Kindness the grass and field of spring. Photosynthetic hunter of the seasons bring soothing pastel of the senses, a little less than white.

The emblem of may. Claddagh of friendship, love and loyalty.

Green reflections Screen. Changing the scene. Going organic. Herbal tea. Alive with camouflage and prosperity.

Sanctuary; the one hue valued more than blue. Creative Jade, soft and cool to the touch.

Negatively a poison shroud. Envy and illness. American tender. Martian Peridot from space. Mystical, beautiful Verde. Portugal. Italy. Romany. Attuned to nature, self, and surroundings.

The color of home. Green thumb of Ireland. The shamrock resistance. Good luck to the friendly fool. Green is my soul. It shelters my heart.

Emerald is the path I tread. Midori; calm sage, Viridian traveler of the age. Ever-the-green, imbibed with healing Aventurine of the written word.


written 6/23/17

“Imagination means nothing without doing.” Profound words for Charlie Chaplain and the lengths which he applied it. To apply something remarkable towards something you didn’t know was lost. The point in being alive, the creative’s strive not only to change your view, but the world itself; for even a thoughtful moment be the center of another universe. For surely a creative knows not their own limit. They are in themselves, remarkable. Worthy of attention. The blank pages of history are filled by writers. The very essence of a voice, of words can alter perception itself. Creatives are a chaotic neutral state dictated for good or ill by the spirit behind the page. Writers ask questions only to build on new ones, crafting monoliths of mysteries to solve. The multitudinous applications of remarkable thought could be argued, are the driving force of humanity. To know more. To be more. To learn more about ourselves and the world. The writing gets louder. our ideas move uniform with each new discovery. If writers are a bunch of people trying to be one person than the book in your hand is a whole being; condensed. In the sheer ataraxia is a remarkable handsel available to you and reality itself. Is it truly necessary for every question to be answered? Perhaps, perhaps no. Ah, but therin lies the elusive limit. Not all questions have answers we can handle nor are willingly ready to accept. Research for truth is not for the faint of heart or the sane, that is why the universe created writers.


written 11/12/16
One after the other, attention
Sinking funds in high definition
Medial puppets on parade
Long winded, the jokers tirade

Broken facts we all retain
Rewrite history twice, thrice and again-
Give us more!
We the viewers, listening whores
Triggered; desensitized to gore
Watching fields burn as ratings soar
While good ones fight another war

The blue to black, and white to grey
moralistically gay we sway
Loved ones on fire
Terrorists, the pendulums swing
Murder is murder

To write is to scream
Defiance and truth
I yearn to bring
Words spilled
Bitter pills
Feed the mission
Freedom instills

Marching on without a beat
The clickity clack of wooden feet
The ground it leaks
The blackened sea
Futile struggle
No end I see
Our garden rent with political weeds
All to nurture the bitter germ
Called GREED.

Independence Day

My grandfather, great-grandfathers and their father’s fought to protect and nurture this land. Especially on this day are their sacrifices remembered with thanks and the utmost love and respect. I wouldn’t even be here if they’d let the flag fall. In these dark times it can be easy to forget what we’re truly fighting for. What MIGHT have been our future. What matters most. If the world ended tomorrow I’d have God, home, friends, and my family. Everything that truly matters. So in that I am forever blessed. I was raised on moral virtues to sustain my soul, and we need those virtues, especially now, when “education” has failed. When religion and philosophy is in shambles. I NEVER forget what my Papa suffered and labored to provide for all of us. He and those good men are gone, but their stories, their purpose is not. I stand with an open heart and mind as the flag is raised; a beacon of hope, prosperity, and freedom- And to those who would burn it, stamp on it, in Papa’s words, “You cowards will never divide us, for while even one of us stands, you’ve got a fight on your hands.”

And yes, I say GOD. You don’t need a church to feel the presence. It’s in the growing mountains. In the roar of the wild Arkansas river. With every birds song of love. With every season. Every miracle. Proof is within that God is there. WAKE UP. WE truly are the makers of our own destiny or destruction. We ALL have our own demons to face. No one is better than anyone else. GET UP. With every birth death is inevitable. We live on in our deeds and our blood. STAND UP. Get out of your comfort zone; it’s sink or swim. We all have to learn how. MOVE. A stagnant life is no life at all. QUESTION if you really need to take all the pills the “good doctor” prescribed from his oversea suppliers who haven’t properly tested their product. Question what is in the food going into your body. Question why there is mercury in vaccinations. Why heavy metals are in our water supply even after cleansing. How genetically modified are we? Look at arguments from both sides instead of charging blindly into a nonsensical war. Is it small wonder you cannot feel God when so much is taxing your body, mind, and soul? Ah, but there is evil in this world. A malignancy born of fear of the unknown. A madness to control and overpower our very existence. TRUE monsters. The one’s that do unspeakable things to children. They EAT human flesh. Constantly tell us what to do think and feel. Make us apologize when they strike us. Smuggle in morally-dead people to maim and kill the innocent. Give us a number and a bought and sold price on our birth certificate. Divide families. Feed us poison in every sense of the word.

The same evil that fired upon the brave, outnumbered men holding up that ragged old flag with their dead bodies so that we could see a tomorrow.

Thank you and with a full heart my friends, God Bless America.


Written 2/17/17
A common misconception I’ve noted as of late is that creators, writers, musicians; any form of the arts and entertainment are there for the sole purpose of its audience.
Yes, it is a form of expression.
No, creators are not machines pumping out work constantly for your approval. Most do it because they must. For varied reasons such as building a history, getting over their self-reservations, making friends, and even as a therapy. Each creator has a different story, but one thing is constant. The drive to better ourselves. That’s how a joke works:
You tell one, that person either gets it and laughs or the joke goes over their head. A laugh fills the teller with accomplishment.
The common misconception leads to burn out; the creators spread themselves far too thin to appease their impatient audience, readers, fans, etc. The creators are seen as property and told what they should do and what they should think. It shatters self-esteem and in some cases the creator shuts down. They stop doing what they love and what they feel is special to them. They shut down their blogs; leave the stage, they disappear…
Misconceptions, expectations, and demands are what kills the makers of dreams. And it starts from a very early age. School. Outside thinkers are crushed. forced to comply to a certain mindset. Everything is dictated, when they nap, when they take breaks, when they eat and what is focused on. Rarely is that focus on the arts once an elementary kid reaches junior high. And then, miraculously, the focus curves towards creative arts. And at this point, the students are lost. The creator never had time to hone their skills and outside thinking. It’s cruel to penalize them, yet again, for something out of their control. If you’re not beaten down, there are peers and friends to help.
We all grow at our own pace, and the ones that master first are targets of jealousy, passive aggressive feedback, and social slavery. In order to “fit in” and “keep friends” they whore out their craft on demand, and are expected to for free. They do what they love, post it online, and the anonymous tell them hateful, hurtful things, whether true or not. “I hate this pairing.” “Go kill yourself.” “Your music sucks! Play something we know!” “Copycat.” “Sellout.” and many horrible messages and words are exchanged.
Is it small wonder that when you approach a creator they are wary of you, ignore the praise/criticism, and/or hide? They wonder: “This person… is being nice to me, what do they want?” That is how the creators MUST perceive the world or be swallowed whole.
It gets even worse if you’re popular or a celebrity. Certain contracts and legally binding deals OWN you; they use and destroy you once the money, power, and fame stops rolling in. Your life is not your own and everyone find fault in everything you do. Who in their right mind would WANT that life? Once you’ve been drained of every last drop of magic, they cash in on your death. Reimagined, they forget who you were. And your family suffers your mistakes long after you’re gone.
The life of a creator is fragile, fleeting, and one of the most beautiful things about the human condition. Do not take dreamers for granted and they will show you new worlds; take you to planes of light, sound, and bring a tear to your eye with a stroke of the pen.


                               Written 2/10/1     Rewrite 2/11/17

Plot, what plot? If there’s been one, I’ve yet to grasp it. The further it’s chased, the more faded the path. A tragedy wrapped up in comedy. A feeling you get when you realize, “Wait, that’s it?”

The ticket without refund. Ab Ovo without middle or conclusion. The plot of my life’s confusion. A mish-mash of genres crunched into a sage; one too long to read yet a paragraph short.

Who can tell what the fates were smoking. Someone dropped the ball? So many possibles for our little doll. But do they reach out and grasp them? Not at all. Season One’s kinda fun. Season two’s a blurry bore.

What romance arc? Not even a bit? Whoever wrote this is full of grit. Season three, drama at last. Wait, too much! Great, now we’re stuck in the past. The actors killed off left and right until one remains with no script, staring out among the eyes of the world.

Quick, tell a joke! that works in Shakespeare- if the cast doesn’t croak… Is anyone really sitting there? I’m standing, enacting the same lines over and over. The lights are stifling. Oh! Someone’s there?

Ovular glasses, dark hair- holding the story. “Who are you?” I ask.

“I think you know.”

“Where’s the rest?”

“That’s up to you, me; improves what we do best.”

Black Moon

written 09/30/2016

Phantom insight, dormant magic, elucidate the sky. Inspire our velleity; breathe wing to the night, not once but twice. Usher in the hallowed month; whisper through the clouds to the makers and dreamers:

“Farewell to green, embrace the gilded silver trees.” Tug winters heart-sleeve lunarous cat. Sell us promises of grandeur. Cure our craft in your billowing tresses. Give insight, not second guesses.

There’s mischief to be had, sans fright; a scraping, scratching bite at the back of the soul. Yikes! Not a forthcoming twinkle. Idea, nary a sigh. Covenous, already pining I hear nothing cept’ crickets and the drollous autumn monsoon. Blind moon are you there or dead? Enchanted; lore says, or my steadfast imaginative dread?


written 09/23/2016

If writers are collectors of words, would this make them adept in magic? With powerfully descriptive incantations a writer could, theoretically create their own worlds in which to dictate.

Is it not emotions behind spoken words that slice like daggers or cushion tragedies with downy pillows? Abused words could be considered illegal or forbidden.

Imagine this, a small child’s imaginary friends coming to life; broccoli tasting like cake. Children would hold the most power through belief in their own words.

Would word counts breach into infinity? Librarians would be the grand-witches and wizards of the craft.

Word crafting; reinvention of words. Might inflection and pronunciation also influence the spell? Would speaking aloud your nightmares bring them to your door? Calling softly to a loved one might summon them to your side?

Words only hold as much power as they are applied. Would self-destructive words leech into their owners like a cancer, slowly decaying them from the inside?

Freedom of speech, would it be restricted? Would their be a world limit that one might use daily?

One could feed a starving family by sitting before the table and describing a banquet in colorful, sensory detail to appear.

Are words not already a source of magic? Are books not a dimension in which we visit? Would words then have a consciousness and desires to be spoken, acknowledged?

Imagine it, the curvy “t” at the end of “cat”, held high while the “C” purrs and the “a” shutters its eyes contentedly; a whole city built out of towering words like “building” and “tower.”

Would the magic bind the very word to the user as a slave or willing companion?

Food for thought tastes like popcorn.

Would civilization then be built upon the dreamers? The poets and lyricists? The actors and singers if words held magic? If parrots can speak words, would that count, or would the magic strictly work for humans? A question in a question queried by the question itself. No need for top hats, wants or brooms; utter a thought, make it happen. Would the thought breed more thoughts? And would “magic” be the most powerful word of all?


written 09/02/2016

Write something, anything. Pierian or not, hold onto the pen; dare it drop. Stuck in vorfreude leaves me self-annoyed. Jamais vu, I’m no stranger to prompts; snapping the leash for a creative romp. The pen hasn’t smudged once. Flapdoodle, snickerdoodle, pillowed noodles on poodles. Good gracious, inscrutable. Rageous! I’ve taken two weeks, and my brains gone to mush. Slush; my schedule crushed-breaking the rules, no denying, there’s a rush. Resolution O’ clock. Be the story a drop, have yet to stitch together the final layer of plot. Dreamers of dreams, screamers of screams; selectively quiet muse, you leave me to bruise. If walls have ears and floors have eyes, does the ceiling taste for flies? Does matter trump mind? Writing anything to fill the slot, pathetic no? When the body is ready, but the mind’s gone to sot. Soil, recoil, my brains leaking oil; grasping at cobwebs of thought. There’s a horror chase in here and I’m the tropic heroine who falls over her own feet. There’s a shadow simmering at my back, breathing down my neck for fresh meat. There, the page is filled, after gaping like a cod with dry feet.