Common Voices



If you don’t love you will cease to be remembered.
In the orange glow of morning
No words will be spoken.
Against the back walls of yellow
You will watch the sun rise.
Reality is a sore spot for lovers.
It is the place, where all decisions are made.


I am rolling in the ocean, a small suit in the sea. Bubbly white waters cover me. The sun is ninety degrees. I hear whispers. I see shadows. Don’t revive me. I am still. Listening here, I hear the ocean’s voices, deep and still. There is a language we can tell. Every creature speaks to us. We are snake charmers, we are conductors. Every animal has its voice. They stand before us. They ask for music; they ask for love.


A single instrument well played speaks of the capacity of woman to go straight to the heart. The heart doesn’t need peripheral instruments. It hears a perfect set of notes and doodles on them, floats in the space of self-reflection. Self-reflection, of course, is contingent upon the melody that is most like the beat of this particular heart. I close my eyes and can hear a spiritual friend. We are lovers, intimate, and that is why, I think, there are stalkers. Such people run to stars thinking they have something in common. And what they do not, or may not know is that all of us have the capacity to listen to the muse, who gives us our instrumentation or voices and it is he/she, who works from inside.


This common weed, the intricate interweaving of the unraveled self, the brown moss of cumulus clouds, and Herringbone predicaments confide with light and leaves. Wishes fill this afternoon that innocence could barely feel, stared at and disappointed display of the temporary advertisement. I break sticks at my feet and point my eyes if only for the sake of truth, I have no right, no wherefore. It is not fair of me to be here and not someone she could love. Separated in time by the economics of beauty. The calculated use of some gift not all women have, a selfish instrument of God. She raises her hands because she has been asked to and because of the expectation, “I am on sale here, a common weed in the brain of lovers or not. There is no discrimination. I am almost always perceived in the same way, by men and women of all ages. I represent the very center of the earth and all the world revolves around me. I am healthy only in the sense that this is my time. Do I choose knowledge? Do I choose to wield this power? All I see is how it makes others feel. I am not this body. I am only thoughts, like anyone, with the desire to create, where my purpose is told to me with a whisper. And that whisper comes from a source that has no other ambition than to tell me the stories I tell you.”


I – inspired by:
II – inspired by:
III – inspired by:
IV – inspired by:


  1. This is very beautiful writing, lyrical and highly philosophical, existentialist like Heidegger. You have not published this piece in any of your five poetry books, have you? Can’t remember it. Love this part:

    “The heart doesn’t need peripheral instruments. It hears a perfect set of notes and doodles on them, floats in the space of self-reflection. Self-reflection, of course, is contingent upon the melody that is most like the beat of this particular heart.”

    Will get to this post later after work.

    • Thank you for leading me back to this. I was just commenting to a friend today about how you and Donald are taking me back to pieces I have forgotten, and they excite me. I had no idea by this time that I would be trying to make more music. Today, I replaced an amplifier I had been using to record songs. I didn’t choose the extremely expensive one and opted for a used one. I had been looking. I knew I would find one where I went and there it was. (Funny you should mention Heidegger. I gave the manager, who sold the amplifier, a copy of Being and Time). I believe if we listen closely to the voices in our heads and trust ourselves, we remain on the correct path. I am painting and continuing to renovate my place, so I must conserve my funds. I take each day as an act of faith. I am currently reading a book that affirmed I should be reading it since it referenced the name of something that is a huge part of my life, the name of the place I work. “Self-reflection…is contingent upon the melody [remembering the advice of your music teacher friend] that is most like the beat of…[the]…heart.”

      I continue to put things into the world and sometimes forget what I left along the way. These too are gifts. I think this is how we should live. I cannot nor have ever been able to negotiate them for commerce sake. They go out, messages in a bottle, love notes, to the souls destined to find them.

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