poet,
a prophet
who tells truths –
sometimes directly,
at other times, cryptically
depending on context
and the audience.
.
poet,
an oracle,
playing in
the different realms
with graceful fluidity.
.
poet,
an empath,
sensitive to energy,
penetrates the masks.
.
poet,
a tree,
deeply rooted
in the Soul,
limbs reaching
for the mind.
.
art
get free
one of The Four Agreements –
as I comprehend
now:
get free
take nothing personally.
all is only as perceived
subjective
seen through a particular
lens
molded by Nature
and experience.
The Beat of One’s Own Drums
to march to the beat of
One’s Own Drums,
to imitate no one,
to innovate
from a place of deep faith
and confidence-
such a mandate
is not for
the faint
in Heart.
it takes courage
to be free,
to be the You
that often only You can see,
to be unique, a bit of a mystique
in a world of followers and shamers.
we were made in God’s image,
reflections of The Divine, The Most High
one and onlys are we –
wonderfully crafted
for a specific purpose and time.
the sake of humanity pleads:
spread your considerable wings!
march to the beat of your very own drums!
no need to compete,
there is more than enough room
for everyone.
Artwork: Walking the Line, Edwin Lester @artistedlester
A Line Can Go Anywhere
A Line–
like a Life–
can go anywhere.
It can go up or down,
remain straight,
or around and around
like a labyrinth
in which
one at first feels lost
then found.
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.
burgeoninc 