She was fierce. She was wild and night-time. A heart so gigantic she could paint a picture world-wide. Her style was her own. Her spirit is unchained. Liberated running away from society touching the earth with her bare feet, it embraced her soul, leaving her breathless and carefree. A natural and appearing like a field of flowers, bright and magical. She was a kaleidoscope of colors living enchantingly under the moon at night, and cheerfully in the sun with its radiance and light.
Trying to breathe, TRYING TO BREATHE into the woods. An old woman in a furry hat & I, laughing together still somewhat lifelike. Ever too proud to play boomerang or go fetch for change FOR CHANGE we live out of bags. Exactly where we're meant to be & 'how you say?' ...all that jazz." --shoo.shu #doubleentendres #poetry #spilledink #inthenow #inthemoment #underdog #homeless #boho #bohemian #wanderlust #gypsy #nomad
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa It's moved with us three times It sits in a room with a broken bay window And we sit on it too And we sit on it too
Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses With ice, not warm water Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles Of girls with leopard-print hands And the straw man in the moon The straw man in the moon.
The cord hangs on the wall: A symbol, but not symbolic As chords rise, break off and fall All a sham, but not shambolic A sham, but not shambolic.
Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls And days with names that don't suit them People dying for causes they don't understand And war is an island; a land hyperbolic A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.
Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed. We hear children singing in the guitar strings, Their screeches rising as they fall, Our speeches diving as they fall.
And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine But in France, man... in France the markets are open And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac And Brocéliande lies to us all, And Brocéliande lies to us all.
but see, there is strength in being gentle. when you are humble and patient and filled with love, the world gives back to you. i know there are those who would use my kindness as an excuse to be cruel. i know that there are situations where teeth and fists and fire are the only solutions. but so much in this world opens up when you take a moment to ask even the grass what it feels like to be in such a large family. i will take those who walk on me. there are hundreds of others who grow alongside me. there is much to learn from the shy softness that those who are all bitterness will never get to see.