Train

Deceptively near
your siren's call
beckons me
through the night air.
My metronome
rhythmically
ticking time.
The sound
that leads me
inescapably home.

She

She is owl-wise
and feline in movement
each choice 
made with easy grace
and a dash of whimsy
measured thought
and instant contemplation.
Such effort
appears effortless
her style
completely her own.
History lives
behind her eyes
experiences
vast and varied
just waiting
quiet-like
to be shared
and learned
her book
still being written
with each measured breath
each molecule
collaborating with the next
crafting the story
of her beautiful life.

Portrait of an Artist

I am trying to reconstruct this post from one I had written elsewhere, copied and, for some godforsaken reason, lost in the ether.

Just yesterday it struck me, for the first time, how similar writing is to acting. Both are soul-bearing, potentially soul-crushing, vocations. Each exposes one's innermost workings and vulnerabilities, requires one to lay one's heart bare before others.  Artists, be they writers, actors or practitioners of the fine arts, are among the most courageous, vulnerable, brilliant, damaged, beautiful souls I have ever encountered. (Though writing has, thus far, only been my avocation, it is my most sincere wish to parlay this "talent" into a paid profession.) Like actors, we writers utilize a myriad of outward "voices" yet, in spite of this, cannot help revealing our truest selves through our work. It is our blessing, our curse, our gift and our burden to reach levels of rawness and realness, albeit "masked", that few others ever visit let alone frequent. We dwell in ourselves, which some may perceive as narcissistic. I prefer to look upon it as brave.

In closing, I applaud each of us who chooses to not only listen to but expose our innermost voice through creativity and art. It is truly an exercise in courage and, against all odds, a leap of faith.

Enough

The reality
that I am not
and never will be
anything even resembling
perfect
but that I am enough
maybe even more than
just as I am.

Insomnia

If could turn
outside in
and the pain
was in my skin
I could treat it
and heal
but instead
it is in my head
and oh
so real.

For Shirley

Sharp pain

becomes

a dull ache

looming 

and constant.

My heart cries

for all lost

and for you

for you.