She knew, as we all do, the power of words. We are taught from very young to think long before we speak. Though the young are spared the power as they are given time to learn to control their bodies and their minds, they, too, know from very young the care that must be taken with words.

And, thus, she knew that she had made a grave error.

She had been having such a lovely day in the field with her two young ones. The sun shown brightly and a warm breeze carried the scent of lavender. They had picked (and eaten) berries to make a pie and then flowers to put on the kitchen table. Their basket full, they lay in the grass, each beneath one of her arms, looking up at the clouds dotting the blue sky, naming the objects and creatures they saw.

They laughed as each description was more outrageous than the last. One of the young ones sighed and said, "I wish we could stay like this forever. "

She responded, "Me, too."

And there they remain, lost in a sliver of a moment in time, invisible to all but each other and the unchanging blue sky.

Over the hill

And far away

The plan I once had

Rolls off

Further and further

Down

Sinking so low

That the weight

And my worth

Won’t let it come up again

So, I binge

I shake

And I fail to see the other side

Of the hill

A new peak

One I haven’t seen before

Comes out

But only when I am

No longer drunk

Only when I shed

The blubber that keeps

My eyes low

When I no longer hang

Onto what was before

Love with out passion is kindness.

Love with out kindness is passive.

Love with out actions is nothing

but laziness, and when this happens

Love looks for another one who is

also kind who’s heart beats full of passion

Love feels for another who is full of life

Love craves that exuberance that joy

Instead of being taken for granted that

Love is always there.

Love with out passion?

Wilde, Piaf and Morrison

Molière, Noir and Chopin

I wish to lay amongst you

listening to your still thoughts,

that used to be so loud.

Now in sempiternal slumber,

Souls that wonder

this necropolis of fallen visionaries.

Abelard and Heloise,

lovers in the aeonian embrace,

under the soil of a magical sullen place.

Your love still reverberates,

under the soil of a magical sullen place.

Gericault, are you on your raft?

Sailing through forever.

Proust, did you find your lost time?

analysing the human mind.

De Balzac, your quill eternalized

Forever together the stillness of great minds

Who shaped us.

Who shaped time.

I wish to lay amongst you

and listen.

Till the cessation of time.

Stuart isalittlebroken Johns

If you do not love a sunset, then you do not have a romantic pulse. Stop writing now, and go be an engineer.

For the burst at sunset is the release, the ejaculation of time, the close of a chapter, but not the book. It’s brilliance is a resolution of tensions, the sigh at the end of a job well done, the moan after many pleasures, the uncurling of the toes, the final kiss before drifting off to sleep.

The sunset is the day’s vainglory attempt at immortality, “I awe, therefore I am.” It is a wondrous apparition... the grandest illusion. It is an endless wave rolling across the round world.

It is a flagging Father Time’s response to Thomas’ heartfelt plea, “Do not go gentle into that good night... rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved another girl. They lived in a cruel world where people said God would never love a girl who loves girls.

They loved each other in spite of it. But, because of other people's hatred, neither would say how they felt. So, they spent time together and danced around how they really felt.

As time went on, it became increasingly complicated for them, without knowing how the other felt. So, they finally talked about it.

One left crying. The other stayed behind, in pieces after hurting her lover.

Two weeks passed and they hadn't spoken a word to each other. Their friends kept asking what was going on. Neither of them wanted to talk about it.

One was angry. The other was sad. Both of them were stubborn.

The angry one refused to reach out because she wanted an apology. The sad one wouldn't reach out because she was afraid of what the angry one would say.

Finally, the sad girl broke down and said, "Hey, I miss you. Okay. Bye."

It drowned the angry girl's rage. All she knew was that she missed her lover and her friend.

When the sad girl asked to talk, the angry girl agreed.

They talked. They kissed. They spent every day and every night together, wrapped up in that love. They fell deeper and deeper into each other until it was almost too much. Then, they fell apart just as fast. The world and other people's opinions were too heavy. And the angry one became the sad one. She yearned for the other girl.

But, this time, neither of them reached out.

They knew loving each other from a distance was kinder than fighting every day trying to be together in an unkind world.

Red is the color when the fluid of life is spilled.

Red is my heart and my cheeks as I cry chilled.

Red through streets like rivers flow

How can this be? This humanity so?

Red flows from women and children what to do?

Red flowing from Black men, Brown men, Yellow men, White men too!

Stop this hatred for one another, under the skin

aren’t we all the same a human?

Red is the color that unites us all as we journey this long Red road of humanity.

Without my medulla oblongata,

I would not breathe,

and my heart would cease to beat.

My amygdala reminds me of the hazards everywhere,

without my hippocampus,

I wouldn't even be aware.

Without my cerebrum, I'd be a mannequin.

Without my cerebellum I ....... sorry can't recollect.

Without the prefrontal cortex, well I have no emotions about that.

Without my encephalon,

I wouldn't have a soul.

Without a soul,

I would never have been a poet.

Stuart isalittlebroken Johns