My father has come to dinner; He does not knock. He is not welcome. He is dead. Yet he insists on joining me

There ain’t no precious gold comin’ outa that there mountain, if all I wanna do is sit and dream of what I’ll do when I get some.

Look out there, see them, boy ? They want yer juice. They’re dry, them circlin’ desert… All they want's yer juice, boy.

Your end? My end? Where the hell’s the middle? You say this. I say that.

Something whispers, certainly not nothing. A subtle impetus to choose to stir and rise

Not a poem. I hurt; like a Frankenstein monster. Iron fist. Unrelenting.

How does a landed mariner ever tell a living soul about the exquisite rapture of the sultry siren’s song ? As it echoed through the mist,

I am your greatest grandmother calling softly on the ocean winds. I was never lost to you forever, only swallowed by the other half o… Come down with me to the quiet pla…

The old man, who thinks he’s dying, approached me with these words. I am sorry

These words I cry do not come easily; as if they echo from the cold stone depths of a long forgotten tomb.

A subtle movement, a facial expression, a particular posture, the constant hint of danger; as if he were here again,

I am here now. I have removed my outer garments, placed my trust within your circle… I have come because you promised. You told me you would be here

Beloved goddess, sweet holy mother of us all, you who beckon me throughout these hectic days