Sun Kissed Days

Sun Kissed Days

Monday, June 20, 2016

Poetry As A Spiritual Practice

On this 2016 Summer Solstice Full moon, comes a collection of personal essays, poems and meditations as we undertake to illuminate the powerful role poetry plays in unleashing our spirits ...
I am honored and proud to share my words alongside my poet friends.
 All proceeds from the sales of this book will be donated to WriteGirl, a non-profit organization dedicated to promoting creativity and self-expression to empower girls.
I thank all the sisters that worked and contributed to this special project sharing their empowering and inspirational offerings. A special thank you to my friend Ginny Brannan and the editor that brought us all together, Catherine Gosh.  

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

The color of my blood

The shape of my eyes,
the sound of my voice,
the shade of my skin,
my sexuality.
The color of my blood
the same 
as yours.
If you saw the light in my eyes,
if you saw my mother's tears,
if you felt her fears,
grief engraved on her skin.
Would you have yanked me
like a weed from the
garden of life,
Would you have shattered
me in pieces
 leaving me
to bleed out in the dark.
Ideologies differ,
dreams unalike,
my diversity
makes me
a beacon in the fiber
of humanity.
The shape of my eyes,
the sound of my voice,
the shade of my skin,
my sexuality.
The color of my blood
same as yours.

This poem is dedicated to all the victims and survivors of Orlando           <3 br="">

Monday, May 23, 2016

No Boundaries

I savor the snapshots of our life,
a little boy's laughter
angelic and sweet.
We were two peas in a pod,
smiling as we welcomed the night,
books by the bedside,
your little finger curled
in the tangle of my hair,
as you pleaded for one more story.
I was your cheerleader
in games lost,
in dreams nurtured and sustained.
I wanted to see the world through
your eyes,
not mine.
You taught me lessons
in ordinary moments,
that gracefully were extraordinary.
You taught me that there is
no other option but 
the naked truth.
I should have known
that your world
would become larger
and that mine would be smaller,
that life would be complicated,
a new path
mapped with boundaries.
The storms that I endured 
would be kernels of wisdom 
to let go,
to step back,
to watch you stand on your own.

Saturday, May 7, 2016


There was a comfort
knowing that I could hear 
your voice,
melt into your arms,
watch the shadows cast
on your face
and know how to bring
light into your eyes.
There was comfort in loving,
in living,
in a shared meal,
an anecdote,
in silent moments.
There was comfort 
I no longer find,
the one I felt in your womb 
or your gentle hand
on my burning forehead 
when I was sick.
I have no church or synagogue
to find refuge in.
I seek the museums 
of the world
where we once walked 
I walk alone.
In their splendor
I feel you like a gentle wind
beside me,
urging me to see the magnificence. 
The art fills my soul
with curiosity and wonder.
I find you there,
loving me,
giving me the will
to find the essence
in the beauty of this life.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Your beating Heart

The black bird carried a twig
to the nest,
the shimmering light reflected
over the lake.
Spring entered our home
and our subconscious,
yet I have not stopped 
to welcome the sounds of the 
earth awakening
dreamily stretching
like a ballerina executing 
a pirouette. 
I've been nourishing
and nurturing
those that I love.
I have been sadder 
than they can understand
and stronger than I can comprehend
I have been living in the past
more than in the moment,
feeling the helplessness
of how time floats through
my hands and my days.
Moments that we can't get more of,
days once wasted lost and gone.
I've been stretching my limbs,
my mind diluted.
the wind whispers in my ear,
"You are strong"
it says.
I scream,
"Have you not seen my tears,
heard my defeat,
felt the weakness of my wounds".
I run through the torrents of rain
listening to the uplifting guidance,
longing to hear
the sound of your beating heart..   

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

A piece of ourselves


The sun honey colored
 and brazen
gleamed through the door as he entered
clutching bouquets of flowers.
Daisies, Lillis,Ginger
wild and beautiful.
I reached out for one,
the thorns of the rose
pierced my skin,
reminding me that life
was not always this way,
soft and loud with beauty.
The flower guy
was away in a mountain cabin
 writing his first novel.
I smile 
understanding the struggle of
bleeding unto the page,
pouring our fears,
unveiling our truth,
weaving our words.
How softly we click on
the keys of our devices 
writing feverishly.
Our minds holding boulders,
in the trenches of our thoughts,
fearful to leave on the page
more of ourselves than 
we intended to.
I trim the flowers
on a slant,
place them in the 
green and white crystal vase.
I cut my words
into shattered pieces of myself,
I place them on the page,
quickly I
erase and
start over.