She takes her pills like a holy sacrament;

A daily communion with health(ier)

Praying for atonement’s relief

Others make it seem like it’s a choice


In the darkness I call my tribe

So that I,

may see the light

In grief, I am surrounded

by sadness deeply founded,

On the angst of permanent refrain

I cry out, again and again.

I hail the light that comes flowing

from my Tribe’s great knowing

that I too, will survive the darkness

Veiled Are The Spirits

Veiled are the spirits

Veiled are the spirits that roam around free

Harsh is the grief of possibilities

Gentle of hand and calming of heart

Shocking release through death now apart

Shadows of memories deeply resound

Waves of infinity dearly are bound

Braided through the strands of fate

Unfurled the entrance of Heaven’s gate

Life at this point: LATP

WOW! What a whirlwind of life happens when I’m living on purpose. I’m reporting happiness so deep and vivid it’s nearly cartoonish in appearance. And somehow, in the absurdity, I find myself joyous with delight.

It might be because my job brings me personal satisfaction. I find myself looking forward to caring for my clients as if they were my own relatives. I strive to be helpful, kind, compassionate, and productive. My boss has done everything possible to make my life good. I’m grateful for the work.

My house is as cute as the day I moved in back in February. I am meeting all points of joy in my life. I only wish to add to my happiness. Anything that doesn’t belong gets evacuated to new homes. An ongoing process that I delight in daily.

I know I promised to read through my bookshelf, but I haven’t found much time. I’d rather put my energy into joyous living. I am deeply satisfied with this even if I can’t keep my promise to you.

I came across an old play I wrote that was angry, vicious, and unforgiving. I do plan on modifying it according to my contemporary views, but even as I write this, I realize it may not be a promise I’ll keep. More like a wild flight of fancy; a dream

My neighbor got adopted by a mama kitty who had a litter of three kittens. One went missing and the other two they decided to keep. The gray male kitten liked to come lay on my porch in my chair. He’d knock at my door if he wanted loving.

I heard my neighbor come home.

“How are the kittens doing?” I hollered through the bushes.

“They go in to get fixed on the 4th (or 5th)” She lamented. “I don’t know why they scheduled it out so far. Do you know how hard it is to keep those babies inside?” She sounded exasperated.

“I sure wish it were sooner too. I miss Smokey.” I declared.

I’ll be dipped if she didn’t go into the house and bring out my little gray cat friend. He wasn’t okay with being forced into a hold but once he saw me, he burst into happy purrs, pushing his head against my hand. Her small act gave me such joy.

Several years ago, I wrote a bit about how much I hated Tennessee. My opinion has had a dramatic turn. Now I feel as if I’m finally home. Who in the world would think that I could deserve to be this happy?

I’m struggling with that right now. My sense of self has been so torn down over time that I’m not really sure what I want to be when I grow up. I think I’ll stick with loving kindness for now and see what happens.

I keep hesitating to post this, I feel cautious trepidation. I feel like this has a lame ending. Well, here goes nothing.

Missing a part

I want to write.

I want to fill the pages

with clever words and phrases,

instead, I (not so clever),

watch blathering fingers

mutely tapping the keys

lingering (commas and words) (READ: lingering commas and words in parentheses)

vanishing before first light

Remains of a rooster

I miss his cocky crow

The bluejay cried raw mutation

I reached out to Mr. Uncle.

Exchanges of acceptance abound

Once again I am enough.

Clandestine light sneaks up

Bright and telling speaking in birdsongs

Lemon lime leaves glimmer gold-ly.

Crimson hunter green staccato

Birds dance raining firey blazes through greying skies

Frogs begin their hopeful litany

Echo reverberated air carried gunfire punctuation

Midnight sable presses against my legs and hands.

Dark moon raising diesel-like rumbles


Where once the grass is flooded green

now the colors changed the scene

the sky is gray the air is chill

flowers no longer on my windowsill

Queen Anne’s Lace or dead daisies smiling

thistle spurned their purple beguiling.

The cornflowers nod their tired heads

getting ready for Winters bed

Goldenrod has turned to Green

to match the seasons changing scene

Fairy circles closing ranks

singing hymns of praise and thanks

Blessed am I to shiver the chill

As autumnal turns the spinning wheel