I woke up in shadows,
The bottle beside me
Chasing the ghosts of what used to be me
Thought I found love in the haze of the night
But all that it brought was the cold empty fight
I rose from the ashes
Rebuilt my own way
No longer a puppet
Im learning to play
I’m standing alone
In the light of my truth
No longer a prisoner of dark wasted youth
With every step forward I’m more than alright
The love that I lost led me back to the light
Memories haunt me like smoke in the air
The laughter the love it’s simply not there
But I found a new strength in my solitude
Embracing the calm, I’m cleansing the rude
In the silence my heart found a song
A melody whispers
“You’re where you belong”
Im standing alone
In the light of my truth
No longer a prisoner of a dark wasted youth
With every step forward I’m more than alright
The love that I lost lead me back to the light
So here’s to the journey
To healing and grace
I found my own home in this damaged space

Picasso was an artist
So am I
I pour ink on paper
in a style
that'll make you wanna cry
I can paint her smile
using similes
and describe her
eyes with a sonnet or three

Mozart made beautiful music
So can I
I string words together
that'll make you wanna sing
kind of like lyrics
I write all about love
and everything.

Ansel Adams took photos
So do I
I use words to show pictures
of all kinds
and project them to my readers
in their minds.

Etta James was a singer
But I cannot sing a note
but what I can do is
pour out my heart
in neatly typed phrases
with cleverly penned quotes

I'm a poet
I love words the best of all
come join me while I write
of lost love, new love
and all the above.

Back from the desert and loving it
both the visit and the return.
The powerful plane deiced in Chicago.
Brittlebush, difficulty distinguishing acacia from ironwood.
Mesquite, and plenty of paloverde.
A good jazz band in Phoenix, their own style, no apology.

Could you also love your cancer? The vicious attack of a hedgehog
      cactus?
The winter storm that kept us on the tarmac three hours
followed us home. Used to be
when weather made the headlines, that was good news.
No more. Those melting icecaps and incoming meteors.
Some pray, some stay still, some keep playing.

Anyway, notwithstanding inexorably expanding or otherwise rapidly
      contracting universes
I saw cercocarpus, phainopepla, tomentilla, saguaro, and a great
      guitarist. Prayers were answered.

She was an artist
but not how
most people
think of artists.
She wasn’t a painter,
nor a sculptor.
Not technically

Her instrument was her paintbrush,
her breath the paint.
The rhythms were her design,
the notes her colors,
the world her canvas.

The paper was her pottery wheel,
the words her clay.
Stanzas were her shape,
punctuation her indentations
and publishing her kiln.

she painted with music,
and sculpted with poetry
she made sound come to life,
made poems sing

Most say she’s only a musician
and a writer.
Some will at least give her poet.
but I’d argue
She’s an artist

i'm stirred by our rhythm
we talk, and my heart starts to beat faster
or maybe slower…
i can't tell
i stumble across my counts
i fall off of time
i forget how to exist outside of this presence.
our conversation is my favorite dance
i savor each of your words, each of your pauses, each of your murmers
i save them in music boxes that i decorate with my favorite treasures. 
i replay them later in my solitude
like comfort food
like warm blankets
and scented candles
and i find myself gently tracing them in other talks
just like when you hear your favorite song
playing in the distance.

Feel the beat
Beneath
Your feet
Let it shake
Your bones,
Let the lyrics
Nod your head,
Put you in the zone.
The melody
Taking your mind by storm
Been feeling it
Since I was born
That iridescent song

Music in the night:

a prayer that lifts me up --


high into heaven.