The red leaves look like balls of fire on the tips of trees. Even in death they are radiant, shining as if they stole the sun. They have come to their end and have decided to exit in full glory. They will hold on until a strong wind comes and force them to take their final bow. The curtain will close in order to change the scene, but will the memories hold? Will the mind be able to rewind back to the time when the air was warm and sweet and this foliage provided comfort? Will the mind remember the red bird when these tips are covered with snow? Or will the fallen leaves be reminiscent of un-swept tears?

Weeping cleanses the soul but pride won't permit them to fall. The soul needs a release from bottled up anguish. The dissatisfaction of not celebrating the freedom it once knew. It's now confounded by laws. Precepts that dictate what is considered deviant and what is permissible.

Some infirmities of the soul are self inflicted wounds, but nevertheless they are just as hard to heal. The inner desires are even harder to ignore. Their intensity increases daily. The tangible presence of the denied is nauseating. Understanding self discipline is acceptable but flaunting the object of obsession is all together different.

When fatigue wins acceptance of the inevitable is not far behind. One could fight but the defeat would be too embarassing and the rejection would take years to recover from.

The air is wet reminiscent of the days she spent in England. She remembers the world being covered in fog and the black dirt looked as if it was from another planet. The days were long and lonely in a place so unfamiliar and so distant from anything she had experienced before. The bungalow was sweet but life was bitter. A way of escape was a daily prayer.

The seer didn't tell of this time and space. Although he alluded to it in a coy sort of way as to give her time to agree to the circumstances before hand. Predestination she has always thought to be hard to comprehend. Acceptance takes time and an inner yielding will.

The sky is no different than the one she viewed from the bungalow's window. There is also a sudden urge to drive on the wrong side of the road. Somehow today it seems right.

Weather

The wind has changed direction. The sun no longer rises in the east.
Ordinary days cease to exist. When lemonade was sweet and there was always cake.
The old ladies smelled like powder and old men wore fedoras.
And the Christmas air was scented with oranges and peppermint.

Do l'il girls still play hopscotch and jacks?
Today I looked in the mirror and wondered where time had gone.
I hurried and put on my jacket so I wouldn't be late.

It's amazing how the heart can make room to love another and at the same time wants to be the only occupant of another. The mind rationalizes but the heart can't comprehend the ideology of the common. A complex entity, it only deals with the exuberant and the elaborate--anything short of that goes flat. Like the souffle that failed after much thoughtful preparation and somehow something came along and knocked the bottom out of your evenings plans. Their eye has caught another form to admire and the familiar smile is just that--too familiar.

The shallow pool of affections shouldn't be vigorously pursued; nevertheless, the act of rejection brings out primal instincts that have been embedded in man since they guarded the precious garden. The need to no longer loose territory automatically activates at the very thought of being erased out of the place where you first came alive.

Center of the creation
Origin of all nations
Girth as the earth
Long as the river Nile
Standing firmly like Baal
Commanding to be worshipped

a word for mom

peace is coming after while

thanks brittney

The moon was only half exposed tonight as if it was afraid to be naked. Adam hid from his creator, ashamed of how his body responded when the blinds were lifted from his eyes. Since then man has only allowed others to see what they are willing to be questioned about.

Vulnerability is not without cost. It's not easy to stand waiting to be embraced or pushed away. Unless you take a chance and see if there's some truth in the myth that the moon follows you around.

Something that makes you want to find a medium on Main Street. One living in some sort of shanty playing with marked cards and old tea leaves. Maybe she can tell you if you've made a dent in his gourd and will you ever taste the sweetness of his loin.

Maybe the moon and the witch are myths, but it doesn't matter to you as long as one of them helps him find his way into your bed. And unklike Adam you won't be ashamed.

Blown Glass

The fanned open colorful skirt tail inviting one in to see the swirling rainbow at the bottom of its bowl. Revealing the beauty of earth, the glory of woman.

the paper tells
what the tongue keeps

the ink spills the secrets
the fibers drink the life

words asleep until awakened
oh, the tales that they tell