Stealthily moving through the forest,
Slinking in and out of trees, weeds, wildflowers, is the fox.
Red deer appear in an open meadow grazing.  Dusk is near,
The yawning day begins to close its bleary heavy eyes.  And
A distant raven caws a warning that he knows you are there.
Nature is not fooled by the games we play.

Our ancient genes carried us forwards, theirs, and ours.
Millenniums have passed by, and we each have stood
In one another’s presence.  The forest, the field,
**** and wildflower, the fox, the deer, the ravens.  
Not by pure magic, not by happenstance, but by design.
And we are so very blessed to be among one another.
  
A rich tapestry weaves like a comforting blanket around us.

There is something that fascinates
Me about your language.

Hairs bristle on the back of my neck,
My ears tingle when the words

Touch them and I burn for wanting
More of those lines.  Leaving me

Wanting so much more than words.

As drops of blood color water
That certain shade.  Pink?  Rose?
Lovely in themselves.  Coral?  

While the starfish slowly crawl
Across the mighty ocean floors,
The stars in heaven swirl overhead.

And we all continue to die each day.

For beth fwoah dream Boleyn

The pale moon, shrunken
And as faint as a pencil sketch

Shines down with sly smile
Looking over the forest below.

She is ill in her waning phase, but
Is comforted knowing she will wax.

Wild nettles of the night rise up
Wrapping her burden in mist.

The tides listen as she commands
Their rhythms and they distils their vapor.

Her victories are unfurled of wrappings
As they stretch out like ribbons of roads.

We are all puppets and go as directed.

I want to transform you
Making you like new
Sparkling with a pink glow

Difficult things tainted you
Turned you almost blue
With a sickly pale

A bad smell clings
A smell of death
I want to make you live

But as the French say:
“Il n’y a pas plus sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre.” -
“There’s no one as deaf as the one who doesn’t want to listen.”

I could forgive you just about anything,
My precious one.
The sun will still rise in the sky,

And my heart-wound will heal
My eyes will dry.
But we will all be changed by careless acts,

And never be the same.

What is race?
A construct of bigotry.

I am part Scottish
I am part German
I am part English and more.

I am not ashamed of these.
I am not expected to be
Nor to explain that heritage.

My blood is mixed
With African, with Native American
Why can't I claim it?  Why must I explain it?

Why should I disown any part?
To make you more comfortable?

I must admit, however,
That I am often ashamed
To claim "human."