Give it Away!

Give It away!

For It does not belong to you.

You are but the vessel It flows through.

It chooses you, coming seemingly

out of the blue

to awaken and amuse.

“Give Me away!”

It begs.

I was not meant to remain hidden in your head,

dormant, because you are afraid.

I come from a place that is nothing but pure.

Hence, no need for you to be insecure.”

Yield Your Fruit

Yield

your

Fruit,

just give it all away-

that which you came

here

to do,

to say.

Don that suit

with only your name on it.

Bring that song

you were crafted to sing.

Return to the dust

from whence you came

emptied

-with absolutely

no thing

left within.

Go home utterly spent-

’tis the only way

to live a life content.

Written all over your Face

It’s written all over your Face

why you occupy

this space,

in this time.

in this body,

in This Moment

in your-story.

There are no accidents-

such is widely evident.

We are,

each one of us,

called forth,

summoned.

Here,

to re-member

what we really are,

to dispel others’ truths

that became our scars.

Here,

to re-call

our shared humanity,

our One Soul.

 

Artist: Pablo Picasso

Friday

Whoa!

Another week

has passed

so quick,

so fast

at a pace,

I can’t seem to grasp!

One minute, it is Monday-

the thought: how will I last?

The next minute, Friday,

relief, some time to relax!

Bittersweet is

the end of the week.

Some joy,

some pain.

Many questions

remain:

Did I get

what I was to learn?

Did I summon

enough nerve

to truly serve?

Where did I grow?

Where was maturation slowed?

What parts of me

do I transform and release?

Next breath never guaranteed,

nor is any day of next week.

It’s Friday,

the day to savor

the short respite,

to pivot

and change perspective.

Go in,

give in,

make way and waves;

like a voodoo chile

filled with Light and smiles

play and create-

these are the mandates

of

Fridays.

Prodigal: A Portrait in Words

The middle child,

the second

in a Girl Tribe

made of three;

born into a

matriarchal family.

She has a

distinct,

special pedigree.

A quintessential

Scorpio, She is

often perceived

aloof,

not so easy to know.

One minute,

She herself

to others

shows;

and the next-

poof

off She goes,

traveling into

that sublime mind,

not intending

to be cruel and unkind-

unless betrayed

or played,

then out comes

the devastating hand grenades!

Beware of the Scorpio sting,

her bite

her weapon

to protect

her gentle heart,

her sensitive skin.

A relatively quiet Soul,

this one as Prodigal

privately known-

a familial moniker

for this magical

misunderstood

wanderer.

Many secrets

held tight

under her beautiful exterior.

To unlock,

to enter her interior,

sustained trust,

an absolute must!

Once inside,

much and rich

treasures to find-

fierce loyalty,

staunch integrity,

stunning efficiency,

endless creativity.

So blessed am I

to take this life’s journey

with She,

to walk together

hand in hand,

feet to feet!

 

Sculpture by American-born British sculptor Sir Jacob Epstein.

Poem dedicated to my beloved sister, Prodigal – much love and many thanks!

 

Crooked

Have never traveled a straight line,

couldn’t even draw one if I tried.

This life was crafted

crooked and jagged.

No point A neatly to a point B;

more like A to C

then up to Z

and suddenly,

back down

to B.

A dance of seeming spontaneity

created by chosen opportunity.

A restless Soul,

too many interests it holds;

relentlessly driven

to learn, grow and sow;

chasing adventure

so as

for itself

to know.

No desire to live vicariously,

in putting off pleasure

in the name of responsibility.

No, that ain’t me!

I yearn to fly,

to be free,

to self-express fully

with utmost authenticity.

Such a Soul as this

can never happily exist

confined

for a lifetime

within walls

narrow

straight

and tall.

Such an existence

much too small,

into The Abyss,

said Soul

would soon fall.

 

 

 

Stone Beach

A new treat,

this here, Stone Beach.

Butterflies,

Dragonflies.

With a gentle sweet high,

I am kissing

the brilliant

baby blue sky.

Seagulls,

Marigolds.

I am embraced by the sea’s

gentle pull.

Driftwood,

Seashells.

I fall deeply into

water’s seductive spell.

Inhaling deeply,

I take in the air’s

musky salinity,

mix it with Earth’s grassy femininity.

Senses heightened,

I hear the waves,

my ancestors guiding me

from the grave.

I feel the wind

nibble my skin,

tempering

the sun’s bite and sting.

A Spirit

to me

suddenly

begins to sing.

Inspiration heralding

the birth of another offspring.

Au Cœur

Walking around

the City streets,

this piece of graffiti

I repeatedly meet.

It reads

to me:

Protect your Heart.

“Why?”

I wonder.

“Is such a thing

even possible?”

I ponder.

Is not

The Heart

meant

to be used,

broken open

and well spent?

Le Cœur,

it will never relent,

nor exhibit

sustained discontent,

doing that

for which

it was sent.

The grand design,

the clear intent

for us to be truly,

in life, content.

Strong and resilient,

The Heart,

also very smart,

crafted this way

from the very start.

Unlike a piece

of rare fine art,

The Heart

is not made

to be placed

on a wall

deemed too delicate

to fall.

No, no, no, no, no!

Not at all!

I contend

to me and friends:

Lay bare,

Le Cœur,

even as scared,

it’ll take you there,

that place,

that divine space

where only

COURage makes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

L’Artiste

Blessed unrest,

the nest

in which

The Artist

all ways

seems to

reside.

Here,

she strives

to refine

define

design

that which is

ineffable

intangible

deeply spiritual;

that which dances

mysteriously,

provocatively

in her Head

then spreads

quickly

urgently

to her

fervent

Heart;

that which is

commonly

referred to as

one’s art.

A blessing

and a curse,

this art.

No clear end,

nor definitive start.

In its birthing,

both joy and pain,

moments crystal clear,

moments utterly insane.

Riddled with

insecurity

frustration

and doubt

throughout,

The Artist

stays the course

no matter the costs.

She simply must

and trust

in something

higher;

something

beyond

her.

For, she is but

the mere vessel,

a human conduit

through which

the insistent art

grows and flows,

and then

into the world

it goes.

Where it lands,

The Artist

is not

to know.

Not her concern

to this learn.

She’s done her part,

releasing the art.

 

the kiss

still,

the most perfect

of my life.

back then,

I, a relative neophyte,

standing in unfamiliar land

with a seasoned ladies’ man.

he, skilled in the art of

seduction and tease.

me, scared, excited

and so very intrigued.

he, leans in

confidently.

me, inside, trembling

nervously.

our lips

lock

instantaneously.

my heart

stops-

literally.

in me,

some things have shifted-

a veil, heavy weights

have been lifted.

suddenly, inexplicable-

as if from an old

body memory-

I can give

and receive

pleasure

in equal measure.

exploring, digging ever deeper,

for boundless treasure

within, first, myself

and, then thus, the “other.”

I am

no longer me, no we-

just utter and complete transparency.

I have become untethered and free!

the depth, the intensity,

makes me oh so heady!

the Kiss

becomes an intricate dance-

at times, a fiery flamenco,

next a little funky disco-

we’re lost inside an exquisite trance.

so sublime,

we’ve no sense of space and time.

who am I?