Random Muse

For many, creating art in various forms can be another modality of healing. I sometimes write words that occasionally make sense, and never rhyme. Poetry is defined as:"literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm" so I suppose some of what I write can be called that. Irrespective of into whatever category my words may fit, writing has been an integral part of my healing and path, and as such, I thought I'd share some of it here.


Let us be done now with thinking.

Let's slip into our hearts

to hear what they say

when we're free from the chatter

of how its supposed to be.

Free from fear that is not about what is

but about what has been

before now

before this.

When words were spoken

(that didn't account for magic)

and scars were formed

on flesh and soul

begging again now for healing.

When the future

now present

while likely dreamed of

was not yet even imagined.


Let us be done now with thinking.

Let's sink into our hearts

wherein lives the knowing

that release of what no longer serves

is the spark of souls in communion.

And 'destiny' in the form of a choice

heeds a silent, greater calling

heralded by the alignment of planets

and convergence of stars

(or nothing at all)

that will unravel mysteries

even as it creates them.

The path now danced upon

expanding us outside in

will bring us to our knees

while compelling us to rise.


Seeking solace from the silence

a foreshadowing of days to come

and (painful) memory of days past.

It keeps coming around, this

familiar (not) goodbye

that with it's tears,

helps me to rise.

In solitude I find my way

to the place where I remember;

trip, stumble, "fall - with grace."

Even when there's two, or one

always there is three

A me, a you, a her, 

...infinity, and beyond.

So to see your dreams fulfilled

which are separate from my own

Again I will say this

familiar (not) goodbye.



Come find me. 

I am here, 

where I kiss the sun, 

and burn with the moon. 

Where I hear your feelings, 

and dream your thoughts. 


but never just, waiting. 


Wrapped in the hushed tones

of a love unable to give full voice

to what a mind knows

a heart feels.

Water color love

that waits without urgency

for the moment of its transition to

a bolder hue.

Patient and warm;

Love as a cashmere whisper,

is love none the less.


If it can be said

that there exists an upside

to having SURVIVED

in a place of darkest black,

its that once you have returned to,

or for the first time finally LIVED,

in a place of brightest light

then even on the days

when you've only winter's sun

 to illuminate your path

it is enough to sustain you

to fill you with warmth

and remind you that life

as you're living it now

is filled with BEAUTY,

and HOPE,

and LOVE.



This isn't a song, and there's no one named Johnny, and this started out as something like automatic writing, in February, and its now the ass-end of April, and at some point most of the draft as it originally existed,  was somehow automatically "unwritten"...   Whatever it is, or was (not?) asks now to come out...

Johnny's song is; missing what you've never had, so you can't possibly miss it, except you do. It's (a) dream(s) that bend space, and time, to reach across ages, and reunite souls; sort of.

Johnny's song is, in moments, that which makes you (not sad) cry for the intensity of the everything that rushes past you, around you, through you, like the coldest winter's air. Except it's everything that couldn't possibly ever be cold... It elicits tears of release, and confusion, of wondering why,  and what are you supposed to do with the everything that was supposed to be not really anything, or not at all. It is the grey of every question you've ever had, washed away by the sublime peace of knowing that the questions don't matter because sometimes things just, are.

Johnny's song is an "of course I love you"  because to think I don't would be to imply that there is a way I could, not - when the crossing of stars, and connecting of planets, deemed it to be so.

Without understanding of what it is now, or attachment to what it ultimately may be, it is being first drawn in by timbre of an unknown voice, unexpectedly become familiar - love's song.  It is strength, and confidence, and gentle vulnerability. Complex in its simplicity. Borne of all that is beauty, and light.  If time has a beginning, it was then that this song began, the score for a first meeting of (souls?)

I still don't know what it's meant exactly to say, this Song for Johnny.  Or why the night was without rest, as they fed me lines I summarily rejected, once figurative pen, half asleep, met paper. If they want it different then they shouldn't have unwritten it the first time around. And maybe they is just me, who visits only in heightened states of (emotion.)  Or maybe it's something more.

And while I will never tire of Johnny's Song, it's time to stop writing (this) and launch it into the ether so I stop looking over my shoulder at it. Maybe then my muse, with her ridiculous randomness, will have enough space to conjure something new.