Venus rising

Dusk shelters learned captivity, concealing true-natured intention, conceding a lone star to pulse at the brink of instinct’s pleasure.

Venus rises, reviving gentle serenity aside integrity’s mocking praise.

Make loose the bonds of common servitude, consent passionately to softening veneration, free a soul forever with the cherishing of a tranquil heart.


Gaze beyond judgement’s shallow husk, venture past eternity’s delicate luminescence. Permit conviction to fade with each caress of gentle heart and steady breath, softly smiling in the hesitation of innocence, entrusting curiosity to another day.


Tidelands bloom to nature’s touch without fanfare or desire’s circumscribed meaning. Drowning in ambivalent glory, the briny shallows twist in illusory delight, while those around continue the lumbering slog down the well-worn path of ritualized stupor. All things change, even those that never were.


Vision narrows in the gathering light until the space between rise and fall of the chest can be heard. Create a pathway, an escape none can see, speaking through the truth of invisibility. Dip a toe in the tepid water of intention’s clarity, empty your mind to surrounding unity: Be.

Better questions

Divining the primordial soup of the soul charms the ancients forth in a kaleidoscope of shade, releasing imagination from the bonded twins of mind and matter. Yet, common culture’s constraint serves us, calming the promise that allows Man’s trials on a borrowed land.

Destiny unattained riles the calmest beast. What instinctual imagery must be evoked to both exercise and unchain, to fulfill the personal prophesy that makes us human, each so utterly different yet eerily the same?

Maybe there are no lasting answers. Perhaps the best that can be expected are better questions to help in our navigation through life.

Surreal bookends

Within a one-month period, I was both carded to prove of age to sit at a restaurant bar and charged the senior citizen rate, unsolicited, for a haircut. At 57, the irony had me rolling in laughter for days.

After a bit of reflection, I realized that this sort of thing shouldn’t really surprise me, given the dramatic changes in physical state that are a hallmark of Parkinson’s disease. All the same, to have these two societal bookends of responsible adulthood illustrated in such a short space of time was surreal.

When I’m “off” and fighting a sleep attack, my face goes slack, eyes dull, with all movement grinding forward painfully slow. And then, thirty minutes later, I might be racing the lawn mower around the yard while laughing loudly at the memory of a particular juvenile prank from decades earlier, my face bearing the toothy grin of a five-year-old child.

And I’m pretty damned pleased that they are both the confused, the hell with society, genuine me. I’m into my 15thyear since Parkinson’s diagnosis, and I honestly like who I am.

I suppose this is why I collect AARP cards (If you refuse to join, they just keep on sending ‘em). I don’t appreciate labels, especially in a culture that minimizes our humanness to the inner bracket of two arbitrary numbers, absent curiosity or insight.

My stack of un-activated AARP cards represents the silly labels we all use. Society pressures us to conform to a “proper” life, and then, at 65, we are expected to be a good little dodder and die quietly out of sight.

Never fond of moderation, if one AARP card hanging on the wall is good, then—well, you get the picture.