Songs for the
Flowering Human

The old singers do not sing to perform or convince. Rumi turns his weeping into poetry that has never stopped. Milarepa in his mountain cave sings a hundred thousand songs to the snow. Ikkyū sings his poems to the Buddha in the brothel. They sing because song is the shape remembering takes, and remembering longs to be shared.

Much of what reaches us now is shaped for the opposite work. A hundred quiet insistences we are small, that love is a market, that the body is a product, that the self is a thing to be arranged.

I make the older kind. Song that softens. Verse that remembers. Words that awaken. Speech that does not sell you a vision of yourself you will have to eventually let die. I make songs for the flowering humans, the dreamers, the visionaries, the wanderers, the seekers, the mystics, the magicians, the lovers of the divine. If this finds you, it was meant to. If this is a language you remember, stay close.