~Sweet Potato, Serenade~

She cooks you sweet potato, you don't like aubergine
She knows to boil the kettle when you hum bars from Grease
She senses you are lonely but still she can't be sure
And so she stands and waits, stands anticipating your thoughts

How can she become the psychic
That she longs to be to understand you
How can she become the psychic
That she longs to be to understand you

He brushes thoroughly
He know she likes fresh breath
He rushes to the station
He waits atop the steps

He's brought with him a Mars bar
She will not buy Nestle
And later he'll perform
A love lorn serenade, a trade

How can he become the psychic
That he longs to be to understand you
How can he become the psychic
That he longs to be to understand you

So give her information to help her fill the holes
Give an ounce of power so he does not feel controlled
Help her to acknowledge the pain that you are in
Give to him a glimpse of that beneath your skin~

~Let THEM Eat Cake~

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I've been hearing alot of things, from alot of people these days of late. Words of encouragement and pithy platitudes offered with good intentions, of course, among other not so lovely, lingering lyrics of a tune that tempts my soul to shrivel up and die. (Thanksssssss). Words wasted on a wandering gypsy soul seeking only goodness, love and LIFE.

Anyway, I was told today that marriage (and monogamy for that matter), for most men, is like the best slice of chocolate cake. At first sample, it is sweet and satisfying and the best thing you have ever tasted. But then, after having it every day, it becomes too sweet. Too boring with no variety of flavor. Your tastebuds tame, accustomed to the offering. Bleh. So you want different dessert...a new cake...hell, maybe a cookie, or in my case, he went for the HO-HOS (plural)....

But the way I see it, marriage (and hell yes, monogamy), is like a whole helluva heapin' helping of oats. Steady. Steel Cut. Stick-to-your-ribs. OATS. In the morning, they are there to get you started with whole-grain goodness.....greeting you....warming you....sustaining and steeling you for the start of the day, for the moment when you make your exit out into the world, solo. And at night, they are there, they can take whatever form they need to to meet you...muffins, wholegrain bread, a kind, nurturing dessert that doesn't drag you down.

And just when you think maybe you could get tired of them, oats can reinvent themselves. Add to them, bake, cook or stew them a different way, they can adapt...with you, for you...inside of you. Oats.

Steady. Steel Cut. Stick-to-your-ribs. Oats.

Year of Jubilee~

She is a simply complicated girl.

Fearless. Headstrong. Crown full of curls.

Gilded, golden, with violet hues

Timid, Fragile. This Maker’s muse.

Reigning, rule-ridden, o’er this dichotomy:

Soul’s royalty. Mind and Body’s peasantry.

Daily seeking guidance, this princess will be.

Neither black nor white…mais non, elle est gris~

Maintenant, as this little one sees and is seen.

The world wakens to life…thrives with green.

The newness, the wholeness, this birth’s beginning

Ushers forth such seasons of healing.

Woman-child…you are an intricate maze to decipher.

Breathtaking beauty traces your lines and letters.

What words shall you form, among this sea?

This ocean of life, your year of jubilee?