Were a glass
Of white wine
May yours always be


Half full


Minimal
Soul Survivor

Before the wings and spring of words,
Were cradle-held in a cloud of sleep,
Soft footfalls to hear ourselves turning
And ever new dreams were lofty keys,

We could not see the frost branching
And winter never was, nor winds cold,
In our temple eyes, the sun crowning
Imbued visions, fine as woven gold,

Draped in silks so rare, spun spinning,
To hear the birds sing in ears blossom,
For the very first time, true beginnings
And the flower's colour never forgotten,

All is mourning now— song, sings singer,
To morn, wake, dream, dreams dreamer.

You've bruises on your thighs,
both sides of skin beat and red.
If this is how he says hello to you
then maybe it's time leave, or is
it time to relieve yourself with
hits and smacks and colourful
comic-book thwacks back so his
****** nose can complement those
he gave you that time in spring.

Take your glass slippers and be
one of those girls in red dresses;
dance, twist, and twirl as well as
the rest of them, churn up that
dance floor ring and take time
out for more drinks, rehydrate
before looking for another long-
term date to be a tactile touch-er
with, another involved and committed
lover.

Take note from the pint husbands
and their half-pint wives around you,
pen a note to yourself for the future
beginning with,
Listen,
then moving swiftly on with,
If you find another man that hits
before he kisses you than you've picked wrong,
ending with,
*You've plenty of time left, stay strong.

I don’t know what we are right now.
We can be of 3 different states.
We change in many different ways.
Never will I think we will stay the same.

Some days we are like solids,
Bound tightly together.
Whatever our form is,
What we are is never regular.

Some nights we are like liquids,
More free to move.
Flowing as if nothing can stop us,
But viscous enough to never let go.

And sometimes we are like gas;
Separated and swift.
We know of our presence,
Regardless how invisible it may be.

Of all of the states,
There is one thing common:
That they need atoms, like us
To make us matter.

breakfast with my mother
is now a song of
tapping,clinking noise
as the tremor in her hands
grow beyond the medications
control

she will be 85 within month
and has become small and birdlike in appetite

conversations have become
vocal exercises in loud short
projections
but she is not deaf
the world has just stopped
speaking clearly

her eyes
have seen so much,
her heart
has encompassed both
great joys
and deep sorrows

the sharp cutting edges of
her mind
are now becoming
butter knifes
it saddens me to know
her mental acuity
is dwindling like yarn
unraveling
to pool in a
muddled mess
of colour on
the dusty floor

i watch her
over my coffee cup
we are so
different and disparate
i once truly believed
my self
to be anothers child
our personalities
were so divided by lifes spectrum
but as i muse now
as a mother myself
watching her
it comes to me
if i am just an inkling
of her strength and grace
then i am an amazon
incarnate
incarnate

I didn't find you most beautiful
after all those hours you spent
on your makeup
or shaping your lovely hair
into its tiny strands.
or the outfits you wore
that hugged your frame
so eager to catch a hungry eye
I found you most beautiful
after the makeup
was smeared or washed away
your hair a mess from the long night
and your outfits nothing but balled up fabric
strewn across the room
and all those barriers you put up
for others
came crashing down
under the weight of your smile
thats when you were the most beautiful thing
I have ever seen.

i could paint a hundred sunsets
and the sum of them would not equal a fraction of how glorious yours are.
i could draw a thousand seas
and the most beautiful of them would not mirror Your majesty.
i could sing a million songs
and Your voice would be sweeter than any of them.
i could love You with my heart, mind, and soul
and i wouldn't love You as much as You love me.