I am a water lily in an environment made for cacti, The atmosphere too hot and arid to really let me thrive, The soil too shallow and lacking in nutrients, It is clear I don’t fit in, But when I look around me to see Who is constructing this ambience in which only the driest, most superficial plants can flourish, I am startled to find myself surrounded By orchids, roses, lilies, and daffodils, Many beautiful and unique specimens of existence that also were not made for this environment   Some can make do better than others, With a few watering cans and some irrigation, Some can even get along comfortably, And yet none of them were truly made for this environment, And I wonder why, when we have the power to change the soil, We do not   I can only think that those who get along well enough here Look at those of us who are withering and wilting and fading away And see how easily that could be them, So they fear to change anything Lest they lose t

Sometimes it’s so difficult to be a part Of this world that sends messages to break your heart Words can be as harmful as a deadly gunshot: “The most important thing you contribute to our world is not ”   Not giving us COVID, not showing your face, Not being unmasked in a public place, Not expressing your feelings when they’re really dark, Not being authentic to just who you are,   Not laughing so loudly or talking so much, About a subject that most of us don’t love, Not wearing that outfit that doesn’t conform, Not taking a step that is outside the norm   Not living a lifestyle that we wouldn’t choose, Not winning by too much, not daring to lose, Not sharing your story or bearing your soul, For we don’t want anything we cannot control   Not speaking up boldly on uncomfortable themes, Not needing support or making a scene, And don’t you dare ask for help at inconvenient times, Or we’ll tell you your problems are all in your mind   But the world is the problem, the world is not right, E

When I was a child, society taught me how to be loved: I had to act a certain way, Pick a certain job, Look a certain way, Believe certain things, And always give to everyone, Laying down my life for others, Taking the smaller half of a shared piece of cake, And being totally intolerant of anything and anyone that deviates from the acceptable norm, Even to the point of self-loathing When I did not conform   But love must be freely given to be love, So if I am changing who I am or altering how I act Or choosing a certain look, occupation, or belief, To make someone love me, I am not really being loved, I am manipulating people into demonstrating affection For an effigy that isn’t really me   And I think maybe it takes great faith to be yourself And trust that love will come to you anyway, If you choose to do what makes your heart sing, And to express your authentic inner soul   What a strange and inexplicable world we live in Because there is no truth in “If I’m good, they will love me,

  Sometimes I play the metaphysical piano, My cosmic fingers dancing across the strings of energy that connect the sun, the stars, and my human self, The past, the present, and the future, Or maybe it’s more like a metaphysical violin, For I do not strike the strings with a hammer so much as caress them with the resonance that comes from my own deepest desires, longings, losses, and loves   Sometimes I am a spider sitting on the web of energies that connect all of existence, And I feel the vibrations from very far away, I don’t know where they’re coming from or why, But I can feel the clicking of the wheels of time turning and turning until they reach a new position And I know everything is about to change again As what was lined up becomes disarranged And what will be comes into alignment, And though I feel all of this vibrating through my own self, I cannot tell what is going to be lost Or what is going to become   Those who say we create our own reality are not exactly wrong, For we

  Have we really come so far? Are we really enlightened? Have we truly moved beyond the days when we would go to war against those who didn’t look like us, And burn someone at the stake for not believing as we do? Or has it just gone underground, Subtle systemic oppression, Wherein we devalue and destroy those who cause discomfort or cognitive dissonance For the people in power, Those who easily fit into the mainstream?   Some people think the way to overcome oppression Is to change the mainstream, Give a voice to the voiceless and take the power from the powerful To share with the oppressed, But this doesn’t change anything, Doesn’t alter the fact That we still have one central group deciding what is and is not valuable, Who is or is not valuable…   I think the only way to overcome oppression for good, To actually eliminate it instead of simply Altering its form or hiding it under the niceties of politeness and political correctness Is to stop valuing only certain appearances, Certain

 Dust is inherently spiritual, As we see from the fact that matter and energy inhabit both sides of the equals sign In the relative equation of life And though I was taught to value the things of the spirit beyond the things of the earth And then vilified for doing that too much , Still, I came to a place where I could be aware that they are and always have been the same   Dust to dust, As they say, And “from the dust you came, to dust shall you return,” But what happens to dust after dust it becomes? In thousands of years when the dust is pulled together again By the turbulence, gravity, mass, and heat That create the stars themselves So that we are born from the dust anew Even as we will one day return to the dust again In the neverending cycle of beginnings and endings, Perhaps dust is the constant in all of this change, And perhaps as we sweep it away with a rag on a Saturday morning, Or bury it in the ground on a Tuesday afternoon, Stare at it in the mirror on a Monday before wor

 He walked slowly down the road into town. The slight breeze cooled him only a little as it brushed against his bare arms. They day was humid, and the sun smiled down from the early summer sky. The town was not busy as it was the middle of the work and school day. Soon some of the cafes would start to see lunch customers, and there were a few people inside of the shops, but it was not nearly as busy as it would have been on a weekend. He wondered if he could do what he needed to do in town without… “Hey! Your left arm is blue!” the speaker was a man about his age. He was dressed in a long-sleeved button-down shirt, his goggling eyes rimmed by glasses with dark frames. “Everybody’s left arm is blue,” the newcomer said with a sigh. This had happened before, many times in fact. “We don’t talk about that,” Glasses said. He unconsciously rubbed his hand down the sleeve on his left arm. “We are polite and we wear long sleeves. You… you bear your blueness for the whole world to see!”