One can change your entire world at once,
It can alter each decibel heard or talked,
And even redirect the path you chose, sending you stumbling through bush and bramble desperate to cojoin the two.

The power of one is unknown at best,
Powerfully misunderstood yet daily blessed,
It has no equivalent nor known sum,
It can rule and reign with golden crowned supremacy.

One morphs your mind and every thought,
Diverts your finances and all you bought,
One even becomes everything you never knew you sought.

One is all.


Glorious Repetition

I wish I owned the words to describe the feelings bursting through.

Writer’s describe my condition as writer’s block,

Doctor’s diagnose each symptom as temporary shock.

No matter what they all declare, Cupid alone knows the truth.


I am in love with you.


My mind freezes before a thought reaches completion,

My heart stutters and stumbles as Thumper’s back paw,

Love persistently stating its incomparable law.

Cupid fluttering above paired lips offering constant temptation.


But I am in love with you.


Nothing compares to the feeling birthed between our souls.

Aphrodite could never create such a luscious sensation.

Cupid’s arrows swoop much too low in failed imitation.

This feeling with you is more than any fatuation –

You make me whole.


I am in love with you.

Woman’s Movement

Ani Difranco once said,

“Every time I move I make a woman’s movement.”

Such a statement can and should be dissected to its core. One must ask: What makes a woman? Perhaps even more important is the question accompanying the previous curiosity: What makes a woman move?

Does society hold the disappointing secret to woman’s actions? Could all the scrawny female depicting advertisements truly command the minds, whether subconscious or conscious, of the female masses? Such a painful awakening that would be; to realize woman is slave to cheap marketing tactics and that her beautiful, graceful, elegant moves as strategic as a chess match between God and the Devil were all pre-ordained by some up and coming Coco Chanel.

Would genetics hold the key to our question’s gate? For centuries our eyes have strained peering quizzically through the iron-bent grate in futile attempts to view woman’s truth. Scientists haunch and hover over sequence and strand every day in longitudinal hopes, insurmountable by truth, that genetics shall one day unlock the gate so our eyes my gaze unhindered upon Nature’s favorite beauty. However, can woman’s most basic facet unravel with each gene unzipped and each atom opened? Do parents honestly affect their offspring on such a level as the cause of their every movement?

No, such a simple answer resonates naivety. The truth of woman shall never be so quick and easy to procure. When each infantismal, minute, barely decimal movement from the twitch of a toe to the depth and shape of her breath translates into the language of her soul. No, there can not be such a simple answer when simplicity intertwines with complexity in one magnificent being.

The soul is not to be trifled with lightly.

One could question the reasons why humanity dares to question true, unrestrained beauty in the first place; but studious individuals recognize that it all boils down to human nature. Humans are still animals, wild and savage at heart, on the most basic of levels. Humans hunger for items a plenty, food, sex, shelter, for self-satisfaction in all its forms. Above all, humans are curious creatures thirsting for answers to fill the void within their soul. Sometimes, humans die for the answer.

So does human nature command or condone a woman’s movement? As most scientists and/or humanists would predict, we just created a nature vs. nurture fork in the road of Inquisition.

On the other hand, why must everything be one or the other? Has life ever  been so devastatingly certain? Perhaps woman’s movements evolve from an immense multitude of factors. As a whole, woman has always dominated in the topsy-turvy Cat in the Hat metaphor of multi-tasking. Could woman possibly perform such an acrobatic feat within the very deepest confines of her abysmal being? I can not see why not.

If everything creates the force mandating woman, then must woman be everything? Or woman be nothing except a generic pawn moving at her master’s will? Or both?

No, no woman exists that distastefully mundane. Woman is strength. Woman pushes 8-12lbs through a dime size hole, breaking her hips with a mind numbing crack and ear-splitting shriek, ripping her uterus to combing the pleasurable with the bowls, then, holding that bloody, screaming, kicking watermelon and never feeling the droplets of blood seeping from every southern pore, not feeling the hundreds of stitches lashing in and out of her paled flesh, not feeling the remnants of flesh and excrement vacating her interior organs, clinging to her bruised and battered lips, she smiles.

Woman overcomes. Thousands of years of persecution by man and nature hardened woman into a hail storm of fury awaiting the precise moment to pour forth every ounce of outrage. Centuries of man’s dick pounding within woman, unwilling, unwanting, pained, bruised, battered, beaten and bloody she laid there in fear of far worse repercussions. Centuries of sexual molestation occurring almost every moment, every man grabbing her ass, smacking her cheeks, pinching her breast. Innumerable years of crying by the riverside or mountaintop watching helplessly as man threw her children to their deaths. Hundreds of years filled with abuse on every level concocted the storm to end all storms. Once a woman releases her fury, all existence negates to her and the mountains bow down as her fury howls.

Woman is not to be trifled with lightly.

Woman is all and all is woman. Nature is woman and woman is nature. Pure power disguised within unsuspecting form, dormant until awakened to unleash its fury. Volcanoes erupt, hurricanes swell, tornadoes twist, and tsunamis fall weak with woman’s wrath in comparison.

Perhaps more important is that woman is love. After catastrophe, storm or other, flowers bloom and the cattle gather to watch the birth of a new calf, or rather, a new beginning towards the ever after.

Woman birthed Cupid and taught him to shoot, hand crafting his arrows before kissing them each atop their point. Woman kissed Cupid’s forehead and tousled his hair saying, “Run along now while I get dinner prepared”. Cupid flew off smiling to ear wishing everyone knew love the way his mama did. Each arrow he shot in his loving escapade, heard his desire and vibrating with understanding, flew true to the heart.

Woman birthed Jesus. Woman birthed the universe. God cannot be male because man cannot exist without woman. Either God has a mother or God is a woman. Then again, God may not be anything but a vaporous form drifting through the galaxies. God may wear whatever form he pleases. God is everything and God is nothing.

God created woman. Woman is part of everything and woman is part of nothing. Woman loves. Woman fights. Woman trusts. Woman perseveres.

Woman is and woman is not.

Woman is her movement.

You Are Missed.

Each moment ruled by reminiscent dreams of you. Salivating at each hopeful idea, controlled by the very remembrance of you. Your hair, your smile, your eyes, your taste, your kiss all demand attention and desirous fascination from the very depths of my soul. No matter my location, no matter my company, I am drowning in memories of you. Yearning overwhelms my being wishing with every fiber for you to be here now.

You are missed by me.


Crisp as the evening air floating delicately upon tip and tongue,
Yet, weighing perfectly heavy upon heart and mind.
Clumsy as the evening breeze pressing against brick and stone,
Partially blinded by the dimmed lighting yet still flowing so magically.
Ominous as the evening comes half shielded by an absent sun,
Pure opportunity comes with every badly lighted pun.
Powerful as the moon’s sweet pull whispering through oak and pine to move the earth,
Yet, sweet and kind as that first star granting hope to innocence and naivety.
Powerful and immovable as nighttime falls,
Compassionate and uncontrollable as nature intends.
Full and luscious as the dew covered morning glory,
Delicious and indescribable as a child’s first meal.
Solidity in nature, fluidity in spirit,
Woman by birth.

Mine by choice.


Two jade eyes gazing up at me, releasing all the doubt and insecurity. No room for such negativity now that I’m finally free. Brown hair a tangled mess, barely more than peach fuzz but nothing less. Tiny fingers and toes wiggling in excitement, struggling to escape her fuzzy and warm confinement. These are the days when the worst thing is a pink colored blanket and food approaching on a flying spoon. These are the days her moms are nothing more than ridiculous loons. But these are also the days of rocking chairs, baby cribs, dirty diapers, Disney movies, and learning all about child care. Nothing more beautiful than the beginning days of mother hood. Nothing more important than raising a child to be good. 

Nothing more desirable than loving her with you. 

Grappling Ghosts

Narrow and concrete, something darkened and obsolete. Pressing against these shoulders of vessels and sinew, compressing these blood filled organs and crushing the bones manipulating these two shaking feet.

Various colors always exist, futile attempts at brightening the frightening. Something mankind invented to acknowledge the terrible yet soothe the conscious into false beliefs of security.

Always steps. Always dozens of steps in pairs of two.

And narrow, so terribly narrow. Nothing exists more suffocating than such an evil place as this. Walls pressing in, floor and ceiling caving in, everything moving towards me as I climb desperately higher.

‘Let me escape!’

I shout the words upon the walls, my breath inscribing the letters forever upon their surface making the very building bleed with my agony leaving it sputtering and spewing curse words down upon me in the form of dust and rubble.

‘Never again shall we let you pass!’

The very surface beneath my toes grapples and gropes at me in vomitous detest. Every ingredient concocting my surroundings scowls in the deepest disgust upon my vulnerable exterior rumbling its disapproval.

Glancing behind me I notice how far I have come, yet looking ahead the path lengthens before my very eyes and all hope flees through my pores only to evaporate in fear confronted with the demons outside.

Nothing compares to this ferocious feeling gripping a rail that dislikes every fiber acting as my glue. Nothing around me could ever aid if this monstrous mountain decided to give and finally thrust my mortal form through the atmosphere only to come crushing down upon rock and pavement shattered to a million pieces.

No other environment could ever terrify, could ever demonize, could ever haunt the soul as do stairwells.