Sun Flower (Me back to my childhood)

Sun flower me back in time. Back to the days of simple. If there is really such a place.

Childhood lazy me down, where I feel connected and held. Afternoons spent drawing pictures of dragons and angels using the clouds as my crayons.

Giggles of laughter, roll me down the hills of grass behind my home making time stop forever until the sun goes down.

Wind drift me away where I can fly through the air, sitting on pillows of softness. Is there a genie to make my wishes come true?

Feet run away with me. To a place where I can dig in with my toes, through acres of sand and waves of joy that believe in me .

Sun flower raise your head to the heart of the sun and shine.

The Stories We Tell

Photo by Pixabay on

The stories we tell, the tales we wind, as we search for a truth to reveal. Where do our stories come from? Are they real, in a matter of fact way? Do we have reason to be true or hold secrets deep beneath the surface of our conscious mind.

We all have secrets, untold stories of revelry. Where we are the true heroes and everyone one else the villain. Stories of doubt, submission and misery. We are not the undo cause of our forlorn for we are the heroes. We are the character that befriends the unfriendly and becomes king. We are also the slave, slaves to the mind where our stories grow and bloom for anyone that will hear.

Is the truth worth revealing? A simple yet factual truth that is meant to bring forth joy, once it’s revealed. Is it better hidden, built upon small indifferent lies or mere tales too sweeten the pot for another ears to hear. Does it make you look brave? Maybe unaware to the villain until you are saved by a hero.

Does life get better with the stories we tell or can the truth prevail? Worthy of an audience we tell one true rendering in hopes of being saved. There really is no judge or jury only the predicament we placed ourselves in the bearer of the story.

Shall we stand today and voice our consciousness into submission. Tell a simple few shareholders a truth about ourselves never before spoken. There is no reason to reason the why this story began but to only give it an ending so a new story can begin.

And Then There Was Woodstock

Woodstock. Three days of peace and love, where no one noticed any difference. No one cared if you wore clothes or what clothes you wore. People hugged, kissed, danced and meditated on nothing more than music.

We, yes I was there, slipped and slid in the mud, played in the rivers and streams and never wondered where we would go next. The music took us into a dance of the heart. The energy of each singer rejoiced in the moment. Love loved through all of us.

We went home in a daze, unaware of what could have taken place and for that matter we didn’t care. We had loved, danced and learned about the heart of what matters and that is simply people.

I long for that moment again, a moment that will never be. We are not that simple, nor direct in our desires for peace. The type of peace that comes with no strings attached.

I am honoured to have been there, to have discovered my fellow humans in the dance. Where have we gone and where do we hide.

Let’s come together again, not like we did then yet in a new presence of peace, love and being groovy.

No more war we chanted. No more war. Hug your neighbour see them for who they are and that is, just humans in a dance of joy.


I’m not done yet. I won’t even take the time to define me. I am undefinable. You can try but I will describe myself differently. You may say I am old and you could be right. I will let you know that age is a number and my number isn’t up yet. Ask me, ask me to describe myself. I would paint you a picture with soluble paint. I would change my clothes often, smile different, be thoughtful and kind even though you say I look angry. Interpretation is a mystical thing.

Mirror,  mirror make me a wish. Can you ask the mirror to do that? When does the fear come and colour your mirror foggy or grey? Does it make you look fat, skinny, sad or happy? Is your mirror truthful?

I am a changeling, life doesn’t define me only I can describe me. Believe there is always a way, always a choice, always a chance to change the definition you give yourself. Believe in the human, understand the desires of the spirit, breathe in the soul.

Do not label, define or indulge in the judgements of mankind. We are unique, we are beautiful and we are still misunderstood.



I want to be inspired,  
I want to be inspired
I want to be inspired.

Maybe I just need to sit on a pinpoint
Feel the pain of inspiration where it counts most.
The moment the pin pricks the nerve and sends the message
get up.

Is there another way?
The initial pain is the intuitive thought as it enters your mind
sending a signal to believe.
a pick of retrospective should be enough.
Those loud voices, like needles, puncturing the attitudes.
Telling me to decide.

Inspire Inspiration expire expiration.
In one I believe and in one I am relieved.
Open a book and read
Open your mind and believe you are.

I am inspired 
I am inspired
I am inspired
So the chalkboard says.

Preconditions Preconceptions

Who are you?
Are you a precondition or a preconception?
Do you do you?
Do you fake you?
What could possibly be the reason?

Conditions are conditioning in constraining a creditable outcome.
Conceptions could be admirable in a request for attention.
Which one are you?
What happens when you do either,or?

I can't imagine myself as either.
I'm just a premonition.

Hold Your Space

Hold your space
be careful someone might take it.
Yet who holds onto you?

Believe in make believe, are you someone else?
Yet is something else a believable you?

Share your thoughts
Because someone else might share theirs
in a more believable way.
Use your imagination when it comes to details.
Do the details really count when you story is,

Go make a coffee cream or no cream
your choice anything to keep you from overthinking
when you're going nowhere in your head

Chill out
It's only rain