Inside visions of love        
my footsteps carry.
My heart expands.
Truth awakens mind,
and miracles appear
spiraling inside grace.  

Inside visions of tomorrow
I trust and believe.
I radiate love.
Gratitude my prayer,
and miracles appear
spiraling with sacred rays.  

Rays, that radiate love.



StarBG © 2017

she needed the fare home,       i gave her change.



the school girl bent level, gave her the note, touched

her and left.



sometimes

we look after our own.

sbm.

It's your birthday today.
You would've been 56 years old.
You kept me, raised me
when I was young,
worked me
to show me discipline,
and believed me when I told the truth.
You made me apologize when
I had said cruel things,
and helped me love the difference
of others.
You believed in me,
and celebrated my differences as well.

One of my fondest memories of us
is when you baby-sat me on a Saturday.
We went to garage-sales.
You bought me every baseball I could find.
They were cheap then,
but I'd give anything to still have one.

I watched you drum away to many songs,
mesmerized,
knowing I wanted to do the same.
I was often behind your drums,
dreaming of things to play.

Today I sat behind a drum kit.
I've been paid to play.
That makes me a professional, right?
You would be proud.

I broke down today, behind that kit,
thinking of you.
I lied, said I needed a bathroom
when really I needed a floor to cry.

I curled up in a friend's bathroom floor,
and, finally,
felt your passing.

I miss you so much.

She goes on sniffing him like a hunter's dog, persistent,
He eats her hurriedly as if she is a honey filled cake,
Chance  ****** encounter, unbridled wild desires run amok.
They are fully taken over by the agile demons of ***** amour.
Completely  forget shame, even  the thought of sin, altogether.
Make the bed a ground where they play with such vehemence!

She is a rare tree, yielding to caressing touch, flowering all over.
The goose bumps refusing to disappear,tell the whole untold story.
She makes noises of approval, while tracking the scent downwards
When she  finds the bone at last, she doesn't know what she does!

we don’t need
to be fixed.

we need to be
aware. open. owning it.

embracing
our pain, our history
our patterns, our spasms.

confession:
I've been fantasizing…

that one day you'd roll up,
like Richard Pryor at the end of Moving,
sitting atop a semi-truck of your whatnots,
war paint smeared upon your dashing,
wearing a tie bandana and bullet sash,
carrying a semi-automatic weapon,
after stalking your **** cross-country,
to the front of our gutted dream house,
after this misadventure, arriving, finally,
at home imperfect, thankful just to be,
there with delirious, Cheshire cat grin,
like a lion dragging in a carcass,
bloodied, brave and proud,
eager to greet my eyes and say:

Honey! Look what I found!
I found my ****!
I brought my **** home...
This is my ****.

and I would greet you,
with water-colored greys
inking down my dimpled peach,
in a black and white gingham apron,
heels, nylons and corseted vintage dress,
mirroring that ****-eater right back,
tray of warm hash brownies in hand,
that got nothing on my toasty sweet
lips dripping to say:

Your **** is lovely, darling.
It'll go perfect with mine!
It's up in the attic - properly labeled,
arranged and categorized.

and with that kind of
ownership, acceptance and bravery,
there is no way our stuff will ever be
more powerful than us, together,
merged and emerging,
by way of wings, soaring,
above our ****-spattered clouds.