Dear Mother, Dear Father

Dear Mother, Dear Father

“The truth was a mirror in the hands of God. It fell, and broke into pieces. Everybody took a piece of it, and they looked at it and thought they had the truth.” ~ Rumi

As a poet I love Rumi,
I love the weight of his words,
of how the mirror breaks
and many different versions
of truth grow within the family.
Within ourselves too.

A liberated sheep in a post Shepherd world,
poetic landscape of the soul
is my version of truth.
From fifteen to fifty,
a life-changing metamorphosis
which I faithfully recorded.

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Poetry Is My Lady

Poetry is my Lady

Beckoned by the branches of this solitary tree,
my fingers trace an owl’s feather to my face
as I embrace her ethereal touch.
Never knowing her name or the meaning
of her silent words at play, she remains
a stranger in the dark of my karmic past.

Come Lady let your hands play upon my skin,
let silence end where you begin.
Let our bodies dance together beyond mortal touch,
for you are my release, my confession!
For there exists no poet who writes
of something they desire to forget!

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