All Paths Lead to You

To sweeten you with these two hands,
is to seek you, to trace the distance
against ardor in the course of Autumn birch.
I gather the heavy scent, fondle it in cotton
above the changing leaves,
above the urgent of voices,
above the highest
           inclination

                                        of clouded blue.
My footfall is infinite;
it moves to a cadence
not my own, awaiting
homecoming like a second skin,
          where one pauses on the
boundaries of an atlas in expectation of
breath to breath or perhaps a candle
in the wake of night to lead the way.

To find is to resolve, to gaze beyond
the carroty of cones that direct through
                                        intersections,
farther than the the dusts of Arizona,
             the streams
that emptied long after your exodus.
And I know if I unearth you, I open brilliance,
a man softened, aged gracefully through-
out the years, where my flesh becomes your
flesh as a garden is to soil.
                                         There I will inhale

once       only once, senses enduring the rush
that permeates within your beating chest.
I will linger for a moment, seconds before
I expire into the depths of your throat,
                                                lightly
smoothing the words you long to say.

On nights such as this

Both intimate and collective are our hands
                                    during the season
they hearten organs rapid in anticipation;
an allure of ignited fireflies multiply, where
the cheek grows an ideal flush in moments
where one nears ov         er joy.

The lovers tongue, expert and authentic,
               it flusters the length of the vine
               illumine, feather-soft, fragrant,

overturning everything. I just want to break
you down into the narcissus bloom, a tight
leaf unfurled like a boy in the backseat of
                                    his mothers sedan.

The sounds would impel across fields
in an array of lavender and thick silver
an orchid spun into the air, a window
moist with the breath

of night. Observing from the flowers,
we cup our palms in acquiescence,
           spit gratitude from the red of
                       the sweetened throat.

Letter by Letter

I knew one day I would send you a letter
like this―
words strung like clouds against the blue,               
a mere note that you would stroke one
thousand times over to the scent of
                             lavender and lucidity.

        Consider the madness of
this place: lights that flicker in delight,
turning nights on silent film―
a landscape of
hunger and blush.

If only you knew how you breathe inside of
me like rainfall, Spring vigor, or wet hands
that
        ex                                             tend
        past the edge of this silent city.

O, you! Yes, you,
you are poetry in the book of
Sullivan. One I do not dare to lie down.

I'd tell you everything

In dream, I have tasted a saint; the moisture
still drying deep in the thorax the fluid,
                                fruit spun from a tree.

Within his defenses, a pine-bedded forest,
an un-divided Texan sky that hums between
two seasons, unfastened & affectionate,

where sheep count on nights to hot to sleep,
where we two converse about something
or                                        nothing at all,

their fleece, a blanket of mourning that shivers
& soaks our imaginings like the thin fingers of
watchful addicts along the vine.

His hand, a closeness that I have come to know
beneath the ornamental eves of a secret chalet
                                                 in september,

where we burn before the gates, off the cuff,
a tongue of sunken idiom illicit on the lip.

A Glimpse of Things to Come

I re-enter into a past thought through
letters, and linger within―dialogue,
the lateral sequence of
pearl.

I cannot say what moves me or sets
me once more to conversations
in midday, but the senses
becomes brilliant like blue eyes
        late to bloom, clarity
                 ―and a balcony
that
      overlooks a woman   she sweeps
the ice like a mother would her floor.

On the soft on my nape, words,
rainfall, and the sporadic sun
          all positioned to calm the skin,
                         smooth out the cold.

And I see clusters of green birch and geese
                           on the peak of rock-face

they blend into
the scene almost perfectly―chest,
touch, and your voice, would adorn
it even more with a luster so vast,
I might shatter.

A bit outr, but often, I hear you
                                             in the far-flung
boughs of those wintered trees,
    where we embrace letters
                                        to the
                                               last line,
never to disregard what it is we long for.

Three or Four Shades of Blue

It is 6am and I douse my hands in the iridescent afterpuddle
of your tender, gaping words. Septembers lingering chill, a fade to silence mordent:
                       measure to measure, each second from unlit window to white fence,
un                                       dyingly sweep the sunlight to the horizon,
warming the succession of rubato affettuoso heartbeats, one swell un     clenching
                                                                             to the next. You are asleep now.
You dream in circles, where the curved stems of forget-me-nots meet
the waterway and we are infant boats bobbing downstream,
buoyant along copper coasts. I want to wake you,
                        the hush of our breaths shifting between lips.
  I imagine us walking the hours, seconds before a paper sun
                                  shatters early morning.  We take the path beside
choke-cherry and vine.                      I imagine an ambush or surrender
                                                                            there, your tongue sifting shards
                seeding all that you have so much to say.
                                                I turn toward you, push mine to yours as if to ease
                                                  the ache--as if to remove the gauze and the casts
and finally find myself sprinting.                   You welcome it. I imagine another kiss
as if my chest could circulate all of the lost clouds
i                       nto one untangled, floating world,
as if I could feel yours charted with mine
leaving my body lifeless, awaiting next birth.
                                               Oh how I burn. Thighs tightly together
                                                                its too much, its too much.

Dont be surprised

It was bound to happen.
For days the ache lie at the door;
an intractable silhouette that refused
                                   to slip away.
I step outside, stand beside the autumn
leaves. I dream a dream of kissing you
amid the moist air. Is it only a dream?
If not,                               then what?
Because it is here in the traces of
footfall that I imagine you.
Your hands gather mine, place them
to chest,      where everything burns,
           where each second is counted
where the tongue thickens along the path.
In this September of my life, the voice
knows not of language  a circle of
                                               sound
        like an echo, subtle in the mouth.
With cool hands, I button my coat
and I walk the distance of your smile.
I consider the words of
Neruda         and by the same shore,
I would end my journey, place roots
within his, lie quiet, and await for you
                                  to discover me.
If your heels drag in season, and you
cannot reach me     if your heels drag
in season, and you could never reach
me, the sea breeze would shatter my
form, the dream would fade away.

Coco Chanel

“Women think of all colors except the absence of color. I have said that black has it all. White too. Their beauty is absolute. It is the perfect harmony.” ―Coco Chanel ♥

B&W

My B&W Slideshow

Oh Joy!

During hours of madness

Your words brush flesh-like behind my nape,
where I am pressed by a bitter wind
              on my way to make amends.
I gather for hours        these moments, where
I live inside of you, where I curl in the kindness
and cool of your extended hands.
I long to inspire them, to run my own against
them           guide each [breath] across chest
like a lucid dream or fervor.
And I cannot sense whose heat is whose
                            when I read your lines.
But I am compelled to keep you at hand,
caught in my hair like a prayer, a slip of
the thigh as I move broad, descend deeper,
                                           swallowing you.
But it is only a dream, only a dream.
And with reverie slipped soft beneath my skirt,
I step into the basilica, and everything
becomes still as if the members felt my thoughts,
sensed the confession still warm on my tongue.

Becoming the Breeze That Chases the Boy

Blush is the skin after his voice
it weighs as much as the tongue flustered.
Where clarity does not come without ache,
and like a egrets cautious step in peril,
                          the body slows to naught.

The senses concede each muscle, fluid,
an oceans barrage. The vascular parapet,
the dark valves of altars, a reminder that one
must prepare on the wire for collapse.

One must thicken arteries to cease the flow,
so the language that pushes through his throat
does not slip into the open spaces, pierce
                        the defenses with a single flutter
just as the heart begins to calm, when Autumn
has left a deeper auburn on the leaves,
just when you have glanced away for a moment.

As If By Sea

O love, speak to me.
Should we end as quickly as we
                                      began?

I slip past your lips tonight, find myself
inside flesh, where
each second, I witness
                             you for the first time.

And I know now that it will not be you
who catches my fall: there is nothing
con       necting us anymore, but space.

For a moment, I rest in the deep of
your throat― beautiful and low,
I pull
       each breath with a stern finger,

voice impelling from your chest
nothing pushing nothing       [nothing].

And there is no frame to this leg room,
no fervor free of reluctance      I wish
you were really here.

A plea is not enough      you are built like
stone, these two hands cannot get past
the water that rises―splitting words

to a scat    ter          soon it will be
against the nape, its salt thickening my
own tongue
                  to a silence.


Not about anything in general. :)

For He Who Enters

O gentle one,
breathe in - I am warm on the wire.
My body rushes to the stroke, rigor
fills my palm as a lily might pervade
the garden.

I require more -
I need to feel
the madness in you,
tender lip, delicate thigh, and, and
the moments as they ex
-plore eagerness -
for you I am awake.

And O my the breeze lifts my dress;
its mellow depths, push cotton to cheek.
And in a state of array, I curve to fit
the form.

You follow    how stirring,
like a schoolboy, the gestures, the way
I move in you presence,
     my hair in your hands       it is
too much.

And there is something outside your door
                                  it is art, Italy, Neruda!
           No. It is only the sound
of the rain or a dream perhaps, but as your
mouth expands slow and silent

I peel from your skin in
blue. There is no path
more sustained than
           the one
              that leads to you.

Rapt in salutations we perform from one
window to the other, you grow fevered,
misplaced, lonely,
                                         in love.

O beloved, these words, like stones pressed
against your cheek, breathe in 
                  for I am [warm] on the wire.

An Autumn Walk

There are too many hours before dusk,
where one can become mislaid along
the hidden curves of the throat:
a burst
of laughter,
of white space,
of delicate, corporeal vocals;
a counting of the harvest in cultural

rearing. The voice is a lover:
a span of the sensual sun, a nervousness
that lies low in the season, waiting or begging
for release. And the flutter of chest becomes
wet, a way to taste the tongue, or perhaps
a lead that one must pursue solely.

I say this before the rain in hopes of
encore or breadth -
I dont know why I like it. I just do.

O, if I were an atlas
a diagram that reveals warm breath on flesh,
I would gather the hum that cascades nicely
from the sweetened lip, sweep it to elite waters,
and drown in what could never be mine.

Florida

San Francisco

Like a hand on an unstrung harp

O, I envy your voice when it maddens,
the way it moves in & out of love.
I feel the sound of soft bone splinter
in an instant―fragments, ardor, the slight
of heat beneath skin it is radiant.

The rush an explosion of sorts like lilies
a thousand shades of white as September
rises to rain beyond sense of place,
beyond our eyes.

I sense the tightness in my throat as you
place your words onto the quiet of mine.
I quiver before my own heart: a girl drawn
restless in half moon, favored in your light.

I see rows of brilliant bloom, a garden,
a gate succulent, inviting. And as I give
in to downpour, my walls collapse, hands
slipping into the warmth of yours.

Falling From Western Skies

In the mirror, I see his face
It has been so long since I have
heard the soft of        his voice
along the wire―
its sweet laughter
         forming my lips
                     to a curve.

        It has been hours since I have sensed
the fruit on his breath through
dialogue and delight
a stirring like no other.

And I will wait
a small existence against the horizon, wait as my
fingers turn to numb, until the slightest movement
brushes my flesh against his.

I sit on the white sands of a late September morn,
watch the tide feed back into the sea.

Far off, the precipice stretches to sky:
it stands from one end to the other of
my undying admiration.

I gather my pen, begin a letter:

Dearest one,

Drown by tangled sentiment, reflective
in thought―my hands tremble
as I write.

This place, a landscape of vigor - it demands
the passion caught carelessly in my hair,
but I do not
give in.

Everything that forms my breath,
remains contained in your hands, held
softly as first snow. It presses me
to call out your name,
     but you
         are not here.

And the tide is rising―
fresh water that fingers my flesh as you might.
Its want, deep-seated, eyes empty, like the way
I am on days without your warmth.

You pulsate inside me, leave me misplaced
in a season gone astray.

        I have searched for your face
in a crowded room, felt excitement from infinite
mountain sides, where all the every things
are counted like blue cars or drops of rain.

Here, as the last words fall away,
I surrender myself.

        Here, where the thread that ties one
voice to another will carry us quietly, to a place
where we can unfold these
cold and bare
hands.

Cocoa Beach

With clear and positive thinking, kindness, and perseverance you can fine tune your character, and bring to a focus greater opportunity, and a higher quality of people. Affluence begins within one's own mind.

Daytona Beach

Northen Wind

Happiness

Happy things:

falling in love, laughing so hard your face hurts, a hot shower, no lines at the market, a special glance, taking a drive on a quiet road, hearing your favorite song on the radio, lying in bed listening to the rain outside, hot towels fresh out of the dryer, chocolate milkshake, a bubble bath, giggling, the sounds of a church bell in the distance, the sound of a train whistle in the distance, a fresh breeze coming into the window, the smell of a fresh cut lawn, planting flowers and helping them grow, helping others, a genuine smile as you pass a stranger, getting a "quick note" from a friend or loved one, just saying "hello", they miss you, or that you have moved them in some way.

a good conversation, the sea, laughing at yourself, looking into their eyes and knowing they love you, running through sprinklers, laughing for absolutely no reason at all, having someone tell you that you're beautiful, family, religion, laughing at an inside joke with friends, others supporting what you do, accidentally overhearing someone say something nice about you, giving your time to others for no more than "just because", volunteering, the sound of an instrument playing softly, sailing, someone doing something sweet for you for no other reason, other than they care.

waking up and realizing you still have a few hours left to sleep, your first kiss (either the very first or with a new partner), making new friends or spending time with old ones, playing with a new puppy, having someone play with your hair, sweet dreams, hot chocolate, having best friends, being able to love others in good and bad times, hearing that a close friend loves you the way you are, seeing a gesture from a friend that makes your heart smile, a walk in the rain, sharing an umbrella.

road trips, swinging on swings, holding hands with someone you care about, running into an old friend, watching the sunrise/set, getting out of bed every morning and being grateful for another beautiful day, knowing that somebody misses you, showing the people around you how much you care, a good book, when someone REALLY gets your joke, making sweet things for others, supporting others in what they do, never judging, giving advice, letting them make mistakes, and being there to celebrate if they succeed, or to lift them up if they fall.

getting a hug from someone you care about deeply, a walk in the woods or along the beach, the rain, a good cup of coffee, a quiet smile, nature, feeling good in your heart, laughing so hard with a friend, someone making something nice for you, being silly, and knowing you've done the right thing, no matter what other people think.

Novembre

Beauty is an experience.

On a different note: Congrats to two beautiful boys on their 2012 graduation. Joey and Jacob have so many reasons to be proud. Love to them both. And congrats to all other grads! :)

Of Significant Things

Your mate should be your best friend--understanding and a good listener. They should never be judgmental of you, call you names, or make you feel any less of a person. And remember, your feelings are yours and it does not mean they are wrong just because others may feel different. ♥

Good Night

Happy Birthday to my wonderful older sister who passed away a few Autumns ago. (If you recall, my sister was saving a pup in the road who had just been hit by a car, when a truck came from behind and killed her.)  She was/is so beautiful and I miss her very much.

Also,  I would like to wish a very happy birthday to her beautiful daughter who shares the same birthday today.

For the rest of the world, good night and sweet dreams.

KSandra

Hey guys, check out artist Ksandra and keep your eyes out for my article this weekend on Emerging Magazine!  

Her latest album, “Light ‘n’ Dark” features collaborators from the likes of Snoop Dogg, Fergie, Slash and Beyonce. It is one of the great pop albums of the year, but is also an album that rewards more serious connoisseurs of music.  And she will be performing in Emerging Magazine's 3 day "Summer Trance Jam" - A celebration of the hottest techno, trance, club and house music!  Details coming soon!

The release Light 'n' Dark by pop singer K'SANDRA is being requested by radio DJs worldwide and making a huge wave. SPIN magazine announced "Finger on the Trigger" as one of best 50 songs in LA market for their PopChips Contest.

She just got nominated by Starliners Radio for their yearly awards 2012. KSandra is not only an amazing artist, she has a personality that keep one engaged in all she has to say--her energy and talent are out of this world. I adore her!

Album on iTunes, Spotify, Amazon, Pandora, and other outlets.

Make The Most Of It

We all deserve  to be surrounded by others that make us look forward to tomorrow. Seek friends that are positive and that encourage you to be the very best. After all, you only have one life, so make the most out of it. Negative energy takes too much from an otherwise prosperous and productive day.  - Cher Ferroggiaro

Of Significant Things

My Facebook Status Tonight: 

"Stefan is spending the night beside his father tonight, he has Alzheimer's and has been given one week to live. I adore being near him, so when at the hospital, I help him in any way that I can--even if it is just smoothing the wrinkles from of his sheets as he sleeps. He is loved by so many and I truly wish he were not ill. For Stefan, I hope that I have the strength to hold him tight enough, so that his heart will not break. ♥"

(Thank you to all that commented, but I deleted it because I prefer it being here.)

I am very good at handling bad things and even handled my older sister's death alone. (At least for a few days until I flew out to her funeral.) I do not know how I do it or even if I do "do it" and do not just turn  emotion off and become some sort of robotic figure. Perhaps, I never really take the time to grieve.  Odd, because I always take the time to love. No matter who it is, if they move me and make my heart smile, I will let them know.  Everyone needs to know when they are cared for. I love to love.

OK, I am getting off the subject. Moving forward (I am sure that I will re-write this many times, so forgive my messiness.)...

We were told today that Stefan's father has about a week to live. His father has Alzheimer's and a very bad fever. He just came home from the hospital after having pneumonia, but a fever has broken out once again. (We were just there a few nights ago.)

I truly enjoy being around him and adore his sense of humor. I am going to miss him.

I recall the first time that I met him; he was so kind and made me feel such a peace within. I told Stefan that visiting with him for those few hours were the best hours I had endured in some time--they were just so relaxing. The conversation was intriguing and has never been forgotten. The second time that I had met him we were knocking for about 15 minutes, but no one had heard us. Stefan and I decided to take a walk around his father's property, stopping by the small man-made lake as Stefan told stories of the past. Again, such a peaceful time.  Stefan is my best friend.

When his father finally answered the door, he walked with us, showing us things around the property, talking about his past and how easier it was to move around when he was younger. He told us stories of hunting, good times and gatherings at his home. He told me that he could tell that I was a good person just by the way that I carried myself. That made me feel warm inside.

There are certain people in your life that you simply adore being around and you know that when you talk to them, you are going to smile. He is one of those people. He is a rainbow. 

He truly made a mark on my heart-a piece of him will live within me forever. A part of him (his son) will live beside me forever.

Stefan is spending the night beside his bed tonight. I am here writing. We are together at heart.


Perhaps this post is all over the place, but I feel so many different emotions at the moment and it is hard to concentrate with so many things going on in our lives at the moment. All I know is that I have to be strong--strong like I was when my older sister was struck and killed by a truck, strong for my mother, for the family...for Stefan.

I can do that. I will do that.

Bill Bolland Haute Couture - Pure Elegance

Bill Bolland Haute Couture  - Such a beautiful and talented soul.

Source: billbollandcouture.com via Cherilyn on Pinterest

Ascolta le parole

 A photograph that I shot during a walk in a forest that embraced the sea.

San Francisco

A photograph that I shot on a beautiful day. I have so much love for the city.

Innocence

(Amelia)-Please view large.

“Children are the world's most valuable resource and its best hope for the future” -John Fitzgerald Kennedy

Grace

($1000.00 1st prize winner. I am grateful.)

Have a beautiful week ahead. xo