Tuesday, June 26, 2007


a canopy of stars
an awning of
brightly fallen
hope strung snowflakes
over a mississippi lightning moment
bright and gleaming;

battered but smoothly poured hope into dark chunky soil
giving rise to billowy blooms
the brazen rose of sharon red
sunset set to the key of rustic

the magic hour when all seems lost
and that is the beauty of it.


yesterday the wind blew
and in that moment I knew

I am unwelcome in my own dream.

my laughter spills onto a page
for which there is no room
my blinded eyes see stars
or is it shadows?

I am unwelcome in my own dream

they look and stare, look and stare
how dare
who she be?

Offered nothing to eat nor drink,
just as simple meal of mixed motives.

I see what I have never known, dream of what I
cannot own
try to grab for that elusive
silver chord
only to find I have to reach
to hold on to my own soul.

I am unwelcome in my own dream

the rainbow formed by the mist of my own wishes
has split
six ways to Sunday
leaving me with my threaded needle of gold
and ash instead of a pot.

I am unwelcome in my own dream.

I've cried tear oceans
scaled molehill mountains
dug virtue valleys
with visions of sugarplums dancing in my songs
simply wanting; but complexly willing to take
a cold floor in heaven
over a warm bed in hell

Is it that the fight in my face has fallen?
Is it that the only way to be loved
is to be
the last one

the awning of the line
it is
knowing vs. believing
smiling vs. laughter

doggedly beating on the door
begging to be let in
on the loneliest night of my life

I am unwelcome in my own dream
after I poured my soul into rock
and pulled my peace into the wood
Even the splinters I caressed lovingly

I am unwelcome in the dream I molded
carved, built, restored
but somehow do not fit.
because builders seldom inhabit
their houses

and then a still small voice says
but what is the dream
without the dreamer?
what is sleeping without dreams?

Monday, June 25, 2007

The Sole of the Matter

Tied to the left
Ans strappy
Two toned
And slim boned
Makes the brothers long for home
Makes them shout for joy
these tiny delicacies
massage the earth in circled
Step front step back
Side to side
They whisper warrior
In the click clack
Of the swayed back
Go , sister, go
See sister run
See sister command
Look out, here they come
Wayward ribbons
A perfect witness
Ask the question
Who are you?
And the story better be good.
Cauze I got no time for
Malevolent melodrama
Don’t you see my back zipper
Packing in my power tight?
Don’t you see
The patent on my leather induced adrenaline flight?
Don’t you see the way I hit the arch at its height
Letting em know whatever I come with
I’m promoting
a doggone tough fight?

I’ve walked over run away lovers
And hate filled horrors
And dissipated dreams
And broken hearted blame
To crush the heal
Of my own pain

I can be long stemmed
Or thin rimmed
Wedged or silhouetted
Archetype erudite
But when my hops sashay
Mama don’t play

I step out in my
baby blues
mile high magenta margaritas
black and bullish
Aquamarine artsy

I wrap myself around your weary (soled) dream
To adorn almond delight toes
With hues of mango
I am the dancer you can never catch
But always follow
As I give you too tough blues

Cauze no matter where her feet carry her
Everywoman has a pair
Of fighting shoes.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Who Am I, Lord?

You're my messenger
You're my leader.
You are the person I send into the battle when the road is tough, and the resources are few.
You're my healer. My water bearer.
My fire starter.
You kindle in others what I have kindled in you.
You are my nurturer.
You are the one that I have set aside for the special day of atonement.
You are my deliverer.
I send you into the dark caverns to be my light.
You are my scribe.

My lover of justice.
My creative spirit.
My voiceless voice.
My pure and adultrated mercy.

You are my child.

I created you to be my passion.
I formed you to be my kindness.
I made you in my image.
I marveled at your beauty, a reflecting pool of my own self.

I own your soul alone.
I bring you peace alone.
I share your world alone.

I made you to be perfected in my image.

You are my child.

My precious child.
You were born to give the world my joy.

If you ever should doubt who you are,
you need only look to me.

For who is like Elohim?

You were made to love me.
I exist to love you.

This is the sole purpose for your being.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Monday’s Oranges

Monday’s oranges were not so good
Sunday there were lively lemons
That danced with like beads of water
On a hot pan
Saturday the mangoes rocked
Back and forth on on the roof of m mouth
Playing a mélange melody
But Monday’s oranges were not so good.
Friday there were cherries so tight and black
That I could clearly see myself.
Thursday there were sepia pears
That tickled the tongue, each bite
A delicious question, each question
A delicious bite.
But Monday’s oranges pallid and round, were not so good.
Wednesday there was a yellow slick of
A banana, a smooth mat to my waterslide hopes
Careening into the marsh of Tuesday’s peach dreams
But Monday’s oranges were not so good.
The dingy blue calico of the creeping suspicion
Smothered my breath
Monday’s oranges were bruised and scarred
And full of dents
And holes where a worm or two had found a home
Yes, these were bad oranges indeed.

Caught in the mire of Monday
I forgot the splendor of Tuesday, the wonder of Wednesday
The Tenacity of Thursday, The Freedom of Friday, The Scent of Saturday and the Salvation of Sunday
I only saw Monday.

Then suddenly I looked for my basket
Filled with the fruit that I longed for
And found that in my
Search for Monday’s oranges
I had forgotten
The bounty
Of the week