Touch the fires of the past
and thou wilt get burned.
They smolder,
those lumps stuffed under the rug,
bursting when poked,
sending a whoosh of sparks up, out,
revealing the whispered connections,
the unsuspected tangents
screaming for recognition,
weeping a wish for healing.
It cannot be erased.
but the sparks can settle.
leaving a scar,
scars with a story to be told,
endured, remembered,
so it can be extinguished,
and not repeated.


For this I know and have so lived,
giving time, body, and brain
to the world which feeds us,
making money to feed myself,
and those I love.
Providing shelter, clothing, warmth.
But what of the soul,
the unseen?
More than shoes and smiles,
the sublime transcendence,
which cannot be given,
but must be reached,
must be climbed to,
and peeked into,
for completeness,
for meaning,
for depth.
A need too often set aside,
ignored, delayed, forgotten
until it screams at us.
Don’t forget me.
I am.
The essence.
Of you.


Oil and water don’t mix.
One is the physical world we live in,
where food, water, clothing, shelter reign absolute.
The other is the spiritual world we also inhabit,
the unseen, the soul, the creativity, the love
that feeds us, makes us more than robots.
These two do not mix.
They remain separated.
And what does that mean?
Why does that matter?
It means we live two lives, simultaneously.
Not all one, not all the other.
They never partner to become one.
Precious moments of tranquility,
bow to physical needs, only to rise again,
Constant Balance.