person digging on soil using garden shovel

Fertile Soil

This pen feels heavy and this thumb and forefinger are attempting a sit-down protest. To write it is to make real that which wants to remain a dream. When asked, “How are you?” Dad used to reply, “I think I’m OK, and I hope I’m not lying.” I don’t want to lie either, but the ground keeps changing as my heart keeps breaking. Words are clumsy when trying to give names to the liminal space between love and sorrow. Continue reading Fertile Soil

Meditations on Beginnings, a Prose Poem

Lower the body into the mighty plank, hold it there for a few seconds, turn your elbows inwards, let your body gradually sink to the floor, knees first, then the belly, then the arms, elbows pressed against the ribs, forehead against the floor, inhale, lift the chest, resting on your forearms, cobra, 3 breaths; peal the body slowly off the floor . . . Continue reading Meditations on Beginnings, a Prose Poem

Meadow of Hope

I would rather be in the wild nature though, not restricted by manicured Jasmin fences and immaculately cut lawns. Somewhere in a meadow, rich with wildflowers on a fresh morning, when the sun is still gentle with its kisses that are pleasantly warm. I want to walk through the unruly grasses, moist from condensation and tears of joy of many lovers, who have ever felt connected to another: a soulmate, a friend, a moment of creative flow. Continue reading Meadow of Hope