Here's what I've learned - people will hurt you, but you don't have to respond: Not every mean comment or cruel act deserves to be noticed.
December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.
Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.
I pray this winter be gentle and kind - a season of rest from the wheel of the mind.
I love it when the dark bottle of night spills out, and the Moon writes in chalk about us.
The winter is kind and leaves red berries on the boughs for hungry sparrows.
It must be hard when you are a beautiful woman and no one will look at your soul.
When I think of you it's with tears, because no one else has such delicate hands that can reach into my soul and calm my fears.
Summer softens lines that winter cruelly shows.
The abyss you stare into and that stares back at you is your reflection in the mirror - we all have it - that shadow self - that dark heart.
I have found, beauty is the illumination of the mind.
Each heart is made of a different stone - no two feel alike nor break the same way.
Poetry is paying attention to life when all the world seems asleep to its beauties and truths.
I'm not afraid of the opinions of others - but of being needed and coming up short.
Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.
A sensual life is a ghostly existence where you live on the surface and your soul passes through everything, touching nothing.
I see myself at crossroads in my life, mapless, lacking bits of knowledge - then, the Moon breaks through, lights up the path before me.
We fear monsters because we fear the dark parts of ourselves.
Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.
When we perfect 3-D copiers and they reproduce tissue, we'll have a million Marilyns walking around with no souls.
Some people won't even own a dog for fear it will die - you can't bubble-wrap your heart.
And not out of fear or loneliness, but only to find myself again... for we have come too far my Life, to turn back now.
You can be angry and silent, but it's no use - there's no distance in the spirit - besides, my words touch you more softly than my hands.
That icy glass reduces your beauty - dims your fire - let me be your mirror...
The religion of the heart is as intimate as a wish breathed to the night sky.
