A Reason to Breathe


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A Reason to Breathe

The Look
The Laugh
The Smile
The Wit
The Aura
The Style
The Walk
The Kiss
The Hands
The hands which supposedly meant something – together

The Lie
The self-deception
The pattern before two sets of averted eyes
Neither acknowledging history repeats itself

Averted because the love was real
Until the pattern returned and slowly engulfed
The pattern which only one pair of eyes examines
While the other moves on to the next dead end matrix

A reason to breathe
Always wiser to come from within
To root from within
To blossom from within
To soar from within

Maelstrom wreckage
Deep inside mangled debris
Observations of the sources of missile launches
Aimed and detonated from trumped up lies parading as reality
All to support the pattern
A wan smile, painful in its truth
Debilitating in its sadness
Creeps a slow path to a long recovery
Turns the anguish aside with knowledge
The truth that when calculations become the determination of love
The reciprocity once believed existed
Flutters as silent ashes to smoldering scorched-earth soul landscapes

In that smile of recognition
In that glimpse of truth
A smile not of joy, not of derision, not of vengeance, possibly more of sadness
Births life.

A reason to breathe
Born from recognition of strength from previous ashes
A smile born of joy and exhileration
Born of revitalizing life-support
Carried to higher health by artificial means
Fantasies that the support was everything
That the support gave life
Only to learn the evocative truth – it only served as transition

A giclée representing a soaring work of art
False in its representation
True in is mimic of truth
A beautiful adornment
Only but a ghost of the truth of its conception

When the support gets turned off
It’s revealed in all its cold splendor
It’s false hope
It’s valued service
It’s innate inability to truly feel
To truly accept love
Most important its lack of ability to invest itself in love
Its existence dependent upon money and maintenance

A reason to breathe jerks reality into existence
Detonates all one believed as truth
Opens up a world of invigoration
A world of pain
A world of heartbreak
A world of dashed dreams
Yet a world of magnificent future
Magnificent opportunity
Magnificent vibrancy
All unknown while unconscious
Even though the dreams felt real

A reason to breathe always stems from discovering a will to live

The wan smile?

Let the search begin – from within – reason enough for now



My Abuser


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My Abuser

I fought my demons every day
Negative self-image she’d always say
In words and deeds, emotionally splayed
But now I stand and face my abuser

My strengths they grow by leaps and bounds
Each time I put antagonism down
I walk away from the evil sound
I distance myself from my abuser

The taunts and trials of warped mentality
The hateful skew of her reality
The attempts at my emotional fatality
All fade as I escape my abuser

For until I saw her ugly head
I’d left my soul for gone and dead
I’d live each day in mortal dread
Of my abuser

Clarity forms and happiness grows
My love may flourish in cultivated rows
Within my heart which truly knows
I need fear not my abuser

She’s nothing now but a sad sick being
Who in her sickness, she’s short of seeing,
How many lovely lives she’s bleeding
By simply existing as an abuser

My path begins where now I choose
I know aspiration will never lose
As long as I embrace my truths
And release the pains from my abuser

As the sun comes up I love the day
As nighttime falls I dance and sway
Joy abounds in my life in each new way
Now that I know the sickness of my abuser

I acknowledge no more her stranglehold
I’ll live my life and truth be told
I stand this day, say proudly bold
She exists no longer as my abuser

Days become soft and gentle again
I see myself a stronger man
I claim my place in love’s strong hand
The fetters dissolve…and I smile…again


Did I love you well this day?
Could my words find better paths?
When you think of me do you smile?
Did I love you well this day?

Did I hear you well this day?
Could my ears engulf the beating of your heart?
When I listen do you smile?
Did I hear you well this day?

Did I touch you well this day?
Could my kiss land more love?
When we cuddle do you smile?
Did I touch you well today?

May I love you well in this life?
May we walk our journey together?
May we think of one another fondly?
May we know our hearts as one?
May we listen to each other’s smile?
May we kiss eternity into existence?
May we clasp ourselves together?
May our lives stroll into a singular sunset?
May we discover our peace together?
May we know our ultimate question?

Did I love you well this day?

One Day…

One Day

A young boy dreams of being a hero
The one absent in his youth
The one rampant in books, on screens,
Running wild throughout imaginations

So he dedicates his life to goodness
To love
To nurture, compassion, dedication
But he’s never good enough for her

He becomes irrelevant
The story plays the same
Heroes fail
Tattered dreams litter a life worth sharing

A young boy lives in the man
Ever anxious to conquer apathy
Disbelief, underappreciation,
While weariness collects in his bones

Dreams of being loved crumble
Sculpted castles in the sands of time
He cannot be the next shiny thing every day
Tears bleed his soul, silent searing salt trails dig at aging cheeks

As time washes him away, he yet dreams of being a hero
The one present in this life
The one who loved true and well
That he may rest one day in the legacy of a life well lived

For he owns a love worth sharing…

The Locker


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The Locker

Folded neat in that special place
the place where you dream
the place where you quietly, gently unpack your love
the place where you wistfully view moments, past and future
Lie the heart and soul of your desires
the desire for hope
the desire for love
the desire for romance where lips meet in passion, caresses last a lifetime
Too much covered by dust and neglect, begging questions
why am I unworthy?
what have I done to deserve brokenness?
am I that unlovable?
Yet emotional hands demand the locker remain open to reveal your life
the desire for special moments
the need for intimate connections
the pain of not knowing why dreams elude you
When smiles arrive, too many lie distant from the present
the passion from eyes so sparkled
the nights and days of romantic embrace
the timeless sensuality of togetherness enjoyed
So you unfold hope
the one tattered and torn by doubt and neglect
the one that gives life, though little supports its canvas
the one which moves you forward despite all evidence
And you wonder at your inner strength
that capacity for deep and caring love
that dogged belief your dreams stand viable, achievable, despite scant proof
that ability to right yourself under the impending disaster of inevitability
You cry a little
for love that could be so perfect
for peace that could quell all demons
for intimacy that could fuel your life for eternity
And you see revelations
your worth stands undervalued
your love lies underused
your stalwart dedication falls underappreciated

You rededicate yourself
to strength and support
to love and its power to affect change
to living each day in the confidence of your direction
So you pack it all back in with gentle fingers
for each day your needs find fulfillment
for each day your love wins
for each day intimacy finds its bloom
And you always place the tattered hope in last
which covers all your fears and doubts
which touches all your dreams and desires
which lends strength to overcome weariness and disillusionment
To revitalize, despite the sense of emptiness in your locker
because you believe in yourself
because you know love will win
because without that threadbare parcel of hope, you would join the apathetic, downtrodden, hardened souls of this world, who never to find their heart’s desire, never to know that amazing caress, kiss, quiet expression of love from another

And you close the lid with a soft sigh 
knowing you must love yourself
knowing you chase a phantom
looking forward to the big reveal that your locker indeed held the treasure of a lifetime

To begin your day with love…


What We Need to Hear


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Short contemplation here on an aspect of creativity for those of us who step out into the world of potential disaster. No, really. Isn’t this the manner in which we often look at what we do?

Not all the time, I get that. When we’re in the throes of creative passion, our work becomes larger than life on a scale which sometimes threatens to devour us. We thrill in the process of giving ourselves to our passion. We don’t merely have sex with our writing, we make love to it, and when we REALLY give ourselves over, we make love with our creativity.

But what about those other times? What about the steps we walk, the mundania we suffer and the doubts and fears which threaten to overwhelm and consume us. I’m sure every creative person struggles at some level outside their internal “zone of creative passion.”

I woke this day to the thought of what it means to create something from nothing. To place your potential livelihood into the nebulous hands of your chaotic inner muses. To live at times daily with reality biting pieces of your heart and brain leaving you with a muddled mess of insecurities and fears.

At some point, you must decide to either play at creativity part time or commit. Who has commitment issues? Just because you commit to full-time creativity endeavor will by no means chase your demons away. In fact, too often this position awakens beasts within which you never understood nor ever desired to face.

A couple great things happened to me in the midst of a gestalt-creative-fear-meltdown this day. One, the love of my life and fuel for my heart communicated love for me in a most non-blatant, even ultra-subtle manner in which she would have to stop and examine simply to understand how deeply and desperately I needed that show of affection.

At times this condition of fear and inner questioning becomes so debilitating and so ridiculous that if anyone were inside my emotional ball of chaos they would certify me nuts. But one innocuous, mundane, basic beyond belief show of love and commitment can take a meltdown to a blog post and a re-energizing of creative passion and confidence.

Combine that incident with three other positive notions and my jet engines roar and I feel hope once again. I stumbled through the Facebook Desert, locked to my bedsheets in dread and foreclosure on my foundational creativity, and tripped across this podcast by James Wedmore:

This cuts to the core of my desire in promoting writing. This strikes to the very heart of my strength, my love, my soul, my purpose.

Next, a dear writer friend, Mary Rogers-Grantham posted this quote from Anne Rice: “To write something, you have to risk making a fool of yourself.”

These two items were enough to get feet on the floor and action behind my mind. Then My Princess called. We truly didn’t exchange mushy romantic pillow talk. She wanted to find time for us to be together. In a nutshell, she let me know she desired my physical presence in her life. I’m important to her.

She loves me.

Hence these keystrokes. But this should not stop here as some cutesy little story about restored hope and motivation. My truth stands as this – the abject responsibility to be able to rally myself cannot depend solely on others. As creative artists, we must work through our angst, our fear, our terror, our despair, our waning confidence diving like a meteor crashing into the surface of the atmospherically challenged moon, and somehow, someway, become self-sufficient in our own quirky way.

That stated, surrounding yourself with people who love and support you often helps you find that connection to viability, motivation, and courage. We need to care far less about what others think of us and our creative endeavors and care exponentially more about what we think of who we are and what we desire to accomplish in our lives.

I don’t tend to ponder blog posts. I puke them out, just as I encourage writers to puke out their books. I may go back over this writing a time or two in an effort to catch typos and to see if the words make any sense, but for the most part, the writing will always remain raw, right off the fingertips of my heart.

My dear, dear friend Ayesha gave me that encouragement years ago. She told me she loved the power of my raw writing. This comes from one of the most incredible writers I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. She handed me a compliment which concerned my most beloved aspect of writing, the pure words. She validated me, but more importantly, her kindness helped me validate myself.

So, now I’ve meandered all about and amazingly, the title I placed on this post before I wrote a word remains valid. What we need to hear, yes indeed, are the encouragements of others, but if we never take that encouragement the next step and hear our own deepest inner voices speak the very same words to our souls, we will remain awash in our own destruction.

What we need to hear as creative artists is our own voice validate our efforts and speak love over what we choose to motivate ourselves to create. I vehemently recommend you search for truth within and make something of that truth in everything you do. Don’t do it for money. Don’t do it for others. Hear your voice of creativity in your heart, nurture this gift, and boldly present your expression to the world – not for the world’s approval, but for yourself and the connection which might help someone else sharing life with you on this planet.

Hear yourself honestly say that you believe in yourself. That’s what we need to hear. We won’t always hear that voice proclaim this. Too much of our creativity comes from the negatives of this life. When you question yourself and your worth, however, this is the time to parade that stalwart voice which foundationally either stands tall or crumbles.

Others will help you get there. This day I’ve listed four. Ultimately though, you will have to decide to forage for that inner voice of personal validation. Strive for that. Search for your core strength. Find what you need to hear. Others may echo this voice and remind you, but this voice will ultimately be your own. Cultivate your inner belief in yourself.

Hear what you need most to hear.

My Momma’s House


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My Momma’s House

Familiar creaks in the ancient floor
Once a bane to childhood creeping
Teenager sneaking
Now a quaint and mournful sigh

Wood and concrete mixed for strength
She built the ultimate stability through perseverance
Tears and loss
Now unable to hold her dreams real

Memories born, attached to our births
Ghosts of good and bad play hide and seek with our tears
Formative philosophies born and raised here
They march into yesterday’s realm inexorable. Relentless.

My momma’s house pours over my soul
The single most important artifact of a life
The stalwart line in the sand against the tsunami of time
Falls into memory itself with pain, regret, helplessness, sadness

My momma’s house a lifeblood gift generations ago
A rock on which to build
To send lives out into the world to thrive in their own ways
A marker bobbing in the sea of life which ends with these same lives

Legacy builds through action
My momma’s breath runs deep, embedded in the silent walls
Sixty-four years here, the bulk spent in oneness alone
While the rest of us bustled about in our Don Quixote pursuits to construct our lives

My momma’s house, make no mistake
Anchored to her heart, tied to our souls
She cannot stay, she cannot stay
Peril in the fall of the house of mother

Profound loss screams silent tears down sullen cheeks
No recourse allowed
No alternative day-saving
No cavalry to ride to our rescue like in the books and movies we once enjoyed here

My momma’s house is my house.
My momma’s house is all my sisters’ house
My momma’s house is my father’s house
Again, my momma’s house is hers, her tie to life, her fortress against time

My momma’s house silently accuses
Yet my momma’s house silently accepts and encourages
My momma’s house thinks no thoughts, owns no convictions
Save the ones coursing my brain and heart and deepest essence in long ago learned lessons

My momma’s house bore our imperfections well
My tears in this very room uncountable
My security within its walls never doubted
Until now as I say goodbye to a home well constructed

Yes, my momma’s house owes its strength to the concept of home
Persevered through a lifetime of struggle
Only a house in timber, always a home
Always a foundation built on the backs of we who shared her adamant embrace of this place

My momma’s home strikes its blow deep
Goodbye not something to take lightly
More to cower from and lend flight to feet aching to flee reality
Yet my momma’s home stands on the foundation of understanding and love

Forgiveness for what must be done does not arrive questioned from my momma’s home
Only from the tired, grief-stricken hearts who must gently explode the atomic bomb
The mushroom cloud of goodbye cannot be mended
Only cherished as something few get to experience

My momma’s home is a testament to quiet strength
To love and caring and softness and self determination
To everything and more a child could ever aspire to
To a life well-lived and a heart well-loved

My momma’s house should never fall
Yet time, decay of mind and will
Devastating truths of this existence
Win the battle whose outcome for all of us lies never in question

My momma’s home cradles my loves and hates
My achievements and failures
Myself and my children
My life and my death
For all were born here
All sprouted from this castle forged from her tenacious endeavor
To build a haven for love, life,
A refuge from reality, a reality from fantasy
A fantasy from effort, an effort which completed a legacy

My momma’s home owns forever the floor creaks
Forever the cries, yelling, tears, heart-numbing sadnesses
Along with our triumphs, our victories, our life credentials
And no relinquishment of this brick and mortar can ever steal this away

For despite how the loss of this house feels deep in my bones
This mighty hotbed of lives well played does not reside at an address
This physical thing which destroys my eyes and ears and nose and tongue and fingers by its loss
Never truly owned a single viable emotional existence that did not owe its mere contemplation to anything or anyone other than my most honorable, loving, kind, gentle, silent-strong mother

My momma’s home may not be attributed to the rest of us
We stand as mere contributors to her dream and her will
We should applaud her efforts
We should applaud our contributions
We should understand she built this home despite us
Ultimately and deserving of every tear we could possibly shed
My momma built this home for us as much as for herself
For this home resides in her heart and we all were one day born of that heart
And one day we will mourn that heart
Hopefully we celebrate that heart
Hopefully, in some manner, in some way even paled, we spread that heart to others.

No amount of pain can describe saying goodbye to this house
Yet the home still resides within her
When she’s gone, the home still resides in us
When we’re gone, the home still resides in those we touched through her legacy

May that ripple travel eternity…

The Life That Wasn’t

P1020006The Life That Wasn’t

Trees of green, red roses too
For years and years, the voice, the heart, the song
Letters I’ve written never meaning to send
For years and years, the melody, the wailing heart, the song

Babies’ first cries ricochet past recollection
But tiny lads and lasses grow
Too fast
Too smart
Too different
Yet their lives become mortar to legacy and love

Connections lost throughout our lives
Lost through busy schedules
Lost through domineering spouses
Lost through internal fears
Lost through selfish interests
Lost through time’s limited agreement with our bodies and their activities
Yet somehow, in some fashion, that connection survives

The life-that-was defined itself in perpetual series’ of accidents, failures, and conflicts
Nothing worked perfectly
Much worked minimally
Some worked well
A little worked amazingly
And something filtered through all on its own

Strength of character

The life-that-wasn’t was perfect
Ooga booga children with frolicking happy days and nights
Baseball and basketball and orchestra and chorus and ballet and music and art
All choreographed under the conductor’s wand to immaculate serenity

The life-that-wasn’t filled the dream of the heart
The longing of the soul
The best wishes of personality
The knowledge of good

The life-that-wasn’t felt the sting of emotional, spiritual, and psychological abuse
Only to lay the groundwork with nutrients to survive
To grow stronger
And to prepare grown Ooga Boogas for their trials

The life-that-wasn’t should have been
The life-that-wasn’t harkened fairytale wonder
The life-that-wasn’t struggled against black negativity
The life-that-wasn’t could never hope to survive on its own

Ah, but that life-that-was grew them strong
Grew them smart
Grew them self-reliant
Grew them with a goodness, something for which every parent dreams

There exist infinite live’s that weren’t
The life-that-wasn’t never overcomes the darkness
The life-that-wasn’t never makes the dawn
But the spirit of the life-that-wasn’t survived on the wings of love

And legacy

You read this
You must realize
You stand as someone’s legacy
No matter what you built
No matter what you destroyed
You define someone’s legacy
You enhance or degrade your own

Never too late while you breathe to strive for love and legacy
For the life-that-wasn’t

But should have been…



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Darkened street 3Ascension…

A redeye slogs its way across soggy Eastern skies
Its mournful drone labors to reunite loved ones
Sleep begs and beckons its continuation
As the will nearly loses its familiar feeble fight to blossom into another day

Soft piano notes acknowledge the sixth hour
While the brain shakes off the cares of dreams and fantasy lives
Dayspring dawns as fingers gently caress letters from inanimate objects
And my soul projects its thankfulness for these words to begin this morn’s resurgence to life…



I want to be your hero
The one who travels your heart
The thought you have in random moments
The smile which tickles your face and mind

I want to be your hero
The strength you need when you’re feeling down
The arms you desire when your soul needs held
The kindness you seek when the world is cold

I want to be your hero
The gentle hand to caress your nights
The loving kiss which lingers on your lips
The embrace which causes the cares of this world to fade away

I want to be your hero
Because you most definitely are mine
You stroll my heart in every moment
You run my thoughts in wanton abandon
You tug smiles to my face throughout my day
You lift me even in my darkest despair
You hold me tight and my world is healed
You warm me in the coldest of times
Your hand caresses my face and I melt
You kiss me and my lips beg for more
You hug me and all is well…

You are MY hero, my love, my life
My inspiration, motivation, my conduit for goodness
And I strive to be your adoring hero
For my life is complete in the love from your eyes…