Praise Nature’s soothing embrace
Her artistic swirls of grace
Her hummingbird praise, tolerance of decays
Her patience and willingness to soothe disobeys

Praise Divine Mother gracious snow cone maker
Her flowing melts from mountains’ acre
to river banks and seas’ breaker
Praise all she sees in her seize as give and taker

Praise the grace of Mother’s hugs her dance for you and me
The way she nods to gently say,
“Tomorrow it’ll be . . .
better wait and see!”

Praise the earth on which we stand
Mother’s patient healing hand
Praise your beauty ~ Praise your grace
Praise your precious nature face

Praise your prays ~ healing praise
To many prayer bouquets we raise
In praise of your beauty
and unfailing duty

Patient witness of our blatant disobeys
Your self-less forgiveness does amaze

When the heat is truly unbearable 
For days on end
Some things just have to wait
So now I’m making ramen 
At 2 in the morning

While the noodles cook
Much like I have all day
Time to fold towels
From the dryer that also
Had to wait

Some of the towels are getting thin
Others have random rips and holes
Half are some shade of pink
From a maroon beach towel
Bought at Myrtle Beach years ago 

Oh, how I’d love to be at the beach!
I wouldn’t care about the heat 
A breeze blowing my hair
Waves rolling over my feet
And pulling sand from beneath my toes

But the smell of sand and salt
Is replaced by boiling ramen
I push sweaty tendrils from my face 
Since there’s no breeze here
Time to eat

Because I don’t have the spoons
        to navigate the medical system and medication
That alone feels like enough proof
        for ADHD work
So in true race car brain fashion
        I dive into the deep end
Only to discover that on the other side
        of the precipitating hormones and trauma
                I have fashioned an ADHD-friendly life
                        With brain breaks and yoga
                                More humanity and less technology

I just want the voice that comes
out of my mouth to match
the voice I hear in my head. 

Just let me soar to the heights 
like Julie Andrews, sink down low
like Lena Horne’s Stormy Weather. 

opinions set concrete in my veins
blood born of pathogens
inflicted via screens
and screams
and road ragers
and wannabe leaders
and friends, tho I beg forgiveness
to admit, until
this stream of life
makes it way through heart
to brain
then cools to ice
my breath
with indifference enough
that I learn not to trust
my inner self 

Turtle travels
Eternal nomad
Itinerant backpacker

When necessary
He may retreat
inside

Collects himself
Take a break
Waits, until its safe

To come out again
See the world
Eat, sleep, motate!

No hurry, no rush
He moves to his own rhythm
His own flow
Being takes time

Tell me where the poets go
‘twixt midnight and the dawn
Show me where they ply their trade,
to coax and come undone  

Behind the rocks the moonlight hides
and covers up her legs
The poet waits to trace the curve
of word upon the bed  

I follow close upon the heel
of thought so soon erased
I pluck the scraps from feasted plates
to taste
     to taste
          to taste

Hands up, feet in sand,
stray sticks from the nearby
forest in hair, bromeliad
blooming on your dress—  

you are done with indoor
complaints, like Whitman
was all those years ago
because it is everyone’s
right to throw away
the canoe & sail on  

& you know you contain
a thousand passionflowers
with wavy blue threads
reaching out to lick air  

& you know you contain
a million bat flowers
with purpled wings
& whiskers like tentacles  

& at night you carry torch
ginger with a fragrant cone
& red leather skirt-petals  

& you wake up with hoya-
hair—pink clusters falling
to waist while hummingbirds
feast on the centers.  

That’s what you must do,
savor the centers of
everything—
palm/artichoke/cloud/
cat pounce/mountain/
hooded warbler’s weeta-
weeta-weet-tee-o.  

Now gleam, briny, burnished
by sun, follow wave back
to shaggy shore
of self.

You say I am full 
of excuses, yet these words 
I am full of have 

always been your aid—
if they drip from my mouth like 
a leaky faucet, 

at least something is 
inside this vessel of me, 
beyond your critique

and spilling forth like 
a downpour, a waterfall, 
a wash, not a weight. 

I was once told that
extreme success is 99% luck—
as if effort is a footnote,
and passion just filler
for those who didn’t draw
the golden straw.
As if the stars must first
shake your hand
before the world even sees you.
It stuck with me—
not because I believed it,
but because some days
it feels true.

I’ve watched lesser hearts rise
on borrowed beats and poisoned messages,
while I carve myself
into every chord and line—
honest, raw,
but rarely seen.
Sometimes it feels
like I’m pouring fire
into a world so drenched in noise,
it can’t feel the flames.
It’s deflating.

I keep going, though.
Because there’s therapy in melodies,
peace in these pages,
a grounding I can’t find anywhere else.
This art steadies me—
keeps me tethered
when life tries to drift
too far into the fog.
Each lyric a confession,
each rhythm a reminder
that I’m still here.
Still fighting.
Still healing.

That makes the numbers 
lose importance:
Luck
Skill
Willpower
Pain
Pleasure

None of that compares
to what this gives back.

I want to inspire.
I want to give vision
to eyes blinded in routine,
hope to hearts
starved of truth.
To say something
that cuts through
what’s easy and empty
and speaks to the soul.

I’m learning more and more that
I may never rest comfortably
in that 99% luck
column for success—

though 99 is just another number.

A number the Shepherd
would gladly leave behind
to find the one.
                            
                               I am that one.
                              I am found.

That’s all the “luck” I’ll ever need.
Blessed…to be a blessing.
That’s why I do this.
That’s why I can’t stop.