I was a fresh tube of paint, Indian Yellow, in wait to experience the slick skin of a gesso'd canvas—or paper'd Poetry put to pictures, a visual gift After hand-to-hand combat With the muse. I had never known A scent of turpentine permeating The space of an atelier, Unlike my friend, whose name Was that of a man's, Michael, Yet, she was feminine as they come. Michael, who had fallen obsessively Within the composition of one Who would unwittingly become My greatest mentor. Me, starry-eyed ...
Fastball - My Spiritual Awakening through Baseball
I can hit the fastball But I really want to hit the slider Same thing in writing verse The erotic comes easy but my own core emotions always leave me wanting more fom myself
So, no erotic poems this morning Going back to the basics My need to write I hope you will let me in Even though I have been hard on you I'm not a bad guy And I don't spit too much When I'm at the plate
He that isnt against us is for us, for they come into our lives with a heart, mind, and deep spiritual soul. They give of themselves not looking for anything in return, but the best for us as they have our best interest at heart as they truly want that for us. But he that is against us is not for us, as this shall come to pass for the most highest spiritual soul shall and will open your eyes and...
Standing alone in the surf. Again. Sky is bruised by the endless battle. Changing. Apophis retreats. Nothing. Ra’s spear triumphs. Again.
Silence reigns over all. Rushing. Waters upon waters. Hissing. I bleed. Roaring. I remember. Hushed. I forget. Retreating. Everything.
Everything is music. Raindrops fall.
Make a fist. Tensing. Muscles answer. Growing. Stand out in a circular mound upon my arm. Rising. Veins protrude. Nothing. Forks in rivers of green, beneath translucent shadows of skin. Nothing. Rising like the dawn at my wrist.
So fleeting, life is a journey we travel, each day, a more precise picture, moments that will define us, moments that are swept away with the current of our yesterdays, only the memories may drift back through the heart, each ripple may in turn touch another soul.
We may be looking for answers, but are we asking the right questions?