Child of my spirit, why do you cry?
My arms will enfold you as you tell me why.
Share all your dreams, your hopes and your fears,
As my love is the tissue to dry all your tears.

Child of my spirit, it’s time to heal.
Know that you’re loved and that love is real.
Let go of the doubts that you’ve carried since birth,
And know that you’re precious as gold in your worth.

Child of my spirit, it’s time to shine.
Open your heart and all will be fine.
Trust that your path is steady and true
And know The Divine will always love you.

© Victor Fuhrman

I raise the pick-axe high up above my head.
I bring it back down with all my might.
I hear an audible thud at it pierces into the ground.

I change my grip.

The soil turns over as I pry it out of the ground.
I smile to myself in satisfaction at the sight of the churning soil.
It is a calm, soothing sight, worth the magnitude of the effort required to produce it.

I change grips as I ready myself and raise the pick-axe high up above my head once more.

I am the artist,
the Earth my canvas.
The pick-axe is my brush,
the chaos my muse.

Seeds will be sown
and vegetation will be grown.
Spoils will be shared
and cheer will be spread.

But for all the good that is done,
I am the one having all the fun,
for this sight is for me,
this art is my own.

Tune in to clouds
Between thunder static,
devastating news
white cotton noise,
you’ll find soothing hymn.

Find the station
lift your head high
enough, just for now.

Kindling a purr...
Stroking the cat's back softly
Contentment ignites.

It was dry
Hot and humid
Dusty and nasty

Then
It rained
Cool and wet
Soothing and cozy.

Don’t allow grey skies to dampen your hair,
soak up your shirt,
seep into your
socks.

Let the tears fall if they brew under-lid,
saltwater
cleanses and
soothes.

Don’t stay up late ‘til the birds start to talk,
spreading secrets
you don’t need to
hear.

Smoke always rises and wind blows you sideways-
even gorse ****
has bright yellow
bloom.