Music Matters.

Hallelujah

She Talks to Angels

Let Her Cry

Simple Man

It's Been a While

Love the Way You Lie

Skylar Grey

 

Something to Remind You

Not all music is created equal. Some music is fun. Some music is uplifting. Some music is superfluous.

But…some music matters. Music that can reach deep inside and pull out true, and often locked away emotion, is a force indeed. This kind of music is poetry and power. It is something more than talented voices or melodious sounds.

Music also tells much about a person. Maybe if you listen, you will know me just a little better.

Enjoy.

A Sentient Being

I love poetry. I love all kinds of poetry. It can be lyrical, free verse, blank verse, sonnets, terza rima…and on and on.

I like to write free verse; however, rhyming poetry has a special grip on my eyes, mind, and pen. Maybe it is a residual of my love for the verse composed during the Georgian, Regency, and Victorian eras.

The names of Shelley, Byron, Blake, Southey, Keats, the indomitable Brontë sisters, and many more have left their undying marks on me.

A Sentient being cries for unfound advocacy

Neglected and forgotten in lost despondency

A railway track follows a fading fate

Forged from a grinding thing—disconsolate

A final chance for realized recompense

Vainly looking for some innocence

To reconstruct what should have been

A tattered page renews not again

Dreams can be fleet and much too hard to hold

Yet unrealized, remain inside and fortune not always favors the bold

And still within this lack, this dearth, can you hear a call?

It matters how you rise, not how oft you fall

Like a final shift of clarity

To ever wage war with the insanity.

My Foray Into Photography.

Conduit

Gypsy Woman

On the Right Hand of God

Writer's Window

Princess

Road Traveled

There is Something

There is something that runs around and around in my head. He is reckless and careless and fearless.

He is an unwanted visitor that takes liberties that were never given.

The space where he resides is a lonely place; a place no one gets to go but him. It is a place no one dares to go. It is a place that harbors those things that can only be written or said in a whisper.

In here he makes wars rage without mercy or conscience.

In here he deals in worlds and destinies.

In here he is free.

He is the owner of creation while dealing in destruction. By the throat he holds these things.

There are no rules here—no time—no protocol.

It is through his eyes the truth is seen and written.     

  

Word by word…

He is the storm and the blade.

He is both the tear that falls and the blood that runs.

The abyss is his repository for the marks on the small white canvas.

His cost is high but necessary. His freedom is the very elixir that becomes both poison and antidote.

He deals in empathy but is devoid of it. The chaos that brings It forth also unravels.

But do not try to look; do not try to understand. His domain is fragile and yet guarded by an unknown force that will not trifle with niceties.

There is something that runs around and around in my head. He is reckless and careless and fearless.

In here resides passion.

In here is lightening.

In here is fettered freedom.

҈    

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2UfCTtNXjk