The voices echo above and below,
Long ago and beyond your front door,
Now and then,
And again and again and again.
Listen well to what the voices tell.
The voices wise,
Within them you find your own.

Some of them,
Come in bellowing big bouncing boulders,
Down mountainsides,
And pouncing tidal waves,
That echo after death through the graves.

Some of them,
Are seeped into sea shells
And wishing wells,
And whisper,
Along the wind of weeping willows,
And float in the dreams on our pillows.

And others,
Are giggled from the swing sets
And jungle gyms,
Or the horse stalls and pig pens,
And desert sands,
Some voices are animal; some man.

But all of them,
Can be heard if we listen,
If we sit in the silence,
Our own voice expands
And dances in these spaces.
Our knowledge rises, breath raises,
And heart races.

Knowledge rises.
Breath raises.
Heart races.

Things change.

Then the cycle begins.
To find your voice, you have to listen.

I once thought a crow
Had pecked through my trash bags.
But it was just you,
You scattering all the bad things
I’ve never done.
Just for fun,
To run my name through banana peels
And gum.

The trees weep with weary limbs
Looking at the cobwebs in the grass.
The crow, too craven,
The raven, too slow.
I wouldn’t guess you weak willed,
I wouldn’t have known
The way this would go.

The crow, too craven,
The raven, too slow.

Our souls in an oscillating trance,
A fated dance
Awaiting the exit sign.
If we remind ourselves of the time left
While others wept,
We can skip a spot in line while they cry.
If we stop to wipe their eyes,
We may miss the door as it swings.
And I know,
We don’t choose the time,
But we choose how we live,
In the face of death.
In this.

Lips parted to speak, but vomited.
Throws seed in trash. Still grows.
The lie he told came true.

Blind, bound, but walking.
Wandering, if not with dusty feet,
Then with fleeting thoughts;
A quick mind.
When age has written pages of his book
And wrinkled the spine,
He flies on the inside.
A cane in his hand,
Sand is like his skin,
Brittle like autumn leaves beneath footsteps
And thin, grim, grotesque,
But not within.
His mind: his treasure chest.

Your topography.
Your body and its geography.
Lavish to lick,
Sensual, slick,
Fantastic.
I indulge with my hands and my mouth
As our hips, caught in a dance
Lift me into a trance,
And all I see is you,
And the star-speckled black.
Our aura outshines them all.
I tip-tap finger tips on your back,
And your breath,
And sighs
Whisper sweet-nothings to the skies
And all the gods watch in awe
As we crumble temples in our path,
And reach levels higher than Olympus
Decibels higher than the thunderous clap,
Anchored down by nothing
But a metal clasp
And hidden by nothing but a mask.
But these are no obstructions
To our naked odyssey,
We wander in wanderlust.
In lust, in love.
In you,
In me.

My soul alight,
When the sweet melody
Of kindred spirit’s song
Fills my fingers and toes.
When the divine,
Connects me with another,
When I find my brothers.
When Mother Earth
Collides me with my like-minded,
And we travel
To parallels and spirit realms.
I love them,
Those of my soul pods,
And born of stars,
And those with scars like mine,
And deep, other-worldly minds
And chosen-kin,
Who are more than our bones,
And our skin.
We are home when within,
And when together again.
We are cosmos.
We are love.
We are one.