If you're having a bad day
remember love is your essence
and align with the beings
who hold love for you.
Angels Archangels, The Divine,
Fairies, Ancestors,
The Galactic Federation
And then...
the bad day will dissipate.

Our memories shape us even when we don't remember them fully. Ever when we don't recall the many experiences of running here and there, the celebrations of birthdays, the good times and bad times. They all shape us and in time as old age approaches we reach a point sometimes where they are all clumped together unreachable.
What remains  is love our essences. Whats left as human costume is ready to be discarded is love and compassion, love and memories.

My poetic words flow like river,
meandering through verse pushed by breath.
Words expand becoming infused
with bubbles that float across page.

My poetic verse becomes like fish
dancing in waves caught
in my pens pole.

A pole that rises above currents
to construct a poem
thats dinner for a readers mind.

Pigs build their houses.
Wolf comes and will huff and puff.
Brick house wins the test.

I love fairy tales.
They bring out the child in me.
I shall go read one.

Watercolor teardrops,* flow from eyes
in kaleidoscope of colors.
They spiral, as sun hides in clouds,
and sadness over powers day.

Watercolor teardrops, fall like waterfall
striking mountainous cheek,
as it moves in currents of a cry.

Watercolor teardrops vibrate,
calling for heart to heal,
so the lever can be turned off and well can dry.

Grounding takes place upon sacred soil
as wind of breath infused with wisdom settles
upon conscious mind.

A mind that aligns with truth,
that tears severed a purpose
to know my own powerful light.
The power
as sun of self comes out and makes
*a watercolor rainbow.

We are all poets.
Sometimes, using pens
on floor-like keyboard to write.
Other times, our poems are sung like bird
to whisper in ears of passerby's.

We are all poets.
Communicating in whatever form we choose.
Sometimes expressed
with a stare or kind gesture.
Other times, we use bodies as tools
to dance or move
speaking without words.

We are all poets,
marching to our own melodies.
Gift's we possess as divine beings of love.

Inside Rem sleep, I the poet wanders.
My pillow becoming my spaceship.
The breath my paint brush,
and the dream my landscape.

Once there... my pen becomes an oar
and dream visions my reality.
A reality to scribe on waves of a vellum page.