there are days i long for
the allure of philosophy.
writing.
a less personal affair,
but only to a degree.

rather than what i do.

such responsibility, to hold
another's fragile mental
stability within the palm
of my hand!

i am no healer, i do not
offer cures. no. the
gravitation i hold
is simply an

   e  
        c    
             h
                  o

of everything
which shall always
be nothing more than
the reverberation of my soul.

i am not a poet.
my mother tongue is not
within clever word
play or meter.

i speak the words of the
effervescent
cosmic tapestry
within the singing
of the spheres.

there is a quiet history in
that celestial symphony,
an Edda of instrumental
humming all that
was and shall be.

If my verses give another reason to smile, trust, and believe in the vast universe and that we’re not alone than I will rest better knowing I did well to scribe with purpose.

If my poetry makes another laugh, or sigh, or even stop and move in their truth as divine being of light and love than, I have succeeded to aid one heart at a time.

If my phases excite and give another, room to recall
their greatness and not stay too long in shadows of the dark,
than my title as writer will stay intact.

If my poems empower others to know who they are
to celebrated and face their fears gallantly with dreams and hope than, I will walk feeling my heart open and wings spread.

If my work infused with love penetrates and cradles with words to give insight and encouragement than, I have for-filled my contract as light worker to reset the world for peace.


StarBG © 2017

in the infernal uproar of possibilities when the universe halted an alternative course of movement (to which eternity might be possible in a cosmic place as a confirmation congruent to a derivative of consciousness), there lies an ephemeral mind; at a certain point in time being, who thinks that everything will be plausible in a galaxy of transcendence.

if a particle moves alongside this ephemeral consciousness to which it caused a disturbance, every particle of the latter might be in flux.

[you are that particle]

and if and when, in a conscious state of space and time you sporadically moved and pulled the orbit to which i constantly managed to retain the equilibrium, then should the universe permit us to drift into the internal immobility of togetherness, we became infinitesimal--
but only through the metaphysics of time being.

[at least we had]

(03/09/17)

In this day and age if you are different

If you have longer hair and brighter eyes

If you have learned the math of the universe and understand the way nature works

If you have mastered ways to make life bend to your will

If you know how to listen to the vibration of the earth and march to the beat of a different drummer

You are called a witch

And you are judged and persecuted not physically but emotionally

Women hate you and men fear you

Had you been alive centuries ago you would have been burned at the stake

The memory, the anger lives on

But there is no prouder legacy

If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
That spark of madness
Devoid of need for the tongue.
If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
That hidden power in your tone
To bring you visions into the world,
A form of alchemy that pales to none.
If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
That jewel in your belly that glows brightly
That seeks to find you day and nightly.
If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
The spark that you find,
The visions you define,
The power you cannot hide.
If you write it,
It will come.