To have existed is not enough,
importance placed elsewhere
in a culture where life itself
holds little value;

She searches,
flailing frantically, coming socially
unhinged, unsure
of any positive contribution
now, before, future
colliding kaleidoscopically
on a freakish sliding scale of continuum,
never-ending agony of futile choices
based upon neatly conditioned alternatives.

Who wouldn’t go mad
in the face of this fallacy, illusory
though it might prove to be
in a world short on imagination;
focus instead on inane diversions
of a media-driven circus, replete
with political clowns and deflated footballs.

Dare we doubt the power of distraction?

image: Olivia Muus
image: Olivia Muus


Renewing my world happens
in flashes of insight.

If I gaze across twilight
in dread of darkness impending,
I negate the incubating promise of restoration
with the breaking of morn;

I shun my own body, fecund with potential
percolating possibilities yet to be realized,
still unknown to me; tight buds yearning
to flower forth with rich expression,
tinged subtly in variegated hues.

Enormous prism of probable outcomes,
choices exploding before hungry eyes
eager to explore;
hopeful hands palpating a plethora
of paths snaking toward fulfillment;
ecstatic banquet, fueling future longing.

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The path of action is one I have often taken,
even advocated, so why does it seem
to elude me these days?
The intellect, ever mind-full,
providing endless amusement, observations.
In the end, is this helpful or simply deterrent
to accepting the fullness of existence?

The yin, the yang
and the space in between where,
seeking equilibrium amidst chaos
of life even in the slow lane,
I garden, walk, wakefully witness
all the nuance my senses can hold.

I ask myself, if I had to release one faculty,
a child’s bargain really,
what would it be?
Heavens, I could not relinquish sight
though inner vision sustains me,
nor forego twilight dusting dervish skirts
over seas calm or torrential,
cocked ears discerning petrel from pueo,
tang of salt wafting under nostrils
fusing flavor with fragrance.

Life extends wonders to feast upon,
pyrotechnic sensations
in the thrall of sensual explosions
telegraphing sumptuous messages
to a mind freed from fruitless occupations.

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Regarding me over bins of oatmeal and millet,

not comprehending choices –

where is the plain, brown, recognizable?


Offer of assistance precipitates wonder:

Do I work there?

Perhaps, and one never knows another’s motives,

What qualifies me to answer?


I smile as she wonders aloud,

Why would you help?

Never having had this asked, I am miffed;

glibly answer, Because I was raised that way.


And perhaps it’s true, as a jingle plays

in the back of my head;

not my parents’ doing, but good enough.

Service, I say, is purpose;

What harm can it do?

Stumped, her mouth twitches in nervous retort,

I like your hair.