Redwood

Towering giants surround you
The wind whispers to you
You lay down on a bed of leaves as soft
As the down from a mother goose
The wind whispers to you one more time as if
Trying to tell you a secret, you fall asleep

The Balloon

Jess sat on a slatted bench
on Pearl Street
to wait for a friend, when:

a girl sailed past in a skip,
a red balloon
bobbing in beat above her golden head.

While her parents took leaps to keep up,
she paused to feel
the gentle push of the wind against

the swollen and stretched red rubber.
Deliberately,
she let go the string in curious wonder.

The father, well-practiced at things
such as this,
grabbed the balloon in his fist

as it floated out of reach of the small
outstretched arm.
Giving it back to his child, he said:

There now, hold on to it tight.
Hesitating,
she took it and looked up to the sky.

Jess, knowing the heart of the child
said (to herself)
No, let it go, watch it fly!

WHO I AM.


Who am I you ask?

I’ve admired the tombs of Ancient Egypt,
Was born in the untamed wilds of North America,
Lived in the seas of sand and wild mountains of the Arabian Peninsula,
Traveled refined and classical Europe,
And set foot on the burning plains of Africa.

I spread my arms to the sky in a thunder storm,
The lightening like the light of Inspiration,
The thunder like the pounding of horses hooves,

The pulses of New Age music resound through my body,
As the lyrics of popular rap confuses my mind,
And Celtic Romance long forgotten trembles through my soul,

I am the Mysterious Blue Haired Girl,
The one called Mae,
Born a love child,
To parents who care so much it hurts,
As they tear themselves up inside over a disease that steals all reason,

I was born 10 years to the day of the Twin Towers fall,
In a cool forest on a log cabin porch,

Miles away from a grandfather who would come to love me,
Play a father role, And see me as another daughter,
Who would pass to soon for all who knew him,
And never see the woman I would become,

I’m the passionate cook who learned an art form,
From her grandmother, her mother, her father, herself,

The Brilliant writer of fantasy,
Who never stops reading,
And hopes for a career writing,
And fills cases and shelves with the books she spends her time and money on,

Painting is my first and only Love,
For I am the aspiring artist with big dreams,
Filled to the brim with her enthusiasms,
An eccentric teen with a thrift shop wardrobe and a personal look,
Who prowls the small shops in her hometown,
And in other small towns every chance she gets,

I’ve learned the hard way how far my families love goes,
I’ve pushed my self to my limits,
Fought through tears and heart ach,
Missed the ones I love,
Shaped a unique view on life, reality,
And the world we live in,
I’ve fought for the right to be me,
I’ve struggled for every inch to grow,

Yup that’s me,

I am Martha Dakota,
Meaning Lady Friend.
I am who I am,
With all my differences and diversities,
A study of colorful contradictions.

I am who I am,
And I’ll be who I’ll be,
I am the young woman who is so many things,

But above all… I am me.