Posted up in shade
gazing at desert mesa
waiting for my militant van
to be fixed.

Wheels turn, the violent shaking of tears left me clear, a giant spirit of you lifting me from the pit.

The outstretched hand,
a reminder of kindness,
the prayer for rain
came true,

fell like ancient memories
putting out an 80,000 acre fire
from wiping out the rest of me.

I am learning how to capture green,
obvious signs keep leading
me on.

I hear you but I cannot see you.

Inside my body, light is flashing wild.

Up and down,
hard to describe this angelic burning,
sweet summer hopes broken out, hunting you down
my soul of eternal mysteries.

There is no need to speak.

All this green shelter
speaks for itself.

All this light
still teases me,

like rays
miss the Sun,

knowing your full capacity
is more glorious than my ability to write it.

Sitting under the cloudy night
She thought:
How did I get this far?
Thinking within her cloudy mind
She thought:
How further must I go?

The cars passed by
Buzzing beneath the street lights.
The bugs softly sung,
Singing their nightly lullaby.

All the while this young girl thinks
Under the starless sky,
Wishing the clouds to go by
So she could see and not dream
Of a farther light.

We've been scorched and trialed
Scarred beyond recognition
Bruised beyond repair
But we've shed our skin to become
Masters of our own disguises...

Scars line our bodies
Intertwining like a mysterious vine
Lacing together in jagged harmony
Intricate like a hidden beauty within itself..

Some were received from battle
More received from the battle within
From the depths of the darkness
Haunting the forgotten graves
Lost in the whispering wind..

Our skin's a masterpiece
Covered in red, black, and blue
But is it the color of glory
Or of shame
Of fear
Of the silent shadows still living within us...

Are we truly soldiers
Or simply ones without a cause
Lost in the sounds of chaos
For eternity to endure...

Our scars tell our stories
But are they the ones being heard
Or are our silent screams
Lost in the unforgiving wind
In the depths of time itself?

Then truly,
   Do these scars,
       Our story
         Mean anything
              At all ....

Who knew that the cure
For a mind stricken with grey
Was leaves on the breeze?

This morning I caught the blues.
I stood on the edge of the spoon with nowhere to go.
I tied my shoes and searched for my muse.
There she sat, distance postponing an ooze of stew.
With the end of the ladle short.
The end of the table so far. I sat.
I felt like a schmuck,
sitting on the edge of the spoon.
This hunger pang unfair.
Following me ladle to the tip.
A table clothed in decoration.
I envied the way it loathed.
Laying flat with no idea of what was going on.
It would never know the hunger that ached mid-spoon.
The ingredients that drove this passion.
The smell, the feel of steam that rose from the middle of the bowl.
The meat, the vegetables.
The brew of broth I longed to taste.
This space mid-spoon.
My heart raced in mourning
Standing on the edge of the spoon