Blue hued skin from across the room.
I can tell that you’re trapped in a daze.  
Though, you’re a stranger to me and I don’t know your name—
The location we share is telling.

Blue hued eyes that miss and meet mine.
Inside, I shutter and gasp.
For those blue eyes, one of which is blind.
There’s a story that will help time pass.

Two chairs and a clock tick-tock, tick-talks.
We chat in the evening bloom.
No phones blue-hue to trap and consume,
It’s only just Me and You.

Holes throughout the body—
a syndrome of the past.
Light as a feather,
I float through the lapse.

All the actresses and actors
that push me to perform, get paid—
while the silence of a clever one
avoids this house of blame.

I’m alone when I call you.
I don’t want more shame.
I’m driftwood washing on the shores
of a land called Never-Clean.

Can you help me become new again—
sand me down and stain the pain?
I’m a hollowed human of useless, unkept, selfish rage.

“It’s not that deep—not the deep end,”
said one shallow mate.
They never knew I’d touched the soil
that’s damp and cold— infinite.

“She’s so dramatic.”
emotions—lymphatic—
They drain and drain again.

I’ll be the one, light as driftwood,
from wounds where nails drove in.
Is there any cure for the rot
within this flesh, beneath this skin?

Refurbish me.
Let me live again.
Make me the centerpiece
from that angry river’s end.
Showcase the beauty
of this damage eating in.
She pleads—
“Take me, make me yours,”
as the storm begins to end.

⸻

“This here is an heirloom,”
weathered, rough, reclaimed.
“A simple reminder of the power of potential.

Grandpa found it along the river,
after the great storm—
that same summer he met Grandma
as she ran away.

This is no ordinary driftwood.
The holes carry a whistle
that sings our family’s name.”

Do we deserve?

How would you know?

When her lips meet a curve?

From bitter to broke
She reminds herself firm
To coddle her none
For fate be the cure

A riddle too special
One rare without words

She lolls deep in a garden
With a face that’s still hers

She’s begging a stranger
“May I be demure?”

Her face turns to a gemstone
While the wind sings
“May you always be pure”

Grief as an interlude.
The in-between performance.
Where shoeless days, wandering forests—
meet
black-dressed, paired farewells.

Where velvet curtains close and draw,
a symphony has long prepared
(for you).

Percussion slices into silence.
Clarinets hum in minor tune.
The bass joins in—they’ve been appointed.

Welcome to Grief’s Interlude.

The music plays now just for you.
Regret takes center stage.

What wasn’t said.

“What could I do?”

The music begins to fade.
I guess it’s time we see the view
from our heart’s balcony.

Crossing legs and leaning in—
anticipating more…
A special place for all our kin
is bursting from our core.

Cymbals reach the back of room.
The flutes play loud and low.
The composer pulls a handkerchief—
tears and sweat compel this show.

You feel so sorry.
You feel alive.
You feel memories—sharp and sore.
They’re taking bows.
The act has closed.
Another’s passing through death’s door.

Welcome to Grief’s Interlude.

I have retired from temptations of attention.
I’ve retired from the need to judge.
I’ve retired from feeling like I need that moment,
And I’ve retired from feeling too sad.

I have retired into a place of contemplation —
A place nearby, and where I sit.

I have retired from feeling guilty,
And I’ve retired from needing your yes.

I am retired.

It will not matter
whether we tend
the green stem of her care
or lose her hand in the dark.

The eternal mother moves among us—
in friends, in kin,
in any soul who shelters another.

All who hold her spirit
become one’s mother.
I will mother myself,
I will mother a friend.

Mother-Less
is Mother still.

My psyche’s manor,
candle-lit,
snow-capped hills,
gated in
against a fire
roaring in.

The wise old woman
waits and sits;
she speaks of safety,
preserving peace.

Unconscious contents
shake bronze gates,
so seasons change
beneath the skin.

In a white, vast court
where silence lives,
I’m safe for now —
but this I know:

that my Unknown
will come to Known.

Before the spring,
beneath my snow,
the grass of Me
begins to grow.

Sun-fire clasping moonlight,
a covenant older than breath,
where king and queen entwine
in the mandorla of becoming.

Here is no fracture—
but the furnace where opposites melt,
gold with silver, spirit with flesh,
shadow kissed into flame.

This is the marriage of eternity:
the holy wound made whole,
the cosmos circling within the heart,
the Self awakening,
whispering: I am all, and all is one.

An abandoned cathedral
where I drag my soul to repent for my
𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨.
A lady appears in a wedding gown-
I feel like I am 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚 again.
Her dress turns 𝙧𝙚𝙙. She turns her head—
and wicked reads her eyes.
I face my fear and go too near to find that she’s gone 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙙.
She disappears and then appears a puny  𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬-𝙙𝙤𝙡𝙡.
It chases me, I trip, I fall, they drag me to a hall.

“𝘕𝘰! 𝘔𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴!”

I wake up-
deep breath & sweat.
I wonder of what it meant…
To dream of
𝙢𝙮 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙩.

Toes curl and uncurl.
I sit back and sip coffee.
Poets from around the world,
evoke the smell of warm linen
& the musk of a hard life.

Im dwelling here, words set me free throughout the day.
No longer still, nothing now will be mundane.

Gratitude, Contentment.
We’re home now, Soul.
Collecting trinkets as we scroll.
A soft baby in my arms.

Who cares the time, or of our role.
Right now, I’m steam from a black bean cup.
Warm & Full.

He is the light
breaking through the trees
at dawn.

The dust
that falls softly
from the stars.

The wind
that blows leaves
into the air.

And the moon
beaming
on her skin
so fair.

Subtleties
with remarkable beauty.

His love
lives within the universe—
so truly.

He is the light
breaking through the trees
at dawn.

She will cherish a love
until she is gone.