the story that i tell
may not sound the same as yours
yet, if you truly listen
they are really not different at all
writings
# fifty
in love we can protect
that which is full of intention
and stands with integrity
to secure the heavens
that is our world
# forty.nine
life is irritated and raw
throbbing and hot
numbed
left without a breath
infected and soar
the abuse has been exposed
the violation
of the innocent and pure
# forty.eight
the deed is done
the empty box is in the ground
your hands are dirty from the dust
that rose from the hole you filled
alone you wander away
tired you retreat
to find you can hear the dead
# forty.seven
i am afraid I will lose an opportunity
if I don’t mourn that which i have lost
an opening has been ignited
in the death of the old
in youth i hope to find the patience
not to be seduced
by what I have always been
# forty.six
as the rain escapes from the clouds
my eyes release the same tears
the sounds of the oppressed
i can hear without thunder
lightening has burnt their pages
before they had a chance to begin
i wonder when the storm shall pass
so they can find dry pages
# forty.five
driven in search of control
i find only the aspects of life
that are forever changing
as they shift they form a path
to the victorious ability to appreciate
all expression of the journey
# forty.four
in memory of “i thought i knew”
i know now it was nothing
unrevealed, i stand on virgin land
to build a structure not fractured
worthy of the light received
not by honor or with pride
but with the knowing
it was built to provide shelter
for not just me or for i
but for the we
that can stand together
# forty.three
when i awake to a new day
nothing will be as it was
what it was
was not what i thought it to be
blinded by the unknowable
i find myself blank
i can only relinquish control
for the totality of being
has no end and no beginning
with willingness i must permit
creation that is calling me to have faith
in that which I cannot see
yet feel
that nothing is predestined
“it” whatever that may be
is still being written
as i leap into the void
not yet explored
i experience the sun’s first light
# forty.two
art is not a noun
it is a verb
.
art is life because life
is continually creating