Maiden in the ashes
Robed in silk
Robbed of milk
No mark on your tender skin
No sign of turmoil within
The coal does not yet scorch your soul
...
You walk your delicate path
Bearing the sightly, brightly beaten cut bloom of spring
Luscious petals not yet knowing
They will drop from the stem
No seeds to plant, and not her fault
the only water here tainted with salt
And the ground here is hard, turned up in its roots
And the soft garden bed tamped down by boots
Do you know the path you tread does not want you?
Do you not yet feel the cut of the stone or burning of the coal to your sole?
Or does this black earth need your bloodstained steps as much as you need to bleed them
Is it possible for one woman's blood to nourish this dead soil back to life?
And one woman's love to seed them

To sit here and scale our memories
looking for worth in wondering
searching for pieces in the past
I left all my paints and colorful hues
and moved forward with potfuls of rain thinking that to love is constant
and to lose is momentary pain
but all these versions of lives lived
all the people we said we were
and all the things we hope to become
stir and boil in this water
and winter tells us to stay inside
but this heart keeps racing
aching to feel the sun and the snow
to tear apart the days
and take these fractures
as testimonies of all that we braved

there is no greater love
than one that transpires despite adversity—
one that stands tall and sturdy as the oak,
unmoved by any wind that dares to face it

Along our journey
Carved in stone
The words read
"The path from here on,
Must be walked alone."
The mournful cry
Tears of betray
Laminating the path
One walks astray
But you and I
Need not have this faith
For even the pilgrims
Lose their way
Although lost and drifting in time
Through the desert's barren beauty
You are my saving rain
And it is true
Our trail may wind
But it shall never part
As you forever remain
The keeper of my heart

Bobbing and weaving,
Slipping and jabbing.

The fighting stance against a thousand opponents,
All of whom, look like me,
Is a stance I can only articulate,
In a mirror,
Shadow boxing that guy,
Strangely looking like me.

Pop-Pop BANG,
I throw punches at the air in front of me,
This bull can rage like Cinderella in a cage,
A square, roped cage,
Where life’s uppercuts put me in a daze.

The fighter in me,
One stubborn little *******,
Iron-jawed and iron-clawed,
Always taking one to the gut,
I fall down and so ruthlessly get back up.

24 and 0,
I’m the undefeated world champion,
My opponent remains consistent,
But I’m not afraid,
I got this far,
You think I can’t go a few more rounds?

grace is the morning,
greet it with gratitude;
and so do yourself too,
for keeping on,
for keeping on.

perhaps the moth
simply doesn't know
the strength of
its own wings
but the way it flutters
seemingly erratic
        in its choices
never straight forward
        in its direction
can be infuriating at times
as those silken sails
appear to force it
where none expect it to be
in disjointed circles
often far off course
only occasionally
will it find itself
exactly where it should be
whether accidentally
         or by design
its every path is filled
with calculated corrections
revisions and redress
in order to reach
its intended
that source of light
one way or another

Ocean's brine collides
and threatens to capsize
my entire island.

Wild tides violently writhe,
striving for sky highs,
waves and wake
annihilate horizons.

Darkness disguises,
only outlines
for tired irises
to try finding
while dilated
behind eyelids,
hiding nighttime's crimes
inside blindness.

But guiding signs smile,
morning's light shining
still reminded;
so sublime
when stormy seas I've survived
have finally subsided.

"horrible bird"
she called it
telling of how
she had watched
a crow pluck
and pry at
its weakened prey
while perched upon
the bird bath
outside her window
at the garden's edge
despite this sternest
of lessons
nature at its most fickle
she still sits
in her comfy chair
looking out
over a bank of flowers
buoyant in bloom
enjoying the sight
of wagtail
bunting and finch
alighting on the stone plinth
pompous and preening
refreshing themselves
admiring the plumage
of their reflection
before returning once more
to wing and wind

The darkness surrounds beauty
One which is barely tamed
And in a moment
When all seemed hopeless
It was beauty who remained