|“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson Here I am.|
The strange and mystic art of trying to turn a mix of metals into gold.
A rumored hobby of Isaac Newton; understanding the gravity of his situations.
Life makes alchemists of us all.
We take our elements - the hard, the fine, the dense, the noble, and the untouchable radioactive- And we blend them. We try our hardest to mix them into something that shines in the sun. Something of value and beauty. While we know that Gold, in its perfection, stands alone, we still keep mixing. Like mad scientists making artistry of chemistry, we mix til it’s similar enough to be satisfied for one more day.
And when the luster fades, we start again- beautiful, mad, manic beings seeking after the s...
I wasn’t interesting enough for the average person. Ive always been kind, consistent, routine. You’re apt to forget me if you aren’t actually looking.
I’ll bloom slowly, an array of colors and roots that seek the light and deserve to be seen, but in a world of short attention spans, I passed unnoticed.
The party in the courtyard; I was never included.
The knock at the door was never for me.
Like the North Star or the flowers in springtime, no one missed me until it was dark or cold.
I still bloomed. I still shined. Still, I was here.
A caterpillar in a cocoon, no one saw the vibrant bloom of color when I was quiet and small. So now when I finally soar, you have no right to be angry th...
I sought to stop the hands of time,
I lulled it with a song.
Despite my lilting lullabies,
It followed me along.
This cosmic and consistent race
Changes my face, my clothes, my hair.
Sometimes it speeds up the pace
Of troubles I wish weren’t there.
But on she runs alongside me, moving the hands of the clock.
And over again, at my door
For the daily race, time knocks.
In awestruck wonder
I look and see
In vibrant glee
Two murky pools on sands of white
Beheld the glories of the light
Night then came and stole away
The gift that came with the day
And still in the dark, thick tar
The pools ripple, reflecting the evening star
Dear Quiet Man,
We’re coming to the point where our roads diverge. I’ve pined for you, you’ve stared at me and so far, nothing here has merged.
So I say this now without plan or design
Without hope or attempt to take over your time.
I want you to know that you are wonderful and kind
I love your voice, your eyes, your heart, your mind.
Your quirks, your laugh, your smile, your frown,
All of it is beautiful and all of it profound.
If ever you doubt it, as long as you live,
I want you to know
That you are worthy of all the love I was willing to give.
So now, I’ll let go, tear my heartstrings away, and let you choose for you - I won’t make you stay.
Maybe someday you’ll draw strength from these...
“As Juliet Plays”
Juliet plays on the steps
Building castles in thin air.
She’s beautiful innocence, and a flash of tangled hair
And I wonder, when did we all change?
Juliet plays in the sand, building castles to the sky.
She spreads out her hands, and on the next breeze she’ll fly!
Now I wonder, when did we all change?
When did we close our eyes and turn away-
Letting the dreams we all had fade?
Why do we sell our souls and childlike faith
O, I wonder, as Juliet plays.
She is a warrior charging into the fray;
And she is a hero flying in to save her city.
She makes impossible seem ordinary every day-
And she pulls at me saying, “Come play!”
O, what wonder,
As Juliet plays.
There you stand, and here I go
One man, one woman, one elaborate show
Of hidden feelings in the undertow-
But will I tell you?
Inches between us are miles untraveled.
The tick tock of the clock strikes my heart like a gavel-
Meeting your eyes, my heart will unravel!
But will I tell you?
I look to you for a sign,
Some simple signal to establish, to refine,
And time after time, you seem to decline.
And as I drown on this river of broken hopes and dreams,
I’ll smile and play a song;
They’ll only stand on the banks of my oblivion,
As they smile and clap along.
Once upon a time I had a very snarky English teacher. While looking down her nose at us she would carry on about how her students were always below average and couldn’t grasp concepts.
No one was able to surmount the Everest that was her intellect. In short, we all despised her.
One week, we were studying haikus - structure, subjects, 5-7-5, etc. She had us write out our own- I saw an opportunity and I seized it.
Mine read as follows-
“Five syllables here,
And seven more for this line,
And this class still bites.”
That made her crack up and the haiku went up on her whiteboard for the week.
Childhood memories, names and stages
I turned around, lost touch, lost years, lost ages
Now my compatriots in childish fantasy
Have become nothing more than strangers to me.
Names so familiar and memories that stay
But lost connections in the land of long ago and far away.
Still in my heart, the images remain,
In the pages of my mind, forever stained.
And in the spaces of eternity,
I’ll hold dear all the moments of you and me.
A joke, a smile, fun phraseology-
Living freely without apology;
Warm hands and hearts and cups of tea- all of this is home to me.
Soft curls in her hair, callouses in his hands;
The touch of a woman,
The strength of her man-
Mixed together in placid serenity- this hallowed place is home to me.
Nights filled with stars and fire-glow,
With breezes and whispers and songs we know;
Where honeysuckle blossoms bloom fragrantly-
Here with you is home to me.
Here it is built - in quiet spaces,
First shared between friends in passing phrases.
Slowly on the current flows,
It deepens, it moves,
and the feelings grow.
Somewhere between vernacular and infatuations
Love was born from our conversations.
I had no dam to turn the tides,
This feeling flooded in and now resides -
Robbing the meanings of words I once knew:
“Stay safe” & “Have fun” now all say
“I love you.”
Beauty, dear Beauty
What a funny fowl is she-
makes her home in quiet, gnarled, hollow tree.
Attraction, her sister, dwells in the light-
Causing riotous awe for her every flight!
But Beauty is different, her feathers don’t fade.
She is far more desired, though she hide in the shade.
Her companions are quiet and often thought strange:
The painter, the dancer,
Bell ringer of Notre Dame.
Who can find her but those who know
The hollow tree she lives in called Sorrow?
Siting here beside the silence
Feelings are deep and scream with violence-
who to tell if you’re
Like a melancholy song,
It sings when the night draws near.
No one comes to sing along
-it’s just the darkness, quiet and clear.
This is the verse of poets and painters,
Of tales of sweeter days
of lovers and strangers,
It’s the writer with an empty page
O what soft danger it is to be!
To be quiet...
To be set still...
There she goes again,
Dancing on the wind.
The wispy, sweet refrain
Stirs for her to begin.
With dark, tangled tresses that reach to her back
She floats and is angled to a rhythmless track.
Free as the breezes she dances upon
And oh so dear to me,
Long after breezy days have gone,
The Wind-Dancer still she will be.
O the confidence of your silence
O the soft strength behind your smile.
Simplistic in the words you don’t mince,
Standing cool, here in your comforting style.
So gentle in your words, so sweet in your expression,
Yet passionately you mentor those who ask for your attention.
You’ve held me now a hundred times without even touching my hand.
Oh how do I explain what I feel for this quiet man?
What is a letter?
I am always interested in writing a letter. I love writing and getting to know people - what they think, what they know, what they like, what they hope for, etc.
A letter is always a better way to do that.
It takes time to think and craft a letter. It’s more than a text message or a phone call. It’s a shared diary of your days with a friend.
I can remember being a little girl and sending letters to my family who lived far away. Something about getting a letter in the mail always made my day better. Even to this day, I have a large box full of cards, postcards, letters, and notes.
One of my aunts bought me stationary. It’s just so much more personal and tangible. You ar...
This is my letter to the void-
My call, a solitary shout.
To every loved memory of the past. Nostalgia this letter belongs to you.
This letter belongs to every past frame of myself- every smile, every tear, every peaceful and stormy day, for each daydream and hopeful “what if..?”
I want to say thank you. Our time together has been beautiful, but I am letting you go.
You left me long ago, and I have ached for you for far too long. I reached back to you and found nothing there to hold me close.
I have finally realized that I cannot live for you and thrive anymore.
As I sit out on this cool, clear night looking into a Star-starved sky, I realize that I want so much more. I want to wander al...
Vice or virtue:
I love to live inside of my own head- to daydream and hope for tomorrow.
Is this vice or virtue?
I look at people and find qualities to love- and in the loving, I alone fall and fall easily.
Is this vice or virtue?
I love without end; without encouragement; without requite. In my head I paint simple dreams of holding hands and dancing - even though nothing of the sort has ever happened to me.
So tell me, is this vice or virtue?
What is Hope?
Emily Dickinson called it a thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the song without words.
While many artists paint this quote with birds, I don’t see it as something so fragile.
In my mind, Hope is different.
Hope is a strong, tall, beastly, battle hardened angel that sits in a corner of the heart folding paper swans.
He is a guardian. He smiles quietly, wordlessly.
Whenever he walks, things change. He valiantly fights off sadness, and is a good partner to The Will.
He nudges softly in quiet moments. He whispers like the breeze, and is stronger than the whirlwind.
Hope makes the discouraged try again.
Hope is there when the broken-hearted start listening ...
John Steinbeck, the author of my Home county, once wrote, “You can’t go home again because Home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.”
As I sit here and reminisce of my childhood in Bakersfield, I must say that he is right.
I was born and raised in the dust bowl of Kern county. Rain was a rarity, and snow was a myth. The world always smelled faintly of dust, alfalfa hay, and livestock. I went to a school that was older than the Second World War, and was parked out in the styx - even though I lived in the suburbs.
We were two hours from every other kind of landscape- mountains to the north, desert to the east, and the beach to the west. My mother would feed my sense of ad...
Across from me she sits to tea,
Breathing in the morning sun.
Upon her lips a smile I see,
A quiet and simple one.
What a familiar companion of mine,
Near more often than any other.
A muted tone in spoke lines,
Yet vibrant in living color!
Present in griefs and the gaze of lovers;
There when no one else is about.
She sets the stage amidst night’s covers,
Where moonlight’s sleepy ideas sprout.
Never in crowded spaces is she;
No conversations or blasts of violence.
But here alone, how close she’ll be,
This rare lady known as
Fort Worth, TX
Men on hilltops criticize,
And they themselves lose little.
Youths browbeat innocence in the streets, call him guilty without an acquittal.
Wise mouths say nothing while wise minds are second-guessing,
And the foolish scream the pungent screams, breaking silence with poisoning sonance, transgressing.
Fly me away to silent hills where the flowers abound without measure.
Where smiles bear no hidden intentions, and each sunny as is a treasure.
Let peace restore innocence to her freest state,
And give me again, the blessed day of disagreement without such hate.
Fort Worth, TX
Snapdragon, gardenia, pansy, viola neatly in their pots.
Soaking in sunshine, they release sweet incense upon the gusty breezes that float by.
freshly are they planted in my garden lot.
I watch the misty clouds sail across an endless sea of blue sky.
In unruly curls about my face, dance the chestnut strands.
I sit and soak the daylight in,
What beauty of dirtied hands,
My handiwork flitters in the breeze,
And for me an oasis makes.
Here neath the pillared concrete trees,
A paradise of dreams awake.
With Joy and Springtime,
Dear No One in Particular,
It has been months since I have written. The world seems to be turning slower as the summer slowly dances with the coming autumn. The dust they kick up stirs with memories of these past few years gone by, and as I gather them together in the cooling breeze, I wonder what lies ahead.
How lucky God is to stand outside of time and know all that is to be known. What a joyous tragedy it must be to see all that lies before; each trial and victory man has left.
In the end, all we mortals here below have is a future; that in itself is a mercy more than we deserve.
As you go about your day, remember the words penned by
L. M. Montgomery:
"Tomorrow is always fresh... No mi...
In the mind of every man, there is a book. In the beginning, it is empty and the first few entries are given to us: our name, our age, when, where, and to whom we all belong. We grow a bit more, and the book fills with answers to the question of how: how do we walk? How do we stand? How do we speak? How do we fill our pages?
Older still, and we fill those pages with whys. Why am I here? Why am I speaking? Why did I give this and keep that?
All of this amounts to answer one question that lives within the hearts and minds of all:
Who am I?
The answer can always be changed, rewritten, reinvented. Each new day adds a new page, a new illustration. We call them our memories. In truth, they are o...
Fort Worth, Texas
Did you know?
Did you know that you are unique? And I don't mean rare. I mean unique. You are a matchless, unparalleled, extraordinary, solitary, incomparable masterpiece. You are timeless. You are stunning. You are powerful. You are a gift that this world could never pay for. You are a singular, divine invention hatched within the mind of the God of all creation. Your value is incomprehensible; how can anyone price something so priceless?
Can anyone do what you do? Can someone else ever be who you are and fully stand in your shoes and fill them? Everything about you from your DNA to your fingerprint, to the glorious flecks of color in your eyes make you externally ori...
There are three men standing on the top of a mountain. One man looks up at the sky and says, "That was quite a climb, wasn't it? Can you believe we finished that?" He turned and looked at the expanse that they had just crossed.
The second, older man looks out toward the west with a shrug and says, "We still have a long way to go. There's still more out there for us to climb and conquer. Just gotta keep your head down and watch where you're going."
"Shhh. Hush! Just look!" Said the third. A young man on his first climb, still holding his bag on his shoulders. He closed his eyes and breathed in the cool, crisp breeze that gently tousled his hair.
As if renewed he looked about him. He smiled...
"Oh, to be alive in such an age, when miracles are everywhere, and every inch of common air throbs a tremendous prophecy, of greater marvels yet to be."
To see reality of former visions,
An age where hope comes to fruition.
Mortals now view the ecstasy
Of miracles and prophecy-
Oh what an age in which to be!
Common air made magic then,
Now made wonder; Elysian!
Dreams and wonders , great renown
All the world pulses, not slowing down!
Oh what such an age could be
If helped along by one like me?
By the dreamer for the dreamers.