How distant do you feel from our ideal life,
and how hard are you willing to go, to get there?
You’ve got to pull a big swing sometimes, to get there, you know?
You’ll flourish in the aftermath.
What I’m carrying is joy.

Notes for an American student in Paris..

Be less intense
tone it down
pullback.

Enough scrappiness, hustle,
and intensity on repeat.

Sure, honesty is sanity,
but give them a better version
some ‘church girl’ energy, maybe.
win ‘em with winsome

Don’t welcome them, immediately, into your tense, inner world.
.
.
Songs for this:
Oh Honey! (I Love You) by Peach Tree Rascals
Nothing Breaks Like a Heart (feat. Miley Cyrus) by Mark Ronson
Tear Off Your Own Head (It's A Doll Revolution) by The Bangles

the cracked mirror
splits my face down the center.

one eye opened wide.
the other eye heavy.

one shard shows me young,
the child with dreams
filled with wonder.

the other sharp edge, old,
etched like tree bark in winter

(cuts deeper than jagged mirror glass.)

waxing moon, waning moon,
ashes and the flower blooms.

one eye looks back.
the other eye forward.

morning light, midnight,
all in the blink of an eye.

the mirror---no lies here.

On the last page, a question lingers around,
A little gem for the reading crowd.
“Look up at the sky,” the book does implore,
And you start to ponder what you read before.

“Has the sheep eaten the flower?” you ask yourself,
A cosmic riddle, revealing itself.
For in this thought, the universe sways,
And shifts our view in wondrous ways.

If the flower still stands - proud and untouched,
Is the sheep’s hunger forever unhushed?
Would it dream of petals, soft and sweet,
While munching on grass beneath its feet?

But if the bloom has met its fleecy fate,
Is the prince’s planet now desolate?
Would stars shine dimmer in the night,
Mourning the loss of that floral light?

No grown-up sees why this matters so,
But children understand the question’s glow.
In pondering sheep and flora’s dance,
We glimpse the magic of happenstance.

Perhaps in asking, we become more wise,
Seeing the world through children’s eyes.
For in life’s garden, strange and vast,
It’s wonder, not logic, that truly lasts.

So gaze at the heavens, mind roaming free,
Imagine the possibilities you might see.
But watch out for a question, horrific, yet deep:
What if the flower ate the sheep?



Oh, but to love this great land
beautiful, whole
I grieve for what you have become,
your proud embers now shallow ash.

Once, your hand extended care and love
What has become of you over these fallen year?
overrun by tyrants and thieves,
looting these fine soils for selfish gain.

Where is the hand of care?
Your hand now grips the throats
of every honest man, woman, and child,
choking hope and dreams from every mind and soul.
Bodies toil through day and night
to feed your ever-growing greed.

Oh, land of hope and dreams
where have you gone?
Who is this that steals the souls of so many?

Leadership of fools
you dealers of incompetence and corruption,
unworthy kings upon thrones of gold and myrrh,
chariots laden with coin you did not earn,
waited on hand and foot in castles of stone, feasting while your children starve
while people drown in debt and lost hope.

You take and plunder
raising your keep with each day
while the land lies unwatered,
its fields dry,
its people hungry
as your bellies swell.

Thieves and convicts have stolen
what once was proud.
You live on the past and call it fairness.

Oh country of mine,
why do your arms no longer hold me with care?
How can we be the victims of servants
who know only how to destroy, loot, and lie?
Incompetence knows no bounds among you,
yet you walk without shame.

If you fell to a breeze that blows in from the north,
how could I defend you,
when my own people have done more harm
than any bringer of peace could do?

I cannot pledge loyalty
to systems that oppress the innocent
to what has become broken,
fallen to the wills of evil men.

Oh God of this earth
how could you let this great land
fall into the hands of plunderers and liars,
those who breathe corruption
and silence truth?

Freedom does not live here.
Mothers cry for their lost children,
fathers are gone,
streets lie empty under the glare of lamps,
for none dare walk that road.

They say this land is not mine
but I come from your soil,
born of your dust.
How can any man claim ownership
over what was never sold,
but created?

I see how evil hearts poison you,
Oh country of mine.
Your rulers speak with forked tongues,
weeping only when the world’s arms withdraw
and your tables grow now bare.

Oh beautiful land
when will it end?
When blood slicks the streets?
When the sky burns,
the ground shakes,
and bodies scatter the fields
where no seed will grow
and the soil runs red?

What happened to freedom?
To building a future
for those yet to come?
Now they steal from the unborn
and blame the children for their fathers’ sins.

When will peace and prosperity return?
When will your arms hold all
born of this ground?
Foreigners come to plunder,
kings dine on wine,
and I wonder

Is God watching?
Why dont you answer my prayers
or cleanse this land of corruption and hate?
Will He bring unity among its children
or must the hand of peace
come from distant soil
to bring order where none exists?

Nuances of antiquity
In the roughness of the stone,
Mirrors of the past
In the faded paint, alone,
A touch old humanity
In the feeding of the birds....
But long abandoned nuances,
So sad, adorn the words?

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

I am not a poet.
I am only a wanderer in the marketplace of words,
a fool who follows the glimmer of syllables
as others follow the scent of bread.
Poetry is not ink on paper.
It is the pulse beneath the page
a breath moving through the hollow reed of the poet,
a secret that leans close to the ear of the heart.
When I meet a poem, I bow.
I circle it once,
then twice,
then again,
as though it were a shrine whose mystery
can never be entered in a single step.
Each reading strips away a veil.
Sometimes the veil is my own blindness,
sometimes the poet’s mercy in hiding the flame
until I am ready.
There are nights I leap from sleep crying, I have it!
and mornings when the truth laughs,
gently reminding me:
Child, that was only the shadow of the meaning
come back, and drink deeper.
Poetry is a journey without map or return.
It is the caravan of joy
that passes through my heart again and again.

I sat on the edge of the bed.
You smiled.
I am your daughter,
But words mean to you
Something else.

I took your hand,
Telling you I haven’t slept for a year.
I write reflections,
Tame the voices behind my left ear,
Assemble thoughts about the darkness.

I pour a warm, salty liquid
That burns the skin – it doesn’t moisturize.
It helps me,
This pseudo-therapy.
I hide behind my nickname,
So that no one holds me accountable
For what I’m supposed to be.

You also sat up at night,
You read books.
You carried hidden sadness,
I stick a smile on my lips.

I hug people who carry Egregores.
You and I,
we are not afraid of the night.
Your hand is cold.
You smile,
You put together syllables into strange words.

You know that I matter to you.
I pretend to understand
What you wanted to say.

In a moment, it will get hard.
You’ll start screaming like a little boy,
Or again you’ll wait
Until this state of life passes you.

Life?
It’s a kind of space
Where people, because of fear
Bite and scratch
Like frightened, rabid dogs –
And then soothe it
With controlled tenderness.

I sit with you on the edge of the couch
And I think:
We write with the left hand.
We are beings of the night.
Our path was shared –
In fear, to protect a small piece of “I”.

I fear I’ll lose language.
I desperately defend myself against silence.
I dream of non-human languages.
I write words as if I wanted
To cast spells on reality –
Still, it’s not enough.
The anesthesia stopped working.

One day, this will be the end,
Yet as long as I live,
I’ll be the naive one.
That’s what I want.

I choose sweet, sugar-coated hope,
With pink sprinkles,
Telling myself that he, she
Didn’t mean to trample –
Only life pushed them
Into that dark corridor.

My hope
Is not a soft blanket,
This is a heavy, tight helmet.