I look at old pictures of you and wonder what’s missing. It’s in your eyes, the way they’ve been shining ever since meeting me. They weren’t like that before. And people have been telling me lately that there’s something different in my voice; they can literally hear my happiness. I wasn’t like this before you. I can’t say this about most people before you, but in the end, no matter what, I’m better because we happened. I’m more forgiving of the past and optimistic of the future; love has a way of doing that to a human. I hope this happiness never ends. I hope things just continue getting better. ☺️❤️👵🏻🧓🏻
My new book ‘Letting Things Go’ is available and on sale on amazon today!! Get it through the link in my bio, or you can search for it on the amazon you usually use in your country!! Same for my first book ‘Sad Birds Still Sing’. Love and light!! ❤️🕊
he has fallen
has been broken
no longer lights my way
i am the shadow of another body
i am the shadow transcending my mother who's body too
was none of the above—
it was broken
fallen from the skies
like the heavens had
an eclipse when their
moon was taken
do you see?
Sometimes i just want to write. no particular subject, or topic, or end goal in mind. just pick up a pen, and bleed for miles, until, with a heaving sigh i'm able to say honestly, "there's nothing left." And the fact is, that's how many things in life seem to begin.
Structure-less, shapeless, thoughtless. taking form only after we've found the courage to trust our instincts and take the first step into the dark tunnel. our lives, just line sketches, waiting to be sculpted into something tangible and solid. outlines waiting on the application of detail to become a true story.
Not one of us willing to accept this, we plan, and plot. we write out every step of our lives, only to have life itself laugh and split at the fork with dead ends at either side. it's not until we see our instincts for what they are; the guide to ourselves, the blueprint of who we are, that we really start to etch our lives.
This is why, sometimes i just want to write, with no particular subject in mind. to follow my instincts and see where they guide me. what worlds will be created with a few simple key strokes, from a couple scratches of graphite against paper, a few splashes of ink between lines. what will morph from these things.
I'm convinced we are just that, God's scribbles slowly taking shape into something of a grander scale. but maybe that's for another discussion, and maybe it's better left alone, since there are those who would take offense at being considered nothing more than God's scribbles and ink blots.
Me? i revel in it. that we can be something as important as the base, the foundation, of a grander scheme. infinitely minute, yet infinitely necessary.
I may not have a grand scheme in mind yet, and i may never discover one, but if i can admire the scribbles of the universe for what they are; then i'll continue following my instincts, clashing graphite and tree bark, in hopes of shaping one of my scribbles into a world of it's own. #scribblesofyouandmeandus#azuresoul
My mother was a hippy. Instead of stressing the required literary classics,she spoon-fed us on poetry and lyrics- mostly hers, and Bob Dylan’s of course.
I could recite from memory “Positively 4th Street” by age four.(Priorities well In check.) So I taught myself The Classics at age 15 and decided Mark Twain and W.B.Yeats were my literary hero’s, and Dylan,the singing poet,of course.
We never call her mom, we call her- Sister Golden Hair. It started as a joke and stuck. I intend to post some of her work here soon, with a line or two in honor of S.G.H and life with a woman who put art, poetry and the pursuit of freedom, a.k.a. life as a true hippy, (with three children in tow.) Such banalities as hungry kids was managed by telling us to go pick some beautiful red berries from the blooming backyard tree.
As she dipped her brush in turpentine,barely glancing our way.(They weren’t berries, it was a bush with red, sour fruit.)
She always makes me promise that I’ll take her the next time Dylan is in town, that she’s sure he’ll see her in the audience and they’ll fall in love. Though she’d have to let him know she’s waiting for my Father ( such altruistic sacrifice.) She’s a 72 year old faded rose,her head perennially in the clouds, still a twenty year old girl dancing half- dressed at Woodstock claiming Hendrix was eyeing her. What can I do. She dropped a lot of acid. She’s my crazy Mother. We, every one of us, only gets one.
I’m working on forgiving her.
And learning from her innate sense of amazing artistic ability.
S.G.H is waiting for me. I promised to take her to some consignment stores.She’s looking for the perfect calico- print boho dress, there’s an event coming up at her senior citizens social club. There may be some eligible Men there. It’s always important for a Woman to look her best she tells me, even though she’ll have to explain, to these phantom suitors that she’s waiting for my Father, (as she will Dylan.) I put on lipgloss, throw my hair in a ponytail, grab my keys then impulsively decide to change my shirt. It’s boho,the gauze fabric is just too much today.
falling for you has always been a simple tragedy
No rope burns at the tugging and pulling
Just a moment of walking over mounds of dead leaves
and finding myself
six feet under...
Make up by @thaihiennn