If only I owned the Moon
I could charge the Poets

But I do not own the Moon
And must view Her Face,
Imagine Her Dark

With You

Healing doesn't come from
revisiting a wound

It comes from releasing it

I don’t raise my voice, just the heat in the room.
No need for roaring, when the air listens.

You step like you're testing the floor.
I stay where stillness holds power.

My glance is a pulse, a quiet decree.
The kind that bends time without breaking skin.

You offer storm,
I press calm against it, steady, like hands knowing exactly how to hold and when not to.

So when you move, know:
the rhythm’s already chosen, and
I’m not chasing.
Just waiting until you feel it pull.

When I’m surrounded by darkness,
And the feeling of finding a single ray of light is my religion

When I’m lonely in my thoughts,
And a feeling of unseen energy lifts me is my religion.

When my eyes brim with tears,
And the feeling of crying in a safe lap is my religion.

And,
When I'm all alone the feeling of a divine presence protecting me is my religion.

SO WHAT'S YOUR RELIGION??

I'm on the waiting list
For surgery
The gimpiness
From hip
To knee
I've got a serious
Physical defect
For all it's plain
To see
Them *******
At the actors studio
Will be lining up
To play me.

Here at our rooftop, collegiate, ‘resort of the mind,’
an early heatwave has struck - we’ve been advised.
Like we needed it. It’s 94°f and climbing - we’re not insensitive.
We’re aware that the sun is bright and the air is crisp and hot.
It was Friday morning, until the sun pointed to noon.

Nothing’s going to stop the summer swelter except thunder storms - which are on their way - we’ve been advised.
A seasonable tempest is being piped-up from the sea.
Like we needed it. We can see the far horizon’s shadowed billows and curtains of rain - we feel the changing wind.

But we have every reason to be cheery, forewarned as we are,
here at the pool, in the still needed shade, armed with margaritas.
The weather may change, the season alter, but we will, unaltered, remain.

We seem to have captured a moment of buz. People are swinging-by, dropping-in, bringing drinks and party snacks then lurking by the pool.

Fridays are 'sui generis'—magical—because they play tricks with time. Dreary weekday landscapes seem to transform, as the old week wanes and ‘the pert and nimble spirit of mirth awakens.’
(A purposeful Shakespeare misquote).
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Heatwave by Bronski Beat
Heat wave - Bing Crosby