We are alike, yet
we are not the same.

It is more than a matter of gender or race:
whether the difference is sex or skin,
what differs without does not within.
It is only the failure of our eyes
that see a flaw where none lies.

It is more than a matter of religion or Faith:
the God(s) you believe in, the ones you won’t,
and those of us who simply don’t –
no matter what Faith you hear call,
a faith holds fast for us all.

It is more than a matter of country or culture:
we’re all children of the same planet,
and all the land we claim on it
rests beneath the same blue sky
that sees no borders between you and I.

Perhaps it is a matter of perspective:
that strength is not in the facts we face,
but rather, we can measure our disgrace
in how openly we can face the facts
and restrain ourselves from attacks.

Perhaps it is our hopes and dreams:
the glimm’ring stars we reach for
and the things that we adore
are the measure of our hearts,
and what sets us most apart.

Perhaps the truth is closer than we think…
the difference is in our hands –
whether to heal or reprimand –
do we try to tear others down,
or offer them the glory of the crown.

Sing for me a song of storms,

Sing to me of gallons of rain,
carried in the arms of a hurricane,
swallowing all our hopes and dreams
just like their clouds consume sunbeams.

Sing to me of a frozen gale,
of snow, of ice, and deadly hail –
frigid blades within the breeze
that cut you deep how’er they please.

Sing to me of roaring thunder,
of lightning that splits the night asunder,
scorches the earth with Heaven’s ire,
and smites the sinful with Their fire.

Sing to me of the tempest,
of wind that rages relentless,
that huffs and puffs with a laugh
and blows away the last of the chaff.

Sing to me of human hearts,
of the trembling flesh that shakes and starts
at the approach of the ones they hold dear
and the advance of those they fear.

For all the storms that nature brings,
the winds and rains that howl and sing –
the glories of Gaia at her best
are outdone by the storm within our breast.

It’s important to take the time
to walk away from the pen, the paper, the rhyme,
to coax yourself out of your literary lament,
and just live in the moment.

There’s a world of people waiting for you,
beneath the lumens lazuli blue,
each with stories as complex
as those growing in your text.

And if you care to stay a while,
they’ll take you in with a charming smile
which will leave you feeling oh-so blest
that you’ll depart with brimming zest.

And now the writing you once despaired
runs with a passion which you’ve shared
with those who’ve become kith and kin,
who stand apart – yet dwell within.

We do not treat love kindly
in these modern days;
we stumble around blindly
trying to find our way.

We put women on a pedestal
and claim to give them awe,
but the moment they start to fall,
they’re crucified for their flaws.

Male culture lauds the fight,
cheers heroes from the stands,
but what waits on his wedding night
for a hero with blades for hands?

It’s time to leave the path;
we must blaze a brand new trail,
embrace our flaws, release our wrath –
the price is too high for us to fail.

A dream by the sea,
a little cottage on the coast –
barely more
than four walls and a door,
but that’s enough for me.

A dream by the sea,
days spent on the dunes –
just laying in the sand
with a cold drink on hand,
but that’s enough for me.

A dream by the sea,
the wind and the waves –
the sound of the deep
rocking me to sleep,
but that’s enough for me.

A dream by the sea
while tangled in traffic –
despite the workday din,
my dream doesn’t give in,
and today that’s enough for me.

“You fool! Kiss her!”

The whispered words
wormed their way in,
the cadence climbing
to a damning din.

His thoughts theorized
her texture and taste,
urged him to urgency,
and warned him of waste.

But caution called out,
“Have a care for consent!
Don’t force on her a feeling
that would make the lady lament!”

But what is the fate
of this fable fell?
You’ll never know –
he doesn’t kiss and tell.

For all his sins,
love humbled him.

His silver tongue
turned mercury,
and the ladies responded
with maniacal fury.

His vaulted looks
and raven locks
grew restless and
flew off in flocks.

The sexual skills
that once fanned his fame
didn’t change with the times
and the tiger grew tame.

But once his pride ruled him no more,
love came and lifted him up from the floor.