Again the dark morning...

This is my time
Before the rub and pace of life thickens to frenzy;
With hope like starlings murmuring in my blood.

Nothing happens.
The soul is reappointed
that is all.
These feelings feed me with their grace.

“In the beginning was the word…”

Maybe…

but Is not being first
With words following after like a beggar?
There are so many things before the word
And more again before the stumbling tongue.

Yet this is where I spend my stillness;
Somewhere after the dawn of time
Sometime before the birth of being,
Where substance hasn’t quite existed yet.
Here I search for words.
Here,
In the melting,
I touch the new made voice of God

some nights you will feel
like there are a thousand galaxies
exploding in every inch of you
and you are burning too bright
to ever be looked at directly,
and some nights you will feel
impossibly small, like your
whole body could slip through
the spaced between atoms and
never reappear in this world again,
and some nights you will feel
like a paper doll, carefully crafted
and easily blown away, fragile,
too delicate to ever be touched,
and some nights you will feel
like each cell in your body is
made of the strength that holds
the whole planet together,
and that is okay because you are
made of stardust and miniscule
atoms and breakable bones
and the building blocks of
everything in the universe,
and you are too alive to never
feel anything more than human

"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)

true love
between a pair
shall remain so steadfast
for a lifetime two hearts melding
the sweet lasting refrain of blissfulness
unto joy's devotion they'll twine
twill be a grand union
endearing is
true love

The beautiful Tree-Birds still twittl-e-tweet despite the reproachful View.
Watching the black arrows of Prideful Judgement snap like dry, brittle twigs against the Broad Walls of Love, Light and Acceptance
{of All Creeds of Wo/Men}