What I do is I devote my body, mind, and soul to the mystery. I worship at the mouth of the magic. And when the words come to me, I dance with them and collect them, with all my love and truth and affection, into books of poetry.
It is with so much joy and gratitude I now offer you the words which were offered to me. In the dark secret beautiful hours when I slipped away from the noise of this world and took so many sacred journeys inward.
Luminae is a book about the ache of longing, of falling apart. It is about soul searching and finding your wild truth. Available in paperback on Amazon, just click here. Kindle version as well as a few signed custom copies will be ready very soon, I will let you know about each as they become available.
Whether you purchase my book or not, please know I am full of gratitude for your presence here in the place. Because of your incredibly generous hearts, the giving always feels like receiving. I am so grateful, so grateful, so grateful to have the chance to share with you the creative work that means the most to me.
This is an excerpt from my upcoming book of prose and poetry titled Luminae. To me this poem sums up in just a few words what the entire book is about, why I wrote it, and why I wrote it now. I wrote it because it is time for a book like this. It is OUR time. Time for the ones who dare to face the darkness and the light, the pain and the fear and the uncertainty, without turning our backs on love. It is about longing, expression, soul searching, finding ourselves, being comfortable being strong inside of ourselves.
It is time for words like these. The world is starved for thoughtful compassionate honest words, words both soft and strong at once. Words of soul, words of challenge, words of comfort, words of heart.
The poem above, and every single piece in Luminae, was written for the ones who dare welcome everything. We need the ones who welcome all of it, even the hard things, without judgment. The scary things, the things we do not yet understand. We need the ones who will stand up even when they feel like crawling and claim their worth, their integrity and their limitless love and understanding. We need the ones who see. We need the ones who listen. We need the ones who create.
Some reject my writing because it is too dark. Some reject it because it is too light. But the ones who understand the true depths of the human heart, who believe in the beauty and necessity of holding both light and darkness sacred, those are the ones Luminae is for. Because those are the souls this world so desperately needs.
and the static played long
children lost, bred from the bleeding of chewed tongues
the sounds came from each corner of a carousel
crumbling human paper
entire days thrown into waste baskets affixed to nowhere
digital profanity came dripping from their radio eyes
all in the streets the Sickness
in dark rivers rushing
cutting the small silent figures away at the knees
but they do not see
what i see
they do not hear
they have faces which blister with angry sky
bodies blown away slow
on the wind.
It had been a jasmine evening which left its hand upon my chest, the moon so lonely I could taste her forlorn eyes. Some days prick like lemondrop needles sweet and bitter against the tongue.
Out there the wolves.
Out there the doves.
Out there a world revolves around itself and the same revolution envelopes whatever this cruelty is inside of me. I can hear you talking but I cannot let you in. There was something they gave me to take away the pain and it took you, too.
I am letting go.
The tethers are coming up
ever so slow
but I still hold you deep in my bones
even if I cannot touch you
this I know
My ribs full of roses blossoming thorns
swollen sadness she is breaking my soil she is
she is mine,
beautiful are the tears which do not come and I know
I’ll have to crawl up out of this grave
swallow life again but this baptismal throat is fire,
these limbs, how we have become this tired.
Along the dusted edges of a world unknown bodies trailing by I walk as though a secret
as though a memory an ivory mist between the fingers a dream of a time to come not promised, not spoken of.
We hold onto hope the way we bow our bright eyes into the fog, made in the image of ghosts, made of wisps of fading photograph delirium, the glow at the tips of fireflies against water in the dark. Reflections. Illusions. For everything we hold we wish were something else.
If we are not lovers, if we are not bound together by vein or tongue or country, if our visions eclipse each other but do not touch, then let the world be brought into eternal solitude, let the earth beneath my grass wet feet weep only to be alone. There is something here we refuse to see. Something intelligent, calling to us with its mouth, a wide gray ocean, fingers tearing open knees, rain pricks stiff along the neck beneath the trees.
And we drift, we are adrift, we grasp for what we cannot believe only to fall again upon ourselves. This is me against me. This is you against you, and every mirror is another hall. The rolling thunder of this bone longing, this desperation. Press your palms to mine, I can feel your heart bleeding into time. And as the sun turns down her body to blue sing the mountains to sleep, I am a wanderer inside for the way we do not see. A vessel for the silence crawling along the seams.