A stand of woods has its own charms
Each other, with their leafy arms,
The trees are embracing, in a stance,
Bursts in angelic harmonies at once
The dawn chorus of clamorous birds
With neither music nor human words
In this forest, like an enchanted doe,
At the foreboding mystery in awe,
Each unique note I ponder
Through the trails, I dare not wander
Breathless, agonizingly transfixed,
I stand earth and heaven betwixt.
Candles Flicker In a Celestial Window
Ignited For Me To Come Back Home
To the Sounds of a Divine Crescendo
With the Muses, I’ll Freely Roam
Around the Golden Whispering Dome.
As a frightened lamb,
Among storms wild,
I fervently recite plainchant,
“Of gallant stars I am
A dearly beloved child,
Both young and ancient.”
Go forth, shamelessly hustle,
catering to the common taste
oftentimes for a rustle
tending to the garden,
in haste,
of God-given talents,
what a waste.
Go forth, seem fairly content
with playing small, feeling misplaced,
gladly agreeing to relent,
divine uniqueness
is erased,
of great potential,
what a waste.
Go forth, readily betray the arts,
uplifting the vulgar and debased,
beguile the doubting hearts
of the people
with embraced
degenerate muses,
what a waste.
The Rigid Labels You Attach to Me
Despondently Compete for a Straight Answer
If Nothing Else, You Might Consider Me to Be
With Pen And Voice, an Armored Lady Lancer.
If You Don’t See Me Fighting at the Barricades
Although Discreetly, But I Do It All the Same
With Eloquence And Confidence in Spades
My Own Divinity I Artfully Reclaim
Although I’m Truly Touched And Flattered
By Your Affection, Among All Other Things
You Gravely Misjudged Me, But It Never Mattered
Conceit Is The Least of My Numerous Sins.
What Is It Like To Be a Shaman?
Making Sadness Disappear
Dancing In the Storm and Thunder
To The Beat No One Can Hear
What Is It Like To Be a Shaman?
Crack Your Own Shell Again
Coming Out of the Darkness
See the Sun Shine Through the Rain.
Watching My Life Strangely Melting
As If Into a Frida Kahlo Painting
Making Peace With All Sides of Myself
Slightest Faults [re] Consigned to the Shelf
The Voice of Inner Wisdom I Consult
I’m a Priestess of My Own Cult.