Respect
for the mother and fathers who build this playground for us to roam ,
respect for the floating flowers sweet seed sprouting into blossoms tree
respect for the love of self - selflessly
respect for the helpers helplessly
respect for the boundaries

rises climatic waves crash onto soft shore
breakfast on the patio
what could one ask for more
then a wake up call without using a phone

last night's revelries spill over into today's serenity
sacred ground
sacred sounds
early bird gets the worm they say

share the love
spread the love , doctors healers
love knows no bounds
but seeks to reach each tip of wing in illuminated golden heart seen on first meeting
glows the fireflies
who light up the night time so bright
nor the wonderlusting princesses moving in her own skin with so much filling to the brim
overspilling with kisses and loves
spilt beers and american dreams turn to dust on the desert plains
and the silken haze hangs low across the city
bike riding race styling high flying
we already die to live to give
we already sing to the silent tunes of water droplets
and bird calls
tree's sigh in daylight delight and fight no one,  not even the night for ...


the tree's photosynthesise by moonlight
leaves drink in the cool wise light and give off dreams of softly fading starlight
and laughing at Jamican tour guides....*exucse me while i light my spliff....har har har har.....and over here is the kitchen...

I loved of milk stains from overflowed cereal bowls,
like too much love was the problem with you and I,
and not that you didn't grab a bigger bowl,
for all the love I wanted to pour out.

but like stains they fade away,
into backgrounds becoming nothings,
of somethings,
that were all once one thing,
worth the energy of the other side of what used to be,
but not everyone gets to be blown away by you,
others will do away with you,
leaving you.
to fade into the tables and become one,

you look at what you once had,
new milk fills the bowl never overstepping in things of love,
overspilling the love,
like you did,
and you'd cry if you weren't dried out.

and you look,
at what happiness they both have,
something you wished to of haved for the both of you,
and it tears your heart in two,
and you may cry on the inside,
but find it in your mind
that your heart may be broken,
but you need to let them fly,
and love,
for you couldn't love right,

and in that moment,
you shut your little milk stained eyes,
the right way to die,
is with tears of forgiveness,
and to remember and move on from the past,
and as you release a single dried out tear,
all of you fade into the background as if you were never there,
leaving no trace,
but your single dried out milk stain tear,

started the day hearing jokes about clitorectomies and other female bodyparts being mutilated. at lunch i learned that the bible predicts that a 'dark-skinned leader' signals the end times. the other morning i was the shouted subject of various ****** accusations while i went to **** in the woods, and called a "******* hippie-tree-hugger-******"... as a joke, .. test.. target of overspilling hate and ignorance.. i think.  i've witnessed extreme homophobia combined with a disarmingly authentic homosexual playacting --a moment of hand-holding or flirtatious banter that almost convinces one of a sincere, sensitive fondness or even a vulnerable sexuality beneath the surface of these men..  yet alongside such blatant racism to drain the hope in humanity from any listener: "Ferguson hasn't made people crazy--it's made black people crazy... And people wonder why there are stereotypes... IT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE TRUE!!!" and comments like, "it's all about the Jews..." and "I think Obama is a ****" randomly dot the conversational landscape of each day

You rose gently this morning
As if wanting to ease me into the day.
I watched your slow-burn rise
Gifting me a kaleidoscope sky:
Reds, Greens, Yellows and Golds,
As befits a celestial Emperor
Whose power basks in its own brilliant light.

But you knew I was watching your daily coronation.
Was it your plan to make it so memorable?
Or was it a self-fulfilling prophecy?
Did I choose this day subconsciously
As the day of my life's blossoming...
Fruit overspilling,
Wine glass brimming.

Now, with our day underway
My joy is unabating.
Your radiance infectious warming my soul.
What will the rest of your tenure gift me?
I am where I want to be,
I am who I want to be,
Dearest Sun, please do not set on me.

Acariasis
Crawls me due to this homeless feeling,
I seeketh flight, delight and meaning
To bench me and lay me down!

Acanaceous
Cuts polish me uninvitingly,
A blow of snot to every breeze
A town with no mi amour'!

Abundance
Where light meets the center road,
Two chalice's to meet one soul
An overspilling of madpoet syndrome!

Acatalectic,
An allowance from god to man,
A show of pictures and words with hands
A reality I seeketh,

Not a myth!!!

Our story was left unfinished,
Got cut off mid-sentence
And in between the beginning and the end.
Maybe that was how it was supposed to be;
Maybe my 365-paged novel
That was dedicated solely to you
Was meant to be left unwritten,
And that no matter how many times I edit it,
How many times I scribble over mistakes,
How many times I try to erase the unnecessary things I never meant to say,
The main characters weren’t meant for each other
Even if they believed it.
I didn’t mean for this to end so abruptly;
I was so ready to draft out the sequels,
But I was left uninspired
And the words just didn’t come out right.
Our story was left unfinished,
But that doesn’t mean it was never important,
That it wasn’t special,
That it doesn’t deserve recognition.
It will stick out from the bookcase
It’s stored in
And even as the pages are filled with dust
And overspilling thoughts across the margins,
I will remember to always come back to it,
Always remember to go back to the doggy-eared pages
Meant for memories that we wrote together,
Always remember to read over the passages
That I highlighted
That were of the moments we created.
One day,
You are going to find someone
Who will write about your story
About how you came to be,
And she will write sequels
Meant only for you,
And you’ll read it to your children,
And your story will get published
Even with its mistakes
And doggy eared pages
And highlighted areas.
One day
That will happen
And I hope to read it
Someday
So I can imagine how happy you are
With the person who was meant to write you novels,
And not just poems
And love notes on binder paper
And unwritten stories about your adventures together,
And this will happen
Someday.

when she,
asked me about lava,
the picture became so clear.

the stories told here,
all the ways to the truth.
my eye now views things differently.

like, the living being Earth,
She creates through the liquid.
She awaits the pulsing energy
of the sun,
and her blood begins to boil.
overspilling into the waters,
and her womb creates anew.

the blistering heat cooled,
crust instantly forms.
land rises from the core.
She then begins to call seed.
life springs forth,
breathing in this new ground.

She calls more seeds,
more diversity,
more paths to receive,
increased frequency.
the creatures creep, crawl and soar.
they heed her tongue,
knowing She creates all.

from her bleeding, dark womb,
pushing into the light of the moon.
forcing new life into the heavens.

awakening to the view of the seven,
self aware and open, awaiting more.

I dreamed of fire, then of ice.
I dreamed the dull blade hack and slice.
I saw a Mother’s face, tears overspilling.
Pleading for heart’s peace, never stilling.
I saw a Father’s disapproval, seemed uncaring.
I know he feels much more, he’s just not sharing.
Heads and hearts are full of strife,
This one’s suffering is not by knife.
Sons' and daughters' lives in full flow,
The dead passed on and rest below.
Old age and pain abated by the joy
Of grandkids at play, new girls and boys.
Suffering is real, understanding is relative,
Thought and memory are the only derivative.
No end in sight, but this life’s not long,
Neither is it only for the strong.
So if you’re feeling weak and tired,
Sit by me, I’ve lit the fire.

against dilapidated walls

a pnuema's frayed slither

undoes skin a blush dead.

moistening motions of

maggots gleaming darkly--

bathed by airless confines

overspilling between an

untamable essence.

despite our coming to a conclusion
I feel depleted , drained.

What , subconsciously , I'd been creating in the place of his warmth  has only just come down on my body , dusty and grey and confused.

Unsure and faintly inflamed.

A relationship is co-creation and his co-creation was not there, yet
he still wanted this, he said so-

but did not act
for the longest of times,
claiming effervescent bubbles of gentle love
although mostly absent
on following through
with sweet poems, loving messages upon awakening, star dappled gifts sent in the mail, making time for meals eaten together, making efforts to watch shows together or the million trillion ways of showing love that are material
or even hearty warming energies were lacking...seemed like he was so shaken ego scared of my anger or upset
that there was no space in his mind
for anything else but self-preservation and lending the space for tears like old friend or new. (It's his forte and I'm grateful) 

 It's taken it's toll on me, my relentless loving , my relentless sharing , my relentless attempts at sustaining something, I'll need you to help me if we are to maintain.
I don't mean to sound centered on only my happiness, we must all grow, we all
have points to work on especially me
so know
my compassion is overspilling for this creature, this man.

We used to see ourselves as great spiritual warriors
our cosmic spirits calling lessons,
being sacred mirrors for each other
but now he just say's "kind of". 

I'm offering that mirror space so you can work on yourself, DEEPLY. DARKLY. IRRATIONALLY. So those demons he hides of cold, calculated expression , detachment and avoidance , fear driven reaction and compartmentalized childhood may have a space to be worked through in a safe space,
to see the light of day and become what they were always meant to be; power, rocket fuel , abundance , freedom in motion and more!

But to have that space practically ignored,

renders me wise
that it is possible for hearts to be hurt over time, corroded , worn down because, sweetheart , that's my gift, that's my expertise , that's my joy I would love to share with you.

When co-creation is no longer co-creation is that still a relationship? Is that still a love story unfolding? Is he still serious about loving me or is that Fool Bull so intent on tripping himself up that he is only willing to create an existence for himself where he ultimately is jaded, licking his wounds, detached from his environment, alone. Because I want no part in that, save the holding of space for tears like an old friend.

I want to be in a relationship where love is mutual and expressed and shared, where there is balance of weight, both material and spiritual. Where I can explore my feminine divinity held in the space of masculine divinity where in turn he is held in my physical space, where in turn I am held in his physical space, where in turn he is held in my feminine divinity to explore is own masculine, where we are able to dive deeply , safely,  knowing we have each others backs. Where we can explore being alive with love riding high on our chests and dancing the beat of our bones as we learn who we are and why we are here. As we work with our hands and stomp with our feet, we tend to the earth and care for the people around us, we make the most of our lives and take action where we can
to be bold , brave and free. Maybe we'll lounge around and watch tv or maybe we'll talk small talk sometimes and that's all part of it .

What do you want? Do you desire me anymore ? I've missed seeing you look at me with that breathless warmth , that high tide sensation.

To not give it everything we have would be an insult.
To not die laughing , colorful with our selves, knowing the light and the dark, knowing we were not victims of fear but walkers of courage and joy,  having moved out species to new experiences, moved ourselves , been true to ourselves our real real selves,


been real true

to not live like that
would be an insult
to all those who have come before
all those who have yet to arrive.

I've watched, I've listened, he takes his time to come to action
he's slowly moving through, taking actions in what he see's best
he's trying in his own way to be the truest him he can be
it is noticed and I appreciate the ways you have been there
yet he takes his pace above all others and gets comfy in patterns
that is all right
in and of itself,
but when there are others with you on that journey,
perhaps it is a time for you to know yourself better and that's well and true, best known alone ( in my opinion)
but I say to him, to you,
decide Fool Bull,
if you want to be a lover or an old friend
and make it happen.

It's ok if we are neither,
it's ok if we are to let these tangled stories be claimed by the wind
we've come a long way
no shame in letting it end
no shame in changing our forms and bursting out our love in new ways
no shame in what has happened
we must all change and grow, move with me or don't
but know,

I have loved you every moment.