Once upon a time, a little girl found a seed.
She wasn’t looking for a seed,
but she found one anyway.
She held it in the palm of her hand
and wondered and wondered.
She planted it in rich, black soil.
For weeks she watered the soil,
gave it sunlight,
and even sang to it.
It sprouted and grew into a beautiful flower,
with petals of colors man
hadn’t even invented names for yet.
The girl loved the flower,
and the flower loved her back.
They were happy.
But between smiles and blooms,
the girl and the flower knew
that this could not possibly last forever.
“Flower, I know no matter how much I care for you,
some day you will die.”
The flower nodded and when he did,
some of his brilliant petals fell to the soil.
The girl gently pocketed them to keep.
As time went on, the flower began to wilt;
his colors faded;
his roots shriveled with the rest of him;
but the girl still continued to care for him.
When the day came, there was not a speck of color
left in his stem and petals,
and the girl knew he had gone.
She ran her fingers over his soil
only to discover a pile of seeds
that had fallen from his dying center.
She collected them, tilled a patch of land
outside of her window
and planted each of them
with the same love and care as before.
They bloomed bright with petals of colors
man hadn’t even invented names for yet.
The girl loved her flowers
and was happy to share their beauty
with the world passing by.
This, she believed,
was how her flower knew it was to be
all along.

At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room
Where the cockroaches eat what the rats don’t consume
There’s a table enveloped in paper and grime
On a carpet now lost to a happier time
With a cast iron typewriter, rusted with age
In the gloomy wee room at the back of the stage

And under a lampshade of nicotine brown
Sits a comical legend of zero renown
How he plugs at the keys of his rattling beast
The years of persistence have left him decreased
Now he’s stuck in the shade of his hovering doom
At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room

His words are for others and too, the applause
Though a standing ovation might cause him to pause
He hasn’t the courage to speak them aloud
For he’s lacking the bottle and shy of a crowd
So he captures the laughter in lines on his page
In a gloomy wee room at the back of the stage

I so often wish I could find a cottage garden home
and hang just the right curtains,
plant beautiful flowers
take leisurely hot, steaming baths and showers
never again leave to go work in the grind
of dealing with customers
who have seemingly lost their minds...
just give me a cottage garden home
a few books to read
where my mind can roam
and allow me the quietness and solitude
just some peace and quiet -- shhh!!!
no, I'm not trying to be rude--
it's just that all day long I hear grumbling
I hear complaints galore
and my job is such that I can't ignore
the craziness of the public tis all too true--
so I really do NEED that garden cottage home
to escape and run away to...

I watch the music maker
and wonder if he holds his women
the same assured way he holds his guitar.
I wonder if his fingers memorize their curves
the same way they memorize measures.
I wonder what he does with his sheet music
when it has nothing left for him to learn.
If I were his, I’d insist he hand it to me.
Each stack I’d fold into delicate flying creatures
and send them off into the sky.
With their pointed wings,
they’d strum clouds and pluck stars—
making messages in melodies
to remind the world
why she chooses to keep spinning.

Come find me under tiger striped skies.
I’ll be the one sitting in front of a piano painted
a shade of faded limes with yellowed keys;
I’ll be the one who finally learned how to read notes
just as well as words.
Between compositions, I’ll wait for you.
I’ll run my fingers through these tall grasses
that live to freely dance against golden sunsets—
that never bury themselves behind unreachable horizons.
I’ll count each blade as a stroke of bewilderment
induced by a world who can’t accept that it is,
in fact, part of something so much bigger than itself.
Come find me, and I’ll teach you
how to speak the music that can be touched—
the music that dances on the tongue—
the music that will make you love again.

Your ethereal essence wraps around my senses as I'm drawn to your atmosphere

buring like a Phoenix washed in a new hope
a flash across the bowels of space and time

the call reaches deep into my soul as it rises from the pits of despair and disconnect
oh how I've missed you, aching chasm of yearning hovering over our used to be

your eyes lit like a new day dawning
you have once again remembered me
Love has resurrected

And i slow suspended in your orbit
afraid to venture  any closer
the last millimeter
always spans an infinite chasm
a fiery fanned Dragon floating in limbo
poised,
i wait desperately for your signal
Hovering precariously over your frequency

Spinning like a red rubber ball
that bounces and careens
off a hard, brick wall--
I land on the floor
and spin and spin
for hell hath wrought
the fury without and within
and the danger lurks
just around the bend
I hope and pray
the world doesn't end...
(but I doubt that it will--
so I'll continue to spin)...