Remember that everything is always a reflection. What needs are you rejecting yourself? Consistency in self-care and self-love inevitably leads to a world-view mirror of unconditional love and reciprocation… and you’ll be able to recognize -or find- your mirror in others of radiant beauty. Be able and willing to bend without breaking, yet always remember your roots. 


the fight

Poems, Soul heartedly

what if

there was a way

to live without wasted time

what if

there was a way

to regain time wasted

what if there was a way

to regain time wasted by others

what if there was a way

to live every moment with meaning

to mend holes we’ve made with actions

that counteract our wasted time

and the wasted time of others–

i had a theory come to me

to live life as if

i were living for not only one

but 9 dying people

including some dying souls–

i am one of them

killing myself slowly

maybe even rapidly–

but in the process of realization

i am beginning to find motivation

and the strength to live this way–

it beings with every step

every thought

every word

every action

that i am living not only for myself

but for others who have strived

and those who are still striving

to live a life of prosperity


Threads of Destiny

Poems, Small Miracles, Soul heartedly

I know why the air is clear.

I can almost see those glistening threads,

some thick and some thin

 binding all organisms,

some large and some small,

Together—one silky strand at a time.

Some hang loosely, so fragile they may fall

or break with the slightest gust of wind.

Some are tight, pulling Us with a force

across oceans, hills, and sidewalks

Together—those transparent threads,

some short and some long,

are our destinies.

Some are attached to the heart,

others to the feet; only one string between

two of the living—

I can almost see them all, billions

springing from each one I encounter,

radiating like the sun in all directions,

connecting living grass, water, soil, and hearts

Together. And when a heart stops beating,

its threads detach and depart

from all cells, all hearts;

coiling and collecting themselves


I know why hearts ache.

Transforming into liquid form,

they unite with fallen threads of the past,

creating streams, rivers, seas, and oceans;

dancing gracefully, they form waves,

nourishing the remaining organisms

that spring from the aged Earth–

I know why water is clear.

Gradually the former threads gravitate

towards the warmth of the sunshine,

placing blessings upon threads still hanging,

some loosely and some tightly.

Ascending up to the heights,

They eternally evaporate

And fall into

the Web of Life




I yearn to paint under the morning sunlight

and sing to a new crowd of people each night,

to write stories under the shade of a tree

and drink tea in coffeehouses painted green,

To sing to a new crowd of people each night

in dimly-lit cafés and bars with warm lights

and drink tea in coffeehouses painted green,

to pick steel strings and bow deep harmonies

In dimly-lit cafés and bars with warm lights,

I yearn to hear voices speak loud, soft, and bright,

to pick steel strings and bow deep harmonies

I yearn to be somewhere my soul can be free.

Those Holy Bones


Sonnet 1.

I saw her relics last July enclosed

within a sheet of thin glass on a cross

inside the center globe, carefully posed

so that none of the magic would be lost

though hundreds of years have already passed

those holy bones remain preserved and blessed

and dispersed amongst nations east to west

secluded from the turmoil of her past.

Think of the bones buried beneath the earth

unseen by human eyes for centuries

yearning to reveal their stories since birth

of love and death and untold mysteries

lying nameless within the ground unknown

until we seek and hold those holy bones.

Maybe Not

Cultured Narratives, Fiction

There’s a dream that I see

Sitting here alone on this parched New Mexican grass, surrounded by nothing but yellow in all directions, I dip my toes into the shallow stream below me and all I want to do is cry.

I pray it can be

The rancher who lent me shelter in his home last night after he found both me and my car broken down on the side of the road told me that the river would run dry within the next few years.

Across the land

The river is all he has to sustain his cattle, himself, and people in surrounding rural communities who depend on him.He said it’s because the earth is heating up and there’s nothing we can do to reverse the effects.

Shake this land

“Man caused this mess but men can’t fix it,” he said while we were drinking coffee at his table, basking in the already intense June sun.

A wish or a command

“What about women? I asked, jokingly.

“Women have a better chance than men.”

We’re just human

I lift my face from my knees, directly above the water. I’m crying, but not nearly enough. I want to pour out all my apologies to this stream. I want to repay the river with tears of replenishment, but human eyes can only produce so much water.

We all do what we can

So we can do just one more thing

If I had been as kind to the earth as this old rancher has been to me, maybe things would be different.

We could all be free

Maybe not with words

Maybe he wouldn’t have had to repeat the word “drought” every day.

Maybe not with a look

Maybe the grass I’m sitting on would be green instead of yellow.

But with our minds

These tears aren’t enough.

The turn of the tide is withering thee

I want to roll a grand piano over this stream and stand in the water, forcing sound out of it with my bare fingers and singing those words I wrote so many years ago, willing God—if he hasn’t yet lost hope in us—to resurrect this river.

Remember one thing

A dream you can see

If my words have any power at all, maybe he would cry tears of joy at the sound, and those tears would fall upon my shoulders, replenishing the river and our spirits.

Pray it to be

But I don’t have a grand piano with me, only my voice. I sing.

Shake this land

(**Inspired by the song “Maybe Not” by Cat Power. Italic lyrics are all part of that song, written by Chan Marshall. I first wrote this in my mind while half asleep.**)