sand.

the sand is fine, beautiful...
an uncomfortable yet delightful world 

exists right here, 

within my hand.

that hand wants to squeeze,
to grasp the sand...

hold it forever.
my mind feels 
the need to release.
so I practice.
palm wide and flat 
like a runway for a jetliner,
or a seashell in which 

sits a pure and precious pearl. 
some of the grains
pick up with the wind
and leave quietly, 
on their own.
some, more attached,
require the wind from my lungs,
who live next to my heart
and don't want to choose sides.
against their will,
they blow.
finally, the last specks,
some shiny, some dull, 
almost embedded in my sun shocked skin,
feel the cold assault
of the briny water 
and understand they too, 
must leave me. 

I know, somewhere,

certain small grains 

have hidden

within my hair,

or the lining of my suit...

places I cannot see

but will feel

at some point I least expect it.

let it be so.

Muscle, A Poem.

Fist sized little bundle...

of muscle, valves.

Always busy,

not for show, though.

Resting between beats

but laying it down.

Like the sledgehammer

of a great big man

driving the spike 

into the wooden sleeper. 

Boom…boom.

Boom...boom. 

Call & Response. 

How is it 

that this tiny bundle 

of muscle, 

not actually pretty,

wouldn’t stand 

in front of a mirror

reapplying its lipstick, 

(knowing it’s worth 

is beyond the visual.

Visual pretty only touching 

the hem of bliss,

pointing at it…

but not…even…close).

How is it that this

is the center of our feeling?

Of our desires?

Of our…

Love.

Rumi said lovers 

are like two lamps.

Their light blending 

into each other, 

never separate…

never truly one.

This is as it should be. 

How can it pump

blood 60,000 miles, 

beat without a brain,

without a body 

and still manage to 

give everything in this

little world meaning.

Teeth, A Poem.

clock ticks the beat.

let. go. let. go. 

me, and this truth. 

baby bird in the canines of a cat.

you see the legs twitch,

but… hope is gone. 

alone at the dining room table,

I crouch and gnaw the bones.

why bury what you 

already left in the sun to rot?

mouth full of dirt, 

my love for you swallowed.

you forget your body rests here…

a welcome fire burns 

within every room of my soul 

and only wants to shed

it's light on you.

on the man that I honored,

that I knelt down for 

like I never have.

may as well have 

donned the black 

with a splash of white, 

I worshipped so. 

and now she swings before you, 

a fresh bird flying free.

as you crave to be.

your canines shine in her reflection.

I do not swing free.

damaged wings carefully folded,

I sit at this table

and long for teeth.

yoga, photography, art in the woods of Connecticut.

Sunday I was recovering from an awful sickness and by Tuesday afternoon, I was in Connecticut with my lovely friend Angela taking yoga photos with Robert Sturman. I've been a big fan of his photography for about a year now so when I found out he had an opening...nothing was going to stop me, not illness or the 7 hour drive. I can't wait to see his photos... 

These are Angela's "behind the scenes" shots. She is a wonderful photographer in her own right. Check out her creative self at Truly, Madly, Deeply.