Our tryst with bliss is a nightingale’s song,
having no motive and without an aim,
prismatically refracting God’s gong,
poised in the void as a flicker-free flame.
To the throb of bliss magnetism we swoon,
in sync with the rhythm of the universe,
be the night pitch black or graced by the moon,
dancing without any need to rehearse.
Rapture rises ushering surprises,
each petal of heart opened by God’s hand,
enlivened by spirit that baptises,
as His grace available on demand.
Flickering space lowers her eyelashes ~
For now we see God’s face in such flashes
trees shake from the chill
sun lowers her heated face
when maples turn red
ego lowers, spirit raises
in the void our presence grazes
unbound is delight of our heart
singing for God endless praises
prior to thought or perception
before arises conception
in this strange world of names and forms
at the stillness point, heart conforms
to space before time arises
where lower mind weighs and sizes
there in unending renewal
we dwell in the realm non-dual
these musings apart we must share
epiphany beyond compare
third eye lowers her eyelashes
feather like touch gently gnashes
bliss seduction in slow motion
where the drop becomes the ocean
without any doing at all
as in love’s abyss we free fall
At dusk, the cicadas rise,
tiny bronze lanterns
warming in the branches.
Their song begins low,
a tremble of earth-heat
and summer breath.
And there~
in soft cotton pajamas
printed with moons and small brave stars~
a little boy steps onto the porch
as if onto a stage
built just for him.
He lifts a wooden spoon
like a maestro’s baton,
solemn in the way only children
can be solemn
when the world finally listens.
The cicadas hush,
then swell~
a shimmering chorus
of wings and ancient rhythm.
He nods once,
and they follow,
obedient as any orchestra
that knows genius when it sees it.
The night glows around him,
silver-soft,
the moon leaning closer
to watch this small conductor
shape the wild into music.
And when he lowers his spoon,
the cicadas quiet
with reverence~
their final notes drifting
into the waiting dark.
The boy smiles,
bare feet on cool porch wood,
pajamas glowing faintly
in the moonlight.
He has conducted the night,
and the night
has bowed.
Unheralded
sleep steals into
my chamber
lowers its curtain before my mind
gently strokes my eyelids
overtakes
~ underwhelms
space lowers her eye lashes and blushes
perhaps embarrassed at her deception
we judge her not for bliss rapture gushes
as it should have been since the inception
but now flicker-free is our perception
space is a veil through which we can now peep
preparing us for a consciousness leap
It doesn’t happen loudly.
No thunder, no shattered glass—
just the quiet subtraction of you.
First, your edges soften.
You stop correcting them
when they get you wrong.
Then your voice lowers—
not silence yet,
just… less insistence on being heard.
You begin to edit yourself
mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-feeling,
trimming away anything that might not fit
inside the space they’ve made for you.
Love, you say.
This is love.
But love should not feel
like translating your soul
into a language that has no word for you.
Days pass, then months—
you forget what you sounded like
before you became agreeable.
You forget what you wanted
before wanting became inconvenient.
Even your reflection hesitates now,
as if trying to recall your name.
And still, nothing looks broken.
No bruises, no smoke—
just a life tidied down to nothing.
That’s how it kills you.
Not with endings,
but with edits.
Not by taking your breath,
but by teaching you
not to need it so much.
Until one day,
there’s nothing left to erase—
and no one left
to notice.
I fight hard
To defy slumber’s grasp,
Head tilting, nodding
Between wakefulness and sleep.
My focus hangs in the balance,
For it is the hour of devotion.
Tonight,
I dare not yield to the body's whim;
Kneeling, I begin the Lord’s prayer,
But the words stumble.
Yet I regain my track—
Resolute, I must persevere.
Swiftly, I reach for my Bible,
Turning to the Psalms:
"He who keeps Israel
Shall neither slumber nor sleep."
The verse echoes in my mind;
I cannot surrender now.
But this gentle breeze, soft and cool,
Fans the embers of my fatigue.
My eyelids grow heavy,
My knees begin to buckle;
Slowly, my head lowers,
Resting upon the Holy Book.
Angels ascend and descend
Upon Jacob’s ladder,
Cherubim and Seraphim
In celestial minstrelsy.
Heaven’s peace envelops me,
And I begin to snore heavily.
Till dawn filters through the blinds,
Sun rays pierce into my eyes
I awaken, still kneeling by the bed—
Still praying to the Lord
I WEAR IT, LIKE I MEAN IT
Brim dipped low enough
to make you look twice
high enough to let you
catch the heat in my eyes
This isn't decoration, its declaration.
I wear it like I mean it
I wear like I heart it
I swag it out, add my sauce, and wear it just like, I like it.
The Brim traces shadows down my cheekbones
across my mouth, resting like it knows it's framing temptation
My posture deepens, My voice lowers
My walk slows into something deliberate
I wear it like I mean it
I wear like I like it
I swag it out, add my sauce, and wear it like just like, I like it.
You really dont know, you haven't been told
being unforgettable is not the goal. Please hear me, queens
I must speak bold. Sexy isn't noise, Sexy is control.
So when I step into the room, uplifting the gloom.
hat angled, confidence charged
understand, I didn't come to be noticed
I came to be remembered.
I wear it like I mean it
I wear like I heart it
I swag it out, add my sauce, and wear it like just like, I like it.
Save the earth. Obliterate your world.
Begin by ending.
Let the sky-ceiling buckle and split.
You are the first to go.
Scrape the crusted-hard scabs from your skin.
Shred the nerves where the winter enters.
For the earth—which needs no saving—
your worldly heart must stop.
Your flesh feeds the gulls.
White wings. Red beaks.
Stripped clean.
(A child on the pier lowers her hand,
the splintered stick held mid-air.)
The gulls do not look up.
They finish what they started
and leave the bones to the tide.
An isolated journey towards the shores of remembrance.
Open toed traces pave the path of acceptance,
She looks up at stars that have already fallen.
Upon Her arrival, She held Her hand for a blessing.
The elegance, held together by a silk white dress.
A crescent moon signals the rising dusk.
Teasing Her, the light casts Her shadow.
The silhouette grows as She waits under the white glow.
Quietly lying still, succumbing to forbidden emotion.
The light flickers. Drifting forward, She ascends.
Shine down, a soft kiss from the waning crescent.
Floating above stranger tides, water spreads outwards.
The hollowed out patterns of footprints,
washed away by shallow ripples.
As the tide comes, Her heart races.
The radiant glow softly disappears into the darkness.
A slow descent allows Her feet to rest once more.
With tears from Her eyes and a soft smile,
She looks upon the rising blue hues of the sky.
Resting on Her knees, She lowers Her hands in Her lap.
With a soothing breeze,
All She can do is stare at the faint cries of daylight.
With dawn on the rise,
a moment of peace leaves through a tear from Her eyes.
When a colorless glass that once stood up to the heat begins to sweat,
persimmon-tinted droplets—and the wind that drinks them—
ripen red where the night should cool to blue,
as the moon lowers the creases of its brow into the glass.
Heat, struck by the long claws of the wind’s shudder,
stretches its dazed body and tumbles through the air,
fooled by the murmurs of residual warmth the sun left behind,
it presses its claim on the glass once more, intent on its own dominion.
Drawing up the tender rustle between the two,
within the tug-of-war of heat that rises and wind that braces,
I am caught by a longing that charges ahead without thought,
drinking the fading chill, I bend the blooming heat.
Letting midsummer pass is like
finding the loosened end of a tangled skein of heat and blue glass
and tying it back together—
a difficult journey to rekindle the breath you left behind,
yet, like a meeting on Chilseok, it is one I can always endure.
I walk along the slippery shore.
of the shingled beach
that welcomes the inland sea.
The sun rises slowly in the east,
lighting my way amongst
the small rocks and drying seaweeds.
There is a lift inside me
that nurture enthusiasm.
Peace and quiet reign around
disturbed occasionally by the barks
of sprightly dogs that race upon the sand,
the squawks of gulls gliding gluttonously
swooping down for their repast.
I look with sympathy on other walkers
on the beach. Thus, I meditate,
a marvellously therapeutic exercise.
Who am I, Lord, to deserve all this?
The quiet meditation calms my mind.
lowers my blood pressure,
a spiritually potent release.
My mind is tranquil,
I know who I am,
my soul is happy.
Kids with their families walking up and down the hill, dogs barking, cars going up and down past our home, hopscotch chalked into the sidewalk, come on you know you want to get it a whirl.
Kids gather at the bus stop, trying to stay warm in the cool autumn breeze, dancing and talking amongst their parents neighborhood friends, thus is what I see each day outside my window.
Birds squirrels, even a red fox are the many sights I see on a daily basis, sounds of birds pecking on our roof, fall is here, so many colors of yellow and red leaves brighten up the night trees across the street.
A swift fall cool breeze, the trees branches Dance in unison, a lightweight coat you might need as you step out to take a walk, smells of pine cones, hot apple cider from angel food, something sweet..
A monarch butterfly just landed on my native milkweed plant, its wings of red and orange open wide to reveal is a girl, praying she leaves a few eggs behind.
Evening has come, as the golden sun has begun to set, it lowers ever so so slowly, as not in a hurry, the moon lights up the sky, another sky has ended, perhaps tomorrow will be the same.
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