Category: Poetry

White Roses

Love would not be as strong without it’s fragility.
neither would I.

Love is sometimes Red
Fire burning in bloodflames, heart weeping in your hands
and Black
the nightmare sky that has no edge, the infinite, the darkmoon face
and Love is also white.

Purity exists in authenticity,
living fearless burdenless truth
the wings of birds in flight
born to this freedom, it is their nature
soaring singing and seeing between the wind
Love becomes true as we do

We are white roses
more divinely Human
fragrant perfume of beauty and spirit
self growing into itself
becoming who we were meant to be


in binding myself to you
i have damned us both

you cannot release me
my heart was never in service to you
only held by you

I cannot return to you what is not mine

I want to be gentle
to hear your vows broken with understanding
is your lack of courage such a crime ?
but I can not.
compassion is offered for the things we were not capable of
the mistakes we did not see

You could not summon Courage.
and now
you will need even more.

what a fool you were to have made this vow
you knew.
in this, and all the realms.

the sacred marriage
the warrior god, the wolf, the beloved.
the oathbreaker
the betrayer
the damned

and my blood
is too dark, too red
to blind me, to let me turn away.
my commitment to this path runs too deep.
i too am damned.
we WILL share this hell
because I trusted you
your cowardice does not release me.

To Have

I want you to have Love
that will feed you
inside the cells of your soul
beyond the outline of who you are
opening beneath your skin
in art and magic, passion and change
nourishing you with its color

Love that you can hear
the music of drums and dragons
the song of ravens and butterflies
the whisper of the future
calling you to dance

Love that you can taste
honey sweetened skin
dark coffee and cabernet
the fireRed flavor of dreams
and the cool clear waters of peace

Love that you can see
midnight moonlight
solstice sun
radiant mirror of spirit
a thousand stars stretching before you
along the path of becoming

Love that you can smell
patchouli and amber
spring vines and autumn leaves
inviting you into your self

Love that you can touch
Love that will touch you
Love that entwines like roots
grounding you into your life
holding you steady while you reach above
Love that holds you
in hands wide open

Love that you will know
that will speak the secret names of gods
that will invite you in to creation
call you into flesh
mixing with the waters
of birth, rebirth, renewal
marked by a sign of the Infinite

I want you to have Love.


desire and will are the twin taproots of love.
hearing that you do not feel them any more
rips them from the ground,
the firehot thirst will destroy them.

it may be too late,
to replant them in the soil,
to save them with the cool water of dreams
and the touch of the warmDark earth.

will I stand here now ?
can I ?
what is my hearts desire ?

there is blood on my hands


In this mourning light
I am so sad
for you.

Given a blank canvas
love beyond what you had expected
and trust beyond what you deserved
you chose to paint only
what you already knew

Sandstorms where the gods tell you
what will be
your subservient stories
of your own lack of freedom
or will
Tightly held denial
of your own emotions
your ignorant belief
that this is hidden from view
as it drips from your brush
Isolation, and it’s cosmic twin

all brushstrokes and patterns
you have practiced
to near perfection.

I look at this canvas, and weep
you paint your demons into life
covering the landscape.
The pure and elegant lines you began to sketch
as you stood at the crossroads
are almost hidden now
by old skins you have shed many times
only to regrow them.
You have plagiarized yourself, demeaning your spirit
by refusing to paint your own vision

I would prefer not to know what you were capable of
to believe that this portrait is Authentic
but you showed me the sketches, the
courageous original lines.
How long will they burn in my memory
when they exist nowhere else

I’ve known you long enough
I see that these are the elaborate patterns of your past
the snapshots that the world demanded you wear
and the masks you constructed in your rebellion
perfectly measured with tools of precision
hiding all that might be judged
for it’s wild nature, it’s unrestrained expression.

Every painting is in some way
a self portrait
and in every moment we have a choice
our creativity is our souls greatest beauty.
Even our most horrific visions are beautiful
when they are true.
But this
captures nothing
is technique without soul
skilled execution
of a spirit that refused it’s Truth.

Auction it off
surely you will find women who will bid, again,
vying for a man with talent
that they can shape and bend
hanging you
in a hallway, bound
behind glass
limited by four finite edges.
…But I will not be there.