A simple flowing stream,

A calming force.

Breathing out every stress of life,

Breathing in beauty to thrive.

It may be hidden in the deepest

thoughts of prayer and surrender.

It may await us in the deepest levels of knowing who we are,

Or rest just above naval mines.

Maybe in the gutters of Skid Row,

Straddling opposite directions facing the rust belt.

Where we once saw factory workers, sweatshops, and church-goers,

drinking against the Hudson River.

Proving love is still the answer,

withstanding that we don’t agree.

Love is time

Love is the wound

Love is fire

Love is old

Love is deeper than any depth searching over and over

Love is dream

Love is prayer

Love is master

Love is slave

Love is….

Our insides are just the same.

Nakedly disclosing our earthen-burdens

webbed of suffering, and morning joy

O’ that we may live,

like the roots that we are,

ring by ring but we are the stories.

Nakedly, we count raindrop’s golden dust.

Ode to our inner bark, that our hearts would heave

abundance…

That’s what caused the

cool whispering leaves to chill,

dah-ta, ooh ee

right beside me,

cuddling my toes,

right as I’d stood still.

I captured this image yesterday on the playground with my little one…

The evening and the morning, are one and the same-

beckoning my loins to pray.

And yet a little while – our bodies exude a mist of metaphysical liberation

with limits because we have forgotten our tongues, uttering the essence of being.

My knees are wrapped in the riverbeds in the east

stroked by lightning, caressed by thunder, the angel passes by

I’m encouraged to believe these storms aren’t man-made.

The old men on corners, the children refused to play.

And yet for a little while, I beseech the one who made the skies.

The one who transforms rain to fire.

The one who gives inspiration.

The one who plants cellular bones in the womb.

The one who knows the seven wonders of the earth.

It’s the only one who listens when I pray….

She had moved in- reconnecting endings, like shadows following us.

Rising, to make amends, telling of her memoirs-

thoughts of he, thoughts of she,

Never losing the weight -she sacrificed her dreams.

Mothering -to make the lights turn on.

Mothering, to keep that heat- singe every fiery demon within.

Mothering our names,

Mothering our pelvic rhythms,

Mothering my veins,

Mothering my wings that one day I might overstand the outcomes.

My people gave the earth it’s dirt, my people are like you

wanting to survive –

wanting life as privilege,

wanting to taste goodness, like galaxies

wanting joy like religion,

wanting love, like sweet Serengeti,

wanting their freedoms like you….

In all things, art is like tender wounds. Only a few will heal.

Earnestly shedding the light that darkness yields.

We touched the starry skies less we sleep.

We harness the passions of our dreams.

We surrender multitudes – uneased mysteries.

We ride the banks that our forefathers,

trapped our burdens, through the blood.

And we surrender, this thunder between the skies.

Therefore, our eyes run clear,

our knees sweat, our bodies transcends a common pain.

As we pray –  on the mountain in my soul,

We touched the starry skies less we sleep.