Going to a concert is like being put in an oven.

In the beginning you are a raw, cold participant of the energy around you and by the end you've become solidified in the absorption of words, music, and movement.

The unleashing of an artist's confession is the vulnerable heat that cements my own internal proteins.

And when the concert is over and the oven door opens, I'm still cooking by the carryover heat.

.

the tiny life saver that
is called a space heater
whores its stores of
attractive energy in
front of my toes,
and just as I hoard
its offering
with a blanket,
it shouts
do not cover
but whispers
do not be coy.




.

geometree

one day I caught a virgin leaf
that sidled into my hand
like a sheet of gold and
wondered why me?
the rest could be free
instead of causing grief

I'll turn them upside down
in raked piles to image
new boughs across the horizon
and make the center my home
where instead; hands stand and
toes curl into sky roots.

the playground is my classroom
full of falling kids and flashes
of symmetry which somersault
across tessellating arms.
all the proofs I need are cracked smiles
and a breath of fresh air.




.

catharsis

catalpa beans dangle around me
like a head scratcher on standby.
brown and shriveled though they are,
the shells contain invested interests:
little bombs wait to drop on itchy
scalps offering release from
escalating awareness.

It becomes you

divine density

*

every

thing is

energy when 

you reach for the stars. 

clouds appear to be an obstacle but 

draw aside like open curtains

to make way for the 

dancing in your

                                                                                                     eyes. Blinking back 

                                                                                                star dust is       the gravity             

                                                                                              struggle of               enduring   

                                                                                             light                                     years

                                                                                              to     reach      your     radiation. 

 *

                                                       

rosemerry

your skin matters not to me
I would rather feel your mind.
gently unzip my eyes to see
the flowers that you find.





.

field life

The snot on my hands is indistinguishable
from dog slobber but I'll wipe it off just the same.
These hands are magnets for unwanted bacteria.
Does it strengthen my immunity to such things
that make me question why? I can't
make sense of all these things
that happen to me like
falling books.
I peel back pages revealing green;
unreadable to the eyes.
      My fingers do the looking and
      I let my tongue taste the text of life.
      My immunity falters no more.




.

weather vane

I am a victim of climate change. 

The atmosphere keeps changing and I all can do is adapt. 

I'll plant my seeds and wait for them. 

The weather reads its memoir to me 

and it's not until the wind whispers by

that I see myself in the clouds one moment 

and in the rain the next.  

I'm in Seattle one moment and

Hungary the next. 

My mind is a garden. 

A curiosity of color and dirt; 

a jungle of fruit and weeds

showered by sun strength.

I am a victim of life. 

The wilderness expands and all I can do is stride.

I'll plant my seeds and then plant some more. 

.

Spring Break

I just spent this past week with my kindred spirit and soul sister, Lizz. 

Someone told us just yesterday we looked like sisters, which just goes to show. 

The splendor of our sisterhood is

laced with laughter and love, 

wrapped in warmth, 

brewed by Beauty. 

Click here on the collaboration of our creativity: 

 Stars

. 

Balaton

back to Balaton I break

under thoughts of gelato 

and teal sea toggled with

white sail wakes and

tight tan skin. How dare I 

closed my eyes in that

hazy heat when now 

in dreams I shiver with

splendorous nostalgics.

<<Belepni Tilos>> they said

and we didn't care. 

As fireworks sparked 

of our joy the warm

air and sweet water

kissed us good night. 

all i want is one persimmon.

what i wouldn't 

do for one taste

.

.

.

one day

to relive the market and 

forint exchange, to glance 

across and mutter in my best 

köszönöm. where the blush in 

my cheeks resemble the fresh 

fruit skin that smile and glitter 

as I squeeze by the teeming 

traffic of market goers and 

vendors who will forget 

me by next monday

until then I go 

hungry

.