up from luminous dream,
in the soft hours
of deep night's thrall
suddenly discovering
I am in
          our small corridor,
no longer
                  a narrow hall
for now, to my wonder
it is stretched into
milky-way cathedral
walls robed in
flashes of
     lit-up nostalgia
                 on black
I float, eyes wide
mind open, a-light
naked skin splashed in
the cool nocturnal breath
and before me,
    a vast gallery
          of memories:
faces in frames,
some long gone
some now turned from
round baby cheeks into
vibrant adolescent beauty
delicate curls on toddlers
now muscular,
                fire-talking angels
ancestors who I never knew
but who I am named for
stare in sepia elegance
their eyes
piercing my soul
I am a warrioress
clothed in memories'
sub-conscious fabric
my weapons,
the love
that backs me up
so full it oozes out
            from the ether
spews from geysers
soaks up through
                      the earth
stains beaten feet
my fingers feel it
in strokes of
wind-whipped canticles
generations standing
behind me,
before me
ready to rise
holding staffs
live epitaphs
ready to split the rock

My center is lit up in
past and present voices
                 echoing prayers
I feel them in my
            heart-tunnels,
                     reverberating
they turn
future ponderings
into endless possibilities
I let them all in,
absorbing strength
into deep tissue
and the hell in my spine
opens its scars
like
    flowers of
               the
                  night

If someone pulled me from the inside out
Would they still like what they see?
Such things I hide behind
Are not always with intent to deceive
Do I have an intriguing mind?
Or better yet...
Do I have a beautiful heart?
Shouldn't these be the most important parts
I wear masks to disguise the pain
Underneath a river of lies fall down like rain
Should this river of lies drown me?
Or does it just make me grow
a thicker shell for all to see

A moment cuffs you in the face
like Newton's overstated apple,
and the evening dissolves
into sharp, steady resolve...
You think about the extra drink you should have drunk,
the song you should have sung
and the man whose touch y so missed...

The Muse had disappeared.
**** Muse.

Every time you try to find news you want to *****,
not just a little, but expel the very core of emptiness out of you,
and you picked a fine time to stop swearing
because there is a man whose feel you have so **** missed...

The stars continue to twinkle across the Northern Sky,  
oblivious to the bouncing of our big Blue Ball,
un-answering dreamful wishes;
though, there are other stars lying closer to your heart,
a fresh start and the barbells below...  
And you realize
life is found in the letting go...

And the Muse reappears, smiles an aching, wondrous, Hello.

So... What if I flew too close to the sun,
cimbing steadily through the open air
and my feathers all fell off, one by one.

Freedom and a reckless moment of fun
mixed with a child's propensity to err...
I know I will fly too close to the sun.

I left the earth with my song, still unsung,
drifted along, alone, without a care
and my feathers all fell off, one by one.

A chimeric mirage, to which I clung
and I pleaded Fates, my wings to repair.
So what, if I flew too close to the sun.

The journey over, quick as it'd begun.
Shining bright was the sun's terrible glare,
and my feathers all fell off, one by one.

The path once chosen, could not be undone
when caught in simple, Fates' auspicious snare.
So... What if I flew too close to the sun,
and my feathers all fell off, one by one?

It began as a singular vibration, a heart beat, a steady hum,
and carried through eons.
It was lifted on perfect Devonian wings,
and traveled along with the storms and the breezes.

Mesozoic raptors picked it up,
in bone chilling lashes and screeches.
Then, the songbirds found it,
along with the whales.
Through waves and wind,
this is our gift.

It traveled with the tides and through the air,
and found its way into Indus Valley flutes and strings,
praise to Gods and Goddesses, as it entered all living things.

While it passed as Sirens to Odysseus' wanting ears,
the ancient Celts danced,
their flutes haunted the wild moors...

And each Tribe carried it through prayers and hymns,
laments and dirges,
celebrations and lullabies,
and through love.

Each Tribe carries it still,
through love.

Our gift.

where does it lie
that fabled key
to grease all
savaged links
so music flows

when will it come
epiphany
to challenge
structures old
still strewn about

who can I be
and still find me
as words fail
to still gales
of verbal blows          

why do feuds sear
aesthesia
shrouding sane
perception
in concussed doubt

stunned inertia
stills response
awareness breaks
as blind's ******

tinkling laughter
clashing chimes
lose their charm
discordant rasp

no substance here
an errant wind
furnace blast
frigid stare

lying eyes
steering chance
to suckle dry
life's bequest

bravery's scorned
why should she care
to keep in tune
seek truthfulness

meet honesty's gaze
authentic ways
on route to her
extinction