01252014

another mindful serendipity...

at the fringe of laughter, linger the tears…

waiting for the moment of inhale.

01192014

idyllic. eidolic.

these long, languorous sunday afternoons.

the neglected spaces existing in time.

the words… and then the silences…

what do they say of us?

and, what of this body… twisted and

whorled into a listless knot?

and, what of the sun… seated with such majesty

on the crest of an unbroken horizon?

and, what of the light… slipped

in between the body’s cracks… and

rested upon the heart… so gildedly?

and, what of our lips when they meet…

melting the words into the backs of our throats?

01122014

we always remember both the beginning and the end and the fairytale at the fringes of in between and the smiles so filled with teeth and cheeks and emotion beyond words like water gushing through sand like sky seeping through sea but where does the one start and the other end in these liminal in betweens and where is forever once it is today and today once it is yesterday and where is the question once it has been asked and all have faltered for an answer?

01092014

in moments of poetry…

let the eyes shut

let the senses open

let the limbs expand

like wings that flap

fracturing the air

seemingly in reaction

though guided by I-to-I

as projection

as injection

as movement

as self undefined

as dream unfurled

as vision unbound

not to be tamed

01012014

the rain raps at the window.

a blur of sensation raps

in the corner of my eye.

i take my journal from its sleeping position on the bookshelf and bring it to the floor. i open up a blank page. i stare at it. it glares back at me. blankly. bluntly. where have you been all this time? it begs. i keep my lips pursed. where have you been? it persists. i don’t want to share. not with words, anyway. i just want to lose myself inside the whiteness of the empty page. it seems so… noncommittal.

the white space whispers, fill me. i reach for my oil paints. i open every tube. i have no plan. i squeeze color from the tube onto the white space. i grab a pencil and thrust it, eraser side down, into the color, swirling a path of rainbows. sarah brightman is chanting from the speakers. i hum to her voice. i abandon the pencil.

i hum as i plunge my fingers into the puddles of french blue. royal purple. peacock green. tuscan rose. i hum. my fingers are tarnished with carnage. genesis. surrender.

i zoom into the viscerality of the moment… and zoom out.

what is this thing i have created? how was it born?

it was born of navigating the turbulent waters of inner world… solitarily. it was born of convolution. it was born of… unintention. yes! unintention births the purist expression. unintention births the inner truths that rise from the embers of avoidance. denial. marginalization.

i stare at my creation. i stare… for a long time.

the paint in the journal dries… as does the paint on my fingers.

dries, too,

the rain.