When she calls

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When she calls, you must decide whether or not you will answer. She resides in all of us, calling us all back to the depths from which we came. She is inside the soul, and she is calling us home. So if you are looking for me, you’ll find me in the mountains or by the sea, maybe with my head in books or surrounded by trees. Either way you’ll now know where to look. I am home. A chapter in Mother Nature’s book.

Watching (In our library)

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We made love on our library floor.

With all of them watching.

Hemingway and Bukowski thought, I was the most ferocious woman.

Where as Shakespeare and Fitzgerald whispered of how well you performed.

While Poe thought of all the dreadful things that might happen, if we ever decided to let go.

It was only Dickinson, who understood why.

So many of the best moments only happen, every once in a while.

No matter how hard we try, to capture the feeling in a poem or a photograph.

And just as she,

These thoughts, these feelings

Are intended for none, although seen by many.

Dear Strangers

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I have had so many love affairs with my eyes.

Direct & enticing

Deliberate & sweet.

In this moment, you have somehow become mine.

Remove every layer of cloth, while I trace my fingers along your scars, down your spine.

Allow me to create art.

Paint your body with soft strokes of emotion.

Water your mind.

I’m sorry, you like many have become victim to my art.

My body is at standstill, air passes through the lungs.

No sound escapes, but be sure that if I have ever loved you in any type of way. 

Whether forever or just a day.

You may never hear it from my mouth, but only know it from the words I write.

These words are mine and in this moment, so are you.

Too many lovers & somehow, still too few.

Le but de l’âme

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I could easily be that woman.

The agreeable one, the one who smiles and laughs…even when I find remarks less than humorous.

I could get married and have children

Cook and clean.

Look nice and delicate.

Be nice and delicate.

Capture my beauty through photographs,

I take of myself.

Be in the moment, live for now.

Love in seasons.

I could be that woman and many would love her.

You see, there is nothing wrong with a woman like this.

If anything, I would prefer to be her.

But she is not me, no matter how earnest the attempt.

I am a thought, always evolving.

Never satisfied…

How could someone love a woman like this?

One who rarely smiles,

One who rarely understands herself, but is in constant search for more,

More of what she, herself does not know.

Strange, how there are so many books, testimonies and scriptures explaining what it is that wise men seek…

Even the Bible states that a man of wisdom seeks knowledge.

But what of my longing, what of my questions?

The abundance of my happiness must stem from what?

Marriage, love, fertility, material belongings? All beautiful things. All fleeting, fleeting as am I in this moment. Fleeting like the short span that is a lifetime, but never like my words.

The soul’s purpose.

Heritage

Mocha complexioned girl, with intuition beyond her years.

Struggles rooted in the ancestry of her blood.

The rhythm of song and dance living in the marrow of her bones.

Far before she knew how to walk.

Words formed in her mind, before she could talk.

She was alive in more ways than one.

Chakra, the earth’s spirit flowing like water lilies down the curve of her sultry body, line.

Intertwined like vines on aged structures. Demolished. Broken. Bind.

The fight that Mother Nature won.

Recreated and reborn every morning slightly after dawn. A miracle and a blessing it is.

That she dwells in her and her light is now mine and we are one, one divine human being.