poetic

Kept dreaming of this spot she had on her neck, this tiny country. I wanted to visit, to paint a picture of what I found there, a wall with a road map of her skin.

I knew that people said love should be unconditional, given like a dog gives to its master, but what Being could give that way? What could love though it had been kicked and beaten? What could go kissing the hand of its tormentor with upturned eyes? I didn't know. Perhaps Jesus, perhaps the Dalai Lama, but I couldn't. I had a condition, the way life has conditions to live, the body must have certain conditions to grow, and Cristien had to meet mine or I could not live. I could not.

Early in her career, Muse engaged her skills for technical purposes, such as document translation and schematic visualizations for government entities. She continued to write and paint poetically, in secret, using her pen name, Muse. An inner compass is evident in her work. Pieces reflect both past and present dilemmas; while showcasing her victories in overcoming these obstacles ~ all from her faith based perspective. Light touches of modernism play hand in hand with old world strokes, offering highly visceral readings.

When they had hurried to the train station with their violin cases, they had drawn almost as many stares as they would on any normal day when their hair was to their knees and sheeting behind them like red silk. A poetic fruit-seller had told them once that they looked like dryads, and they did still, only now they looked like dryads who had tired of snagging their hair on brambles and sliced it all off on the edge of a knife.

Someone asked me when is my birthday?The poet inside me replied,"My birthday is on the last day of the year,It's 31st December my dear!

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can__ be read, can__ be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eyeI am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in the shadows or the sunshine.

I have woken up_quite sloshedfrom night-mingled rainsa little drugged, by mountain fogsI have been kidnappedfor years....by a mere kiss.

Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.

You should be more carefulwhen you move, my dearwhat with you...spilling moonlightinto my poem, with a mereflick of your hand.

Some people wait to get flowers while others grow gardens.

They're talking as if nothing's happened, Soledad said to herself, and the jealousy ran from her ears into her heart, where it settled into her aorta and reshaped itself as longing and desire, the kind of want that makes one capable of poor but magnanimous decisions.

I knelt and locked the door. I locked the door locking the world and time outside. I stretched my body across the mattress and Saskia drew in close to me and placed her open hand on my chest, her mouth near my shoulder; her breath, my breath blew out the candle, and I held my lost Wanderess with tenderness until sweet sleep overcame us.

when whisperedwhat an exquisitesong, it makes-your name.

Only fools lay claims where lovers thread for when such love is renewed, lovers dance upon their heads.

Shake those stars from your hair, pretty Moonchild. It's time to dance with the noonday sun!

You wanted hearts and flowers. You have my heart - & here are the flowers.

Some people dream of becoming doctors or artists or veterinarians or teachers. I dream of the day Shaye laughs without stopping, and when she does, it will be only to take a breath before starting over again.

In the fall, she knew it was Death who sweetened the apples.