Some poets Live in the Ocean Love in the Ocean Breathe under water And flutter gently deeper Like birds flying beneath Leagues of Miles of. Vast expanses of Water These are the Poets of Truth They walk with kisses Of the Muse Their minds are misshapen By life's cruelty But perhaps Hope lays in their hearts And they bear witness And collect amruta For those who come To their feet To drink From their cups Overflowing Other poets seem less alive Not yet engulfed By the Spirit of Poetry They may attempt A phrase unmastered A word beyond ther grasp Desperate similes Metaphors with excessive force Excessive repetition When twice is enough To make a point Loud as twins Being born And placed on A Mother's breast Come and be One With the Spirit of Poetry

One thing I'm learning as I age is that iteration solves all problems. Over time, with consistent effort in the same direction, slowly building a bit each day, eventually we find ourselves at new levels of development, operating at standards previously thought by us to be impossible to achieve. The other alternative, for anyone who decides not to put effort and focus into their pursuits, is to remain the same but older. To forget. To shrink in quality. Your youthful enthusiasm will fade along with your health and vitality, you'll look back at the years wasted with resentful regret, your potential slowly slipped through your fingers with the sands of time. Which path are you choosing? You can't change your destination over night, but you can change your direction any second of any day. You can pivot. It's not too late! If you're reading this, you're most likely living. And if you're living, there's hope for you yet. Don't forget the way you feel right now. Take a mental snapshot and encode the experience as something important. Today is the day you decided to become. All that you can be!

The sound of blues echoing down the hall 🎶 🚬 Another drag, as the ash drops A swift sweep from the broom along the patio- our things must stay tidy 🧹 Taken away by the beauty of the sunrise 🌅 She covers the smell of her secret with the scent of perfume before he wakes to the aroma of her fresh brew☕️ Laughs over coffee, he’s smitten with her red lips 💄 Her gown flowing over her satin as he spins her around before a goodbye kiss 💃 🕺 See ya later handsome - back atcha doll 💋 The simplicity of a era that we will never get to know ⌛️ How the times have changed, the worries more complex ⏱️ Everybody wanted a change, but none to keep the change ⚖️ Nostalgia Come back to me

Lips, smooth as bourbon over your rocks Dressed as sharp as the sound of your bass Those hazel eyes tell a story of deep Different from the typical joes she pours for Soul athirst-Upstate creator Gambler Your single cigar more than a nights tip Dazzlin and dizzying every dame that walks in Until your eyes met hers Midnight calls, your wondering gaze Grew aflame Fixation we shall call A muse you must use The spiral playing a wicked game of use Turning lust into beautiful art A gallery leaving even the greats speechless The fame and glory you gain As your charm fades her beauty To rust

My soul is thirsty for music, Not just to hear the notes, but to taste them and run my fingers through their hair as they emerge from my being. I’ve long taken for granted that I am an instrument of God, What then shall be my instrument this moment? Dare I say it could be different in the next. I am not bound to material tools, I am endlessly transmorphing and individuating in sound. Tunes thread through my mind with images spurring them forth. Ragas fill my heart and caress my soul with sweet buttermilk and Moonlight, And each night vibrates with the bliss of Saraswati’s cooing. 2024-0505