(وَاذْكُرْ رَبَّكَ فِي نَفْسِكَ تَضَرُّعًا وَخِيفَةً)

Sometimes grief can be so overwhelming, this tragedy of wanting to turn back time, especially to the lost of a great love

Oxygen

Creative Anima: The feminine aspect of the psyche as creative muse and gateway to the unconscious. Depicts creative inspiration as feminine presence that steals us from ordinary consciousness into realms of artistic possibility and imaginative transformation. From my new book Breakfast with Jung -  Chapter Five - Anima and Animus

Drunk on Metaphor and Music

In the velvet dark of two AM
She slips between my ribs
Like moonlight through venetian blinds
Her breath against my neck
Carries the scent of jasmine

Through dream-swept hours she moves
Each gesture fluid as rain down glass
Her bare feet silent on wooden floors
Her fingers trace lavender on my skin
While her hair spills ink-dark stories across my pillowcase

And her laugh scatters wild birds
Across my bedroom ceiling
Even my tongue learns to speak in green
Tasting wild honey and sea-salt

She feeds me red wine and midnight
Dances me through territories
Unmapped by cartographers of reason
Until my bones forget their old addresses

Time itself grows drunk on her presence
Each moment an eternity of wanting

When dawn breaks like a china cup
I find only scattered pages by my bed
Wine glass stained with her thumb-prints

And realize
It was Poetry all along
Who stole through night's borders
Left me drunk on metaphor and music

Dancing barefoot through language's wild gardens
Forever speaking the music of her silver tongue
She feeds me red wine and midnight
Until my bones forget their old addresses

Forever speaking
The music of her silver tongue
Dancing barefoot
Through language's wild gardens
Poetry all along

Drunk on Metaphor and Music

Love poem to personal shadow. Intimate exploration of tenderness toward rejected aspects of the self. Part of my new book “Breakfast with Jung” Chapter 2- The Shadow

Ode to the Unseen Self

Intimate father-daughter connection across digital divide with medical/cultural elements during war in Gaza..

Rita Lyrics

"I'm singing this for my daughter Rita,
named after a Palestinian poem.
She's been safe with her mother for a year and a half now,
while I stayed behind in Gaza as a surgeon.
This is what I want her to understand
about love and sacrifice."


Jasmine shampoo lingers
in prayer bead memories
Her small head against my chest
before borders became walls

The screen cracks down the middle
when she laughs at toys, not me
A fractured mirror—
half father, half ghost

Rita, Rita
Born from a poet's verse
I hummed melodies against her skin
felt you kick to rhythms
older than wars

"I feel like I forgot you a little bit"

Truth needs no permission
You've forgotten my arms' weight
beard's scratch
how I stole breakfast bites

But then—a seven-year-old
your age, face burned
eyes still bright
As I rebuilt what shrapnel stole
I heard your giggle
in her breathing

Rita lives in every child I save

The call that changed everything:
"Papa, I'm learning Arabic
for that poem I'm named after
I carry you in my pocket
When kids ask where my father is
I say: He's fixing the world
They say 'Wow'"

Rita, Rita
I see a daughter who learned
to carry heritage like medicine
You need me here
so you can be proud

Jasmine returns—
not memory, but tomorrow
when you run toward me
six inches taller
Arabic phrases saved like gifts

Rita, Rita
Writing your own story now

Rita

This intimate six-track EP explores identity, values, and simple truths through a country lens. At its heart is a heartfelt tribute to Dolly Parton, celebrating her authenticity and generous spirit that defines the best of country tradition.
The collection weaves together personal reflections on finding yourself, choosing substance over superficiality, and the relationships that sustain us. Each song asks fundamental questions: Who are we when everything falls away? What legacy do we leave? How do we stay true while growing?
Musically, the EP embraces classic country storytelling with warm, acoustic-driven arrangements - like front-porch conversations set to melody. The production stays intimate and organic, allowing space for the vulnerable truth-telling that country music does best.
Themes: Authenticity vs. pretense, wisdom in simplicity, honoring trailblazers, small-town values in a big world, and the courage to be genuinely yourself.
Country music for anyone needing to remember what really matters - whether you're a lifelong fan or just need "a little country" wisdom in your life.

[DAUGHTER]
"Dad... you never really talk about the old days...
What were you like... before?"

[FATHER ]
"Before what, sweetheart?"

[SON]
"Before you settled down... before me and Jess... when you were... you know... out there."

[FATHER]
Started out with no name worth keeping
Just a poncho and a bad attitude
Drifted into towns like smoke
Left the same way
Nobody asked questions
I didn't offer answers
Back then I thought mystery
Was the same thing as strength
Turns out it was just loneliness
Dressed up fancy

[DAUGHTER]
"Were you scared?"

[FATHER]
"Every day

[DAUGHTER]
But fear keeps you alive
Out there"


[FATHER]
I collected dollars
And enemies
Sometimes it was hard
To tell the difference
The good, the bad, the ugly...
I've been all three
Depending on who was asking
And what day it was
Your hands remember
Every trigger pulled
Even when your mind
Tries to forget

[DAUGHTER]
"Do you regret it?"

[FATHER]
Regret's a luxury
I couldn't afford then
Now...
Now I got time for it"
Somewhere along the way
I stopped being the man
With no name
Started being the man
With too many names
Legend, killer
Hero, villain
Depends on who's telling the story
But out here
With you
With this fire
With this coffee that tastes
Like morning instead of whiskey...

I'm just your dad
And that's the only name
That matters anymore

[DAUGHTER]
"Are you happy now?"

[FATHER]
"Happy's another luxury
I'm learning to afford
One cup of coffee at a time"

The frontier's gone now
Towns got names
Roads got signs
Law's got rules

But sitting here
With you asking questions
I never learned to answer...

Maybe this is what
I was riding toward
All along

[DAUGHTER ]
"Will you tell me more stories sometime?"

[FATHER]
"Yeah, sweetheart
I reckon I will"

A Little Country (One)

The Only Name That Matters

Greatest Piano Symphonic Fusion by BL8antBand 

Greatest Piano Symphonic Fusion

Progressive house anthem exploring Jung's concept of Self through Goldilocks metaphor. Journey from fear to wholeness where the emerging self could be your beloved daughter, Holocaust survivor grandmother, or any special soul - dead or alive - that forms part of who we authentically are.

She Flies To Me

Like a blind mole I travel the earth 
In the blackest of days 
My dark suitcase stuffed with stars 

Blackened glass
Into the darkest part of me
She flies to me 
Quenched in her sunshine
In clear blue skies 
She flies to me

Ahh, ah ah
Ahh, ah ah

Like a blind mole I travel the earth 
In the blackest of days 
My dark suitcase stuffed with stars
Where does she go
She flies to me

Ahh, ah ah

She walks with dignity and grace 
Bones melt into her clothes 
As the breeze lifts her 
To a better place
(Grace, grace, grace, grace)
The story stops here, says the line 
Really? says the circle

Ahh, ah ah
Ahh, ah ah

She flies to me 
She flies to me, 
She flies to me 
Through sunshine and clear blue skies 
She flies to me, 
Where love never dies

Ahh, ah ah
Ahh, ah ah
Ahh, ah ah
Ahh, ah ah

Here she comes
Here she comes

Where butterflies tremble 
And wildflowers sing
Stripped back to soft focus together
Ahh, ah ah

She flies to me, 
She flies to me 
The circle never ends
She flies to me, she flies to me 
Love transcends everything 
Everything, everything
Hoo ahh
Never ends, Never ends
It happened

SHE FLIES TO ME

Cultural Identity Adaptation. Examines how personas vary across cultures, revealing identity's fluid yet persistent nature across diverse social environments. From my upcoming book "Breakfast with Jung" - Chapter 4: The Persona.

MASKS of the WORLD

In New York's glass canyons
I wear ambition like a tailored Armani
My voice a razor-edged saxophone
Cutting through Manhattan's vertical dreams
Some nights, loneliness echoes between towers

Tokyo wraps me in layers of keigo
Each bow origami-precise, perfectly timed
In subway silence, I fold myself smaller
Until my Western edges disappear
Still, my laughter sometimes breaks protocol

Lagos embraces me in Ankara rhythms
Air thick with diesel dreams and palm oil
Here, even silence speaks in proverbs
While my tongue learns to dance between
English proper and pidgin truth

In Delhi's ancient-modern maze
I dissolve into family's warm ghee
Where "I" means "we" means centuries
Of aunties measuring love in chapati
Yet sometimes solitude calls like a copper temple bell

Melbourne catches me between hemispheres
Part London formal, part Pacific ease
Here, my persona sports board shorts and thongs
With theoretically infinite irony
While belonging slips through gum-tree shadows

In Māori marae, I learn to wait
My Western rush dissolved in ritual
Pōwhiri protocols reshape my edges
Until I know my place in the spiral
Though my bones still hold foreign rhythms

Each culture's mask fits differently
Some loose as silk, some tight as fate
All me, none me entirely, these faces
I gather at identity's bazaar
Each one teaching me how to be strange

Masks of the World

S F H music

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