I'm going to try to do something mundane,
walk home.

I'm hopeful that muse won't taunt me with words
I cannot record or remember
after this brief journey.

But, before I attempt this feat,
I want to say something.

Sometimes after the words spill from my fingers onto the page,
I return to read what muse spoke through me.

I am concerned always that new age platitudes will
pilfer the breath from the real life we all face
day after day,
belittle our best endeavors,
mock our falllibilities, and deny our deepest fears.

We are not new age platitudes.
Nor are we helpless, formless blobs.

We are the sum total of everything
we have ever experienced or thought or felt
or dreamed or feared.

We can not be reduced to a cliché
or a poem.

Words are ever insufficient to grasp the profound
experience of life,
But I am an artist of words.
They demand release,
so I give them voice.

I can claim no great wisdom, nor can I say with any certainty
that the words are 'right'.
They just are.
They offer themselves as a testimony and tribute
to life.

my love...