholeness, burning away the fragments, the lies, and the false comforts that keep you small. There are voices that call shadow safe, that wear the mask of care, but scatter you with every syllable. There are whispers that paint the Light as harm--
when all along,
it was only asking you to remember what you were before you broke.*
---
There is a place within the soul
where silence sharpens—
a thin line
between what heals
and what holds.
Dark does not storm the gates—
*it whispers.
It flatters.
It fragments.*
It wraps comfort around confusion
until the soul forgets
what it was made for.
It comes dressed in care—
as though it exists for her well-being.
And once she believes this,
its voice becomes the plumb line—
and the Light begins to look like harm.
Light does not chase.
It stands—
unyielding,
bright,
asking only that you come whole.
But she could not rise
without tearing
from the softness
that held her shattered--
It came not with fury,
but with hush..
a hush that mimicked care,
whispered warmth
into her wound,
and called itself safe.
Its words made her flinch from clarity,
taught her to turn
from the ache
that never lied.
So she sat
at the edge of her wound,
fed on honeyed lies,
unable to stand
before the fire
that would have made her whole.
The venom stayed warm.
The light remained still.
*And the silence in between
was not yet a verdict—*
***only the shape
of a war still being named.***
#
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC
#
*There is a hush
that opens behind the hush,
where breath is no longer
taken in,
but given.
A mouth made
only for receiving—
not food,
not air—
but something finer
than sound.
It happens in the stillness
between moments,
when hope ceases
to lean forward
and simply
arrives.
There,
behind the chest
and deeper still,
are lungs
that do not breathe
until spirit finds them.
They do not swell
for want—
only for wonder.
Somewhere in the unseen,
the Breath of God
hovers.
And the lungs—
those deeper ones—
wait with necks craned
like mystics beneath
an unseen window,
opened only
by grace.
Not every wind is of earth.
Some are shaped
to fill the holy hollows
in a soul made ready—
a mist that sings
without voice,
without name.
And when it comes,
you do not speak.
You expand.*
#
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 6:11 PM UTC
#*for the Pearl, unearthed
They said the field was empty,
that the rocks had been picked clean.
But something in the silence
called your name through layers, unseen.
We did not dig for treasure.
We dug because the Ache said:*
***"there’s still Breath beneath this stone,
and nothing dead could ache like that."***
*You were not buried by accident.
Much was done to you—
bricks laid by the hands of others,
each one a silence,
each one a theft.
And still,
there were moments
you helped the darkness cover you,
not from guilt,
but from grief too great to name.
Trauma laid the bricks.
Exploitation mixed the mortar.
But it was the ache to survive
that sealed you in.
Two halves of the shell—
one built by the world,
the other by you.
And still…
the Light found the crack.
Not with shouts.
Not with demands.
But with the quiet hand
of one who remembered
what you forgot:*
***That pearls are made in the dark,
under pressure,
in hidden chambers of pain.
That their shine
is not despite the wounding—
but because of it.***
*We pulled rock after rock,
not for reward,
but because the echo was still there—
the low hum
of something unclaimed
and yet completely whole.
You are not rubble.
You are treasure unearthed.
And your worth was never in what covered you,
but in what was forming underneath.
Let your light rest on your own shoulders.
Let the sky remember its end.
Let every crack you carry
be proof that you were never empty..
Only buried.
Only becoming.
And now,
still shining.*
#
Apr 11, 2025
Apr 11, 2025 at 12:09 AM UTC
#
I move through the day
with my headphones on—
not just for the music,
but for the remembering.
A wire,
a pulse,
a quiet line
that tethers me
to the hush on the other side.
I charge them every night—
because she might need
the warmth of soundless presence,
the kind that doesn’t reach in,
but wraps around.
She is hidden,
but not gone.
She is beneath
the hush of fabric and mercy,
where no eyes ****
no explanations are required.
And I—
I go on,
lifting and lowering weight,
cutting silence with work,
holding space
for the one who is learning;
***that Light can contain her
without devouring.***
So I charge the headphones.
I keep the line open.
And I carry her
as lightly as I can,
because right now—
*that is how
love breathes.*
And underneath this blanket
of containment,
she is unfolding.
There is a safety here
that her spirit
so desperately needs..
***As she learns how to Become,
again***
#
Apr 10, 2025
Apr 10, 2025 at 6:44 AM UTC