i, epigram
write wide, write deep

the shelf: t's writings

“Because this business of becoming conscious, of being a writer, is ultimately about asking yourself, How alive am I willing to be?"

Anne Lamott

home, 2008

My feet feel the warmth of my dream's promised land
Of white sand
And my gaze traced the curve of never ending gold,
Where the cold
Blue waves brush gently against it. I lift my face,
And with grace,
The wind caressed my cheeks and danced, without a care,
Through my hair.
I was there, by myself, and all I could hear
Was the clear
Voice of God and the wind and the sun and water
In laughter.

As Seattle's cold wind freezes my hands and feet,
My heartbeat
Longs for the rhythm of gurgling waves that crashes
Gold ashes
That peacefully lie in the sun's warm embrace;
The wind plays
With my hair instead of frosting it with ice,
And the nice
Gentle breeze brings laughter back to my voice
I rejoice
At the sight of my paradise, not just a poem.
I'll be home.


Tirza Magdiel, March 2008