surprised to find you

The passion you bring to the game

flex, a fire on my skin

A soul entwines mine

lover like an endless question

with a million answers

Stars sweeping overhead

waves rolling underneath

You tireless

Youth eternal in my bed

In my mind

Ageless spirits

linking fun to freedom


Like Theseus to the Minotaur

You enter the maze of me

and destroy monstrous ego

The pure maiden of a woman

left to wander on the shore

feet in the sea foam

picking up pretty shell souvenirs

And returned home,

seated on her throne,

tiara reinstalled

she might gaze upon

these pretty souvenirs of the sea


This woman’s heart

A woman’s heart is like a garden. with proper care and attention it can be

in bloom all the time – always some new treasure to

behold, to joy over, to delight in.  winding

pathways of pleasure and relaxation, a continual paradise of

play and sunkissed repose


If a woman’s heart is bereft of care and attention, it will grow desolate

and strange.  wild grasses thrive where delicate flowers once

blossomed.  green medicinals only the witches know a use for, and all that

was once refined and delightful has been replaced with abandonment,

insects, and wild creatures on the hunt.

And what’s to be done with a woman’s heart that’s

been left to the weeds for years on end?  how could such

an unkempt disaster ever be verdant and beautiful?  could

we tear up the grasses in angry clumps, the roots those

incessant and ever-present grass roots writhing their secret

passages always deeper than you’d think…or we could

smother the wild mess with a tarp, kill off the strange

witches’ medicines and fox trails – asphyxiate it for one full

year of nunnery, then perhaps something New could be done. or

poison – we could apply a topical poison to the

whole mess.  If done lovingly, with

a Vision for something better….would that be ok? does the end

justify the means?  Or would the soil somehow remember the

violence of such an affront to life.  Would the flowers we

try to plant there always remind of the day we murdered

those grasses and weeds – so wild and ugly,

yet alive nontheless.

Oh!  This woman’s strangled,

strange, abadondoned and

desolate heart.  who would ever

want to tackle such a place

(it’s in the witch’s weeds and fox trails that my

true self lurks….

come find me there)