A poem is the grace of the heart and mind as one, the speaking of the soul, the articulation of longing.

You can be the captain of your soul, merrily drink the wine and run for freedom, down to a sunless sea.

But only the poem that you do not speak - ah, there is the magic of your life. Not what you have spoken, but that which you have breathed, have bled and died for, that which you have chosen life for. 

From spectacle to symbolism,
When the turning leaf is the fall of time,
The fragile petal is the fragility of life,
The glint of light in the eye is the fire of the human spirit;

We elevate through understanding,
We emote through sensation,
We translate through reflection;
We live in art to let the metaphor blow our minds..... 

Rain

Stillness. 
Such maddening, stifling stillness.
A silence that hushes the world like a blanket.
The birds and insects quieted in daylight, 
A thickness of the atmosphere that dulls
Even the whispers of the trees. 

And then......
Roaring, 
A wind the breath of a hundred demons,
An exhalation of victory and triumph,
A thunderous fanfare of the spirits of air;

And it started to rain.

Be Here Now

Be here now. Live it. Feel it. Be it. 

Because it too shall pass and this time won't come again. 

Every hill is a foothold to a mountain. Every storm is a prelude to a sunny day. Every heartbreak is an introduction to the strength of your soul. 

Every note needs to be followed by another to make music. 

Awakening

For years, she slept. Her petals curled tightly around her, a silent velvet cocoon that held her close inside, softened by shadows, muted by silence. 

And then the rains came, unrelenting. Tears fell from the sky to stain her cloak, soak her skin. Until she could stand no more. 

And she began to unfurl.... 

It Begins Like A Dream

It begins like a dream, 

Something vague, subtle, quiet,

A thought, just a thought, 

Turning round on itself

Growing in power

Chanted in the echoing chambers

Of the mind, 

Until it is resonating, like a bell, 

Like a chorus of bells, 

Tolling over and over. 

Just a thought. 

Just a word. 

Just a name. 

In Dreams

And I lay down, to sleep, to dream, of icy rivers sunk in caverns so deep, the waters were black; of shadows that hovered in the rock, whispering my name as I drifted past; of soft, haunting cries that came from above, so high, so out of sight, I knew not what called.... and I dreamed, seemingly endlessly swept along in the cold, echoes and ghosts dogging my passage, like weary voices on the wind...