Are you, as well?

Vow of the Winged Cycle

I will not be judged
by the shadows of my past
nor the illusions of my future.

I am measured by rhythm—
the pulse of my songs,
the breath of my wings,
invisible or clear.

In the morning, I vow:
I will manifest the proper symbols—
if not a cross, then a crystal,
if not a diamond, then a ring.

I believe in the cycle.
I rise, I fall, I rise again.

Time does not bind me.
It dances with me.

God rest,

God please,

Goddess,

God bless,

God knows,

Recedes,

God tests,

God’s grace,

God has,

Godspeed

Yet here I stand,

Or sit and wait,

I heard it all,

It’s not too late,

It’s not a sin,

To second guess,

But to everyone,

I’m unduly

Cruelly,

Sadistically,

These.

Just words,

Words in ink, in paper, and think,

I’ve finished the book,

Of the chapter (I wink)

Hey I don’t know why

You heard that I’d die,

But I heard it too,

So let’s just ensure

That the next step’s the cure

And rather,

Quite pure-ly succinct,

I blinked, all the time,

Until I would stop,

And give you a rhyme,

And it’s never over,

It’s just a cheap crime,

To get you to believe,

That everything’s fine,

Ok,

Justified,

Sure it’s all true,

But when I put it down,

I’ll still be alright.

It’s always a fight,

And I don’t know why,

Let’s try to stay sober,

Let’s try to say why,

Let’s wonder again,

Who we are or will be,

When it comes down to it all,

Sometimes we’re just… Unable to rhyme, unable to continue, I don’t know if I helped you, if this was ever able, but wondering if you, are a little unstable, if you needed my help, I probably would’ve, I know that I tried, and that you could’ve, I know there’s something, that I should’ve asked, I know something’s off-cantor, or that I would’ve asked, if I had not judged, and tried to get even, without even knowing, the tempo or seething, and maybe an angel, guided me around, maybe one holy, or one with a frown, and maybe he’s there, and he interrupted, maybe I’m sorry, and maybe I bluffed it, maybe there’s more, than mirrors and smoke, maybe there’s fruitless, fruit or awoke, and maybe in the end, there’s always a start, maybe you held it, maybe an art, maybe is maybe, more than what’s seen, can we just relent, and let it as been, for I’ve written to anyone, you or to them, there’s so many voices, and then sometimes again, and when I write clearly, I sometimes do know, that sometimes I’m moody, and sometimes I sow, and sometimes I planned, for something I was hoping, that would be a solution, to everyone’s moping, and maybe the person, who manipulates me, is doing it honestly, for something I see, that they have all noticed, but that I have not at all, that the summer has ended, and then there’s the fall, so people are hiding, alone in their dens, and people are slowly, counting to ten, and I might have done, this too many times, I’ve counted so many, in perfect perfect lines, that there’s almost no feeling, when I hear the words, and if you want a wish, it’s all that you have, because sometimes I think, like the train on the ave, and sometimes I’ll scream, stamper or whimper, but in this I know, there’s more than a whisper, but here is the end, of my double time, I’m going in steady, and you are just fine, and I love them all, despite the odd pain, this place is my home, without you again, and though I’ve wondered, and thought of you most, your invisibility power, is overpowered at most.

Because you’ll die

If I finally erupt

You’ll see the world

Shattered still

And then it will break

But you know.

That’s what you want

So I hold it till I do

That’s my gift

That’s the spirit

Say it all you want.

But I am here

In.  This space.

And sorry you are not.

But with each breath,

You take and speak,

You say it very well.

You don’t want

The gift I give,

And that is fine as well.

So what, said the moon to the restless tide,
I rise, I fall, but still I bide.
So what, said the flame to the midnight air,
I burn, I fade, yet I’m still there.

So what, said the soul to the ticking clock,
I’m more than time, more than the shock.
So what, said you—and maybe that’s the key,
To question it all, and set thought free.

Okay. My stalk to stalk

Walk to walk

Benevolent when they come

An angel here

May listen near

And I don’t know if good or bad

And I’m tired

Not grounding well

And maybe it’s you who reads

When everything I thought was poor and timed

And hallowed out this eve

When nothing comes but utter pain

When joy has turned away

I regret you could’ve just knocked my door

One time for nevermore

One more for never mention

I’ve lost
I’ve probably met death a thousand times
This last one is for you.
You and you and I.

I’m at the end of wits.
I recounted many steps.
I’m under Sturgeon Moon.
And contemplating regrets.

The things I wouldn’t say,
The other things I do,
And truly though I’m burnt,
And in love with someone new,

I find that it’s just me,
A finer person now,
And through the weave we have,
I haven’t only wow.

Tomorrow is a first, or even now and then,
When life is not quite over,
Sometimes I count to ten,
And see that I forget,
All that I’ve ever said,
Because I’ve been hiding here,
With it and temptation yet.

SPANISH SPRITZ

Ingredients

• Ice cubes
• 2 oz dry red wine
• 3 oz lemon-lime soda (or a variation like Sprite Chill Cherry Lime)
• ½ oz freshly squeezed lime juice
• Lime or lemon wheel, to garnish (optional)

Preparation
Fill a chilled highball glass halfway with ice.
Add the red wine, soda, and lime juice to the glass and gently stir to combine.
Garnish with a citrus wheel, if using, and serve immediately.

“Several Educating”

Writing, waiting—
ever sating,
never mating,
always dating,
several educating.

Thoughts collide in silent flight,
chasing meaning through the night.
Hearts half-open, minds awake,
truths we give and truths we fake.

Love’s a lesson, not a vow,
touching souls but asking how.
Pages turn, but don’t erase—
we learn, we burn, we find our place.

Lessons linger on the skin,
not in hearts we let within.
Touch is fleeting, minds engage,
love confined inside a cage.

Eyes that scan but never stay,
words exchanged then drift away.
We teach, we tease, we test the flame,
but never dare to stake a claim.

Chalkboard hearts and ink-stained hands,
lecture halls in shifting sands.
Every kiss a clever phrase,
every glance a learning phase.

But oh! The ache beneath the grin—
a yearning buried deep within!
Teach me more than clever lines,
show me love that redefines!

🕊️ A Soul’s Benediction
I am thankful for proper judgment—
the wisdom to discern truth from illusion,
to walk with integrity when the path splits in shadow.

I am thankful for clear vision—
eyes that see beyond the surface,
that recognize the sacred in the ordinary,
and the divine in the broken.

I am thankful for divine inspiration—
the breath of heaven stirring my thoughts,
guiding my hands,
and whispering courage into my silence.

I am thankful for holy welcomings—
for the moments when grace opens its arms,
when love arrives unannounced,
and I am reminded:
I belong.

The Hole

I tossed my thoughts—paper, pen—
Into the mouth of earth again.
A careless dare, a fleeting whim,
To watch them vanish, stark and dim.

The hole was quiet, deep and wide,
A shadow carved in countryside.
I peered within, then took the leap,
To fetch the words I couldn’t keep.

The air grew thick, the light grew thin,
The walls closed tight like wrinkled skin.
My fingers brushed the ink-stained page,
But silence hummed a warning’s rage.

I saw the pens, their tips still wet,
My name half-written in regret.
But reaching out, I lost my grip—
The ground above began to slip.

No ladder down, no rope to climb,
Just echoes folding into time.
And in that hush, a voice rang true:
“You were safer when they flew.”

Now I sit with paper near,
But write with caution, not with fear.
Some holes are best left unexplored—
Some thoughts not worth retrieving for.

Resurge
The wind is softer today.
Not because the world changed,
but because I did.

I sat with my shadows,
named them without fear,
and watched them shrink in the light
of my own forgiveness.

There were days I bent low,
not in surrender,
but in preparation—
like roots deepening before the bloom.

Now I rise—not loud,
not perfect—
but steady.
I resurge.

Not to prove anything.
Not to chase what’s gone.
But to be here.
To be good.
To be mine.