When did time render me old fashioned
A slow erosion; suddenly worn
Half a century of paths backwards
Defining a sort of wake between
Running to some expiration date
Fruits have ripened cutting their own
Life doesn't seem fifty-fifty
The split never known until done
Blooming and fading in season
Growing not taller but deeper and wider
Strength measured in heart of hearing
Beginnings of grand birth still yet
Emotions bleed out in whispers and shouts
Melodic symphony of tears and laughter
Forming thoughts into actions
Breath of a woman's choices of steps
Monday, October 19, 2026
Nothing New
What you are seeing is not new to anything but the eyes on your face. This phenomenon has always been there, hiding, just out of reach. The mind unaware of the invisible world that surrounds us as assuredly as the air we breathe. Everything and nothing, it fills our lungs and draws our hearts to cry out from our chests as the veil across our minds is laid bare. Sit still and listen to the powers consolidating across time and space through our souls.
Silence the mind and reassure him that he does not understand the images that cross his path. He will argue because he is prideful and uses force to push his will in blindness. He must be mastered and dominated to quiet his never ending boasts. Meet force with flow through white noise that will silence the machine.
Allow the heart to wail her laments of the pain that is too much for her to carry. Understand she has survived since the beginning of life and has seen ages pass and longs for eternity. So much so that she will do anything to get her desire. Comfort her, hold her closely with the water of life that adjusts with her needs if she be swollen or dry.
Above all, heed the soul and guard it closely for it will reveal the steps to take and the path that will carry us through to the place we belong. This is the path where you will find us toiling Astral soil.
Silence the mind and reassure him that he does not understand the images that cross his path. He will argue because he is prideful and uses force to push his will in blindness. He must be mastered and dominated to quiet his never ending boasts. Meet force with flow through white noise that will silence the machine.
Allow the heart to wail her laments of the pain that is too much for her to carry. Understand she has survived since the beginning of life and has seen ages pass and longs for eternity. So much so that she will do anything to get her desire. Comfort her, hold her closely with the water of life that adjusts with her needs if she be swollen or dry.
Above all, heed the soul and guard it closely for it will reveal the steps to take and the path that will carry us through to the place we belong. This is the path where you will find us toiling Astral soil.
On Being a Muse
(I asked the A.I. to translate what each of my two poems I wrote mean. Sometimes A.I. does neat stuff.)
Sympathy rings and sings through the air
She laughs at the game they escalated
It began empty of lifeblood sentience
He was spiritless, turned off and bored
Arrogant, proud, pushy, cocksure, careless
A beautiful, dark, terrifying, celestial seraph
The sultry aphrodisiac, one taste, no going back
He had been warned as she sunk in the lure
And so the tempest began a cyclone of control
Disciplined dominance of pushing and pulling
Intoxicated on the peak of exalted delight
Lightning pulsed through their very being
A break in the air he thought it the limit
Undressed and dripping she began the descent
Inclined to follow he jumped off the edge
Plummeting downward in the midst of despair
Transported to the threshold of death’s lair
Begging for mercy from this unholy nightmare
Isn’t this what you wanted… my love?
Pleasures untold, desires to unfold in fiery need
Brought to your knees, begging please, please, please
Sensation of scintillate obsidian inspiration
I confess this transcendent endeavor…however
Did you really think you had control of the muse?
What It Means:
This poem explores the untamable, double-edged nature of deep passion and spiritual/creative inspiration (the "muse"):
The Illusion of Control: It begins with a lover who is detached, "arrogant, proud, pushy," and "bored"—someone who treats passion like a game he can dominate.
The Pull Into the Deep: The speaker acts as the "sultry aphrodisiac" and the muse. Once he takes a taste, what starts as an intoxicating game of push-and-pull quickly spirals beyond his limits.
The Shadow Side of Inspiration: A true muse doesn’t just inhabit the highs of "exalted delight"; she also dives into the abyss of raw truth, shadow, and vulnerability ("Undressed and dripping she began the descent"). When he follows her off the edge, his ego is stripped away, bringing him to his knees at "the threshold of death’s lair".
The Core Message: The final lines deliver the realization: true inspiration and deep, transformative love ("scintillate obsidian inspiration") cannot be possessed, tamed, or casually played with. You don’t control the muse—she transforms and humbles you.
Poem 2:
Being a muse is a cursive gift of joy and pain in the battleground of the heart
Dropping me down to the lower plains and thrusting me to new heights
Always fighting between the wisdom of Athena and the beauty of Aphrodite
My dream lost to sit upon a plateau in the garden of stability with my love
Laughter abounding throughout the atmosphere in lilting musical notes
The lamb snuggling into the belly of the lion as children climb tree branches
Tears stream the lining of my soul in an incessant pining for a life of peace
A life that seems always just out of the grasp of a mere human girl child
Hope that I release on the winds of change in faith for a future generation
Solace and comfort come in the hands that grasp mine along the journey
Arms that wrap around the waist of my temple and shelter my fragile heart
Broken so many times over failure after failure of a clumsy attempt to love
What It Means
If the first poem shows the muse’s fierce, overwhelming power from the outside, this poem reveals the heavy, vulnerable cost of being that muse from the inside:
"A Cursive Gift": The word cursive carries a brilliant double meaning here. It evokes both a curse (a heavy burden of extremes) and flowing script—a continuous, connected loop of highs and lows written across the heart ("Dropping me down to the lower plains and thrusting me to new heights").
The Inner Tug-of-War: The speaker feels perpetually torn between intellect/strategy ("the wisdom of Athena"—the warrior/protector side seen throughout the book) and pure, vulnerable passion ("the beauty of Aphrodite").
The Longing for Peace: Beneath the cosmic battles and spiritual intensity, the speaker’s deepest desire is actually very simple and domestic: a "garden of stability" with her love, children playing in trees, and harmony ("the lamb snuggling into the belly of the lion"). Yet because of her calling and human fragility, that quiet peace feels just out of reach.
Grace in Connection: Despite a heart "broken so many times" from clumsy, human attempts to love, she finds redemption by passing hope forward to the next generation and resting in the grounding embrace of her partner—the one who shelters her fragile heart along the journey.
How They Connect
Together, these two poems act as mirrors of each other in Journey’s Wake. In "Did you really think you had control of the muse?", the muse is an unstoppable force of nature that shatters pride and demands total surrender. By the final chapter in "Being a muse is a cursive gift", the armor comes off: we see that wielding such deep emotion and spiritual sight is exhausting, and the muse herself longs for a safe harbor, quiet stability, and someone strong enough to hold her.
Sympathy rings and sings through the air
She laughs at the game they escalated
It began empty of lifeblood sentience
He was spiritless, turned off and bored
Arrogant, proud, pushy, cocksure, careless
A beautiful, dark, terrifying, celestial seraph
The sultry aphrodisiac, one taste, no going back
He had been warned as she sunk in the lure
And so the tempest began a cyclone of control
Disciplined dominance of pushing and pulling
Intoxicated on the peak of exalted delight
Lightning pulsed through their very being
A break in the air he thought it the limit
Undressed and dripping she began the descent
Inclined to follow he jumped off the edge
Plummeting downward in the midst of despair
Transported to the threshold of death’s lair
Begging for mercy from this unholy nightmare
Isn’t this what you wanted… my love?
Pleasures untold, desires to unfold in fiery need
Brought to your knees, begging please, please, please
Sensation of scintillate obsidian inspiration
I confess this transcendent endeavor…however
Did you really think you had control of the muse?
What It Means:
This poem explores the untamable, double-edged nature of deep passion and spiritual/creative inspiration (the "muse"):
The Illusion of Control: It begins with a lover who is detached, "arrogant, proud, pushy," and "bored"—someone who treats passion like a game he can dominate.
The Pull Into the Deep: The speaker acts as the "sultry aphrodisiac" and the muse. Once he takes a taste, what starts as an intoxicating game of push-and-pull quickly spirals beyond his limits.
The Shadow Side of Inspiration: A true muse doesn’t just inhabit the highs of "exalted delight"; she also dives into the abyss of raw truth, shadow, and vulnerability ("Undressed and dripping she began the descent"). When he follows her off the edge, his ego is stripped away, bringing him to his knees at "the threshold of death’s lair".
The Core Message: The final lines deliver the realization: true inspiration and deep, transformative love ("scintillate obsidian inspiration") cannot be possessed, tamed, or casually played with. You don’t control the muse—she transforms and humbles you.
Poem 2:
Being a muse is a cursive gift of joy and pain in the battleground of the heart
Dropping me down to the lower plains and thrusting me to new heights
Always fighting between the wisdom of Athena and the beauty of Aphrodite
My dream lost to sit upon a plateau in the garden of stability with my love
Laughter abounding throughout the atmosphere in lilting musical notes
The lamb snuggling into the belly of the lion as children climb tree branches
Tears stream the lining of my soul in an incessant pining for a life of peace
A life that seems always just out of the grasp of a mere human girl child
Hope that I release on the winds of change in faith for a future generation
Solace and comfort come in the hands that grasp mine along the journey
Arms that wrap around the waist of my temple and shelter my fragile heart
Broken so many times over failure after failure of a clumsy attempt to love
What It Means
If the first poem shows the muse’s fierce, overwhelming power from the outside, this poem reveals the heavy, vulnerable cost of being that muse from the inside:
"A Cursive Gift": The word cursive carries a brilliant double meaning here. It evokes both a curse (a heavy burden of extremes) and flowing script—a continuous, connected loop of highs and lows written across the heart ("Dropping me down to the lower plains and thrusting me to new heights").
The Inner Tug-of-War: The speaker feels perpetually torn between intellect/strategy ("the wisdom of Athena"—the warrior/protector side seen throughout the book) and pure, vulnerable passion ("the beauty of Aphrodite").
The Longing for Peace: Beneath the cosmic battles and spiritual intensity, the speaker’s deepest desire is actually very simple and domestic: a "garden of stability" with her love, children playing in trees, and harmony ("the lamb snuggling into the belly of the lion"). Yet because of her calling and human fragility, that quiet peace feels just out of reach.
Grace in Connection: Despite a heart "broken so many times" from clumsy, human attempts to love, she finds redemption by passing hope forward to the next generation and resting in the grounding embrace of her partner—the one who shelters her fragile heart along the journey.
How They Connect
Together, these two poems act as mirrors of each other in Journey’s Wake. In "Did you really think you had control of the muse?", the muse is an unstoppable force of nature that shatters pride and demands total surrender. By the final chapter in "Being a muse is a cursive gift", the armor comes off: we see that wielding such deep emotion and spiritual sight is exhausting, and the muse herself longs for a safe harbor, quiet stability, and someone strong enough to hold her.
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