Sing

Sing. Truly. Freely. Passionately . You’re born to sing.

So make your footstep your beat.  your handclap your rhythm.  your words your lyrics.

And keep singing.

Your very own song.

Dance

Dance.  Naturally.  Unapologetically.  Rightfully.  You’re born to dance.

To the beat of your heart.  To the pulse in your veins.   Whichever you wish.

In the darkness of the night.  Or the brightness of the day.  Whenever you wish.

Just keep dancing.

Your very own dance.

Advertisement

a sweet dream

When sleep falls heavy on your eyes,

Surrender your soul to its blissful unconsciousness,

And let a sweet dream be yours.

at peace

the loose ring on your finger – let it fall.  weight of rock and metal off, your hands lift above.

the empty pillow by your side – let it bare.  crisp white linen case washed clean , your canvas is anew

the single spoon in your cup – let it click.  solo chime against the china,  your music is pronounced

the one lane road below your feet – let it lead.  diverged path from the two-lane, your self is reclaimed.

be at peace dear friend

the quiet female

the earthly being, bearing wings fluttering softly to touch the sky

the virgin soul, of an erudite mind bountiful with wisdom

the sapphire heart, passing blood warm and fluid to her limbs

the harvesting hands, picking love from her giving love

the quiet female, not so quiet inside.

 

a birthday gift to a virgo

Mama, my tooth fell out

throw the tooth

behind the sun,

far, far behind the sun,

and ask for a gazelle’s tooth in place of the donkey’s tooth,

behind the sun,

far, far behind the sun,

my Son.

Based on regional folklore, children are told to throw their milk teeth (traditionally nicknamed donkey teeth) behind the sun, and ask the sun to give permanent teeth (traditionally nicknamed gazelle’s teeth) in their place.

Rain. That’s alright.

Rain. That’s alright.

Rays ripping through your thick clouds today.  For a clear sky tomorrow.

And the sun will be seen.

Only Her.

In the midst of virtual relationships.  Of shared pictures and posted messages.  Of Birds, and Faces, and Picturegrams.

She picks up the phone.  And calls an old friend.  To listen to his voice.  As he speak to her. And only her.

Through the needle’s eye

Our words are threads.

With truth.  The thread runs freely.  It passes through the needle’s eye.

With lies.  The thread knots.  It gets stuck at the needle’s eye.

And the only way to free the thread is to cut the knot.

Mama, am I pretty

‘Mama, am I pretty?’ the little girl asks.

‘Yes, you are.  Prettier than the moon and the stars.  Prettier than the flowers and the butterflies.  Prettier than the rainbows and the clouds.  Prettier than the streams and the pebbles.

Prettier, prettier in my eyes than any, any boy will ever, ever see you.’