Lyrics from Diemm’s album Ten Thousand Miracles (2018)



Carry Me Through

If I could live my life like a bell, who would be the one to ring me?

And would anyone hear the sound, ringing out all around?

Formless form, rising free; to resonate eternally.

As lovers pass heat from lips to lips.

As river stones make a passage for water to slip.

As every moment passes anew.

This heart carries me through.

Teach me to love you; fully freely completely.

We can spin like the stars; illuminated from within.

No thought of tomorrow; taste eternity on your skin.

If I could live my life like a song, who would be the one to sing me?

And would anyone one sing along? Build a bridge of harmony.

Formless form, rising free; to resonate eternally.



Siren Song

My trust in you turned to ashes

In the blaze of your choices.

The friction of you leaving made

A callus of my heart.

Who am I

Who am I to ask you

to disregard the voices

the Siren song of freedom you keep on hearing

when it’s dark.

I am a spark.

Love just like God loving God.

Love just like Life loving Life.

Love just like heaven is here between us,

It’s not some destination.

The world is full of beauty

Beautiful women everywhere.

When you turn your gaze to look at me

Do you look for beauty or compare?

Who am I to expect you

To be able to see me

In a world that measures women

By the smoothness of our skin.

Hold that wild feminine in.

You can’t appreciate what you don’t see

You can’t see what you don’t look for.

I blaze with ten thousand beauties, and

I can show you to the door.

Who am I

Who am I to ask you

to disregard the voices

the Siren song of freedom you keep on hearing

when it’s dark.

I am a spark.



Ten Thousand Miracles

Yesterday the sun rose up

in the west.

I walked in circles backwards

trying to make butter out of water.

Maybe nothing is broken,

maybe nothing is wrong.

Stress is all I get for

telling the sun where it belongs.

Living with ten thousand miracles

in a room full of regrets.

Living with ten thousand regrets

in a room full of miracles.

I know you know

even this grey day

is a pearl on a string of years.

Time tackles us and swings us by the tail

until we understand the world is spinning.

Living with ten thousand miracles

in a room full of miracles.


Here on the Path

Here on the path, I lie down

with the foliage and bugs pebbles and petals.

Friendly rocks nudge my ribs

with a stoic punchline only they can hear.

Looking up, I learn how to dance,

by watching leafy branches bend and weave with jazz hands above me.

The open azure of the only sky I’ve ever known comforts me

by pretending to be limitless, but I know

if I rose up too high, I’d bounce off a blue that hue,

so I lie down here.

Here on the path, time cradles me;

decorates me with lines, creases, and shadows.

Hangs dense evidence of various events along my listing spine, bony shoulders, knees and fingers.

The ageless surely bathe their souls by laying each precious vertebrae down

like a string of pearls

into the mossy musky sponge of the forest floor and wash their eternal eyes in the blue blue of the kind of sky that peeks in primordial patterns from between bowing branches and whispering leaves,

here; on the path.

Here on the path, I lay down armour I don’t remember ever picking up.

Mandala faces of thistle buds wink at me companionably

but tenderly protect their new growth with wicked merciless spines.

Able vegetable, generous and tall

behind a wall of string toughness that peels away easy

with the right touch

I know how the juicy centre of her spring stalks can burst

like wild bitter celery between my teeth.

We are culinary conspirators

nodding at each other

knowing each other inside out,

here on the path.

As I walk here

I want my clumsy human footsteps to be a perfect dance.

I want to busy my hands offering ovations

to every quiet bit of wonder that lies unseen underfoot.

Beauty passes

like liquid through my palms,

and I urgently grip, kneed, press

every disparate bit of Grace

into something sparkly, like a memory.

Something I can finally remember when I slow my lungs to

practice forest breathing.

My inhale tunnels deep, deep, into the Earth’s magnetic middle

and I exhale up, up, beyond the stars.

One real breath

at least

as I walk here.



Golden Cloak of Bones

O god, please release me from this longing for love.

Let the love I’ve always been, flood me like the shoreline to the sea.

Let me see.

I’ve never ever ever ever been alone, since I donned

this heavy golden cloak of bones.

O god, please release me from this longing, release me – –

for everything everything everything I already am.



 Silence Becomes Song

How much heaviness can a single note lift?
What is the weight of a single chord, a single sound?
Become hollow like a bird’s wing, a bird’s wing.
Echo with music that begins
where thinking ends.
Music wraps ribbons of Hallelujah
around the darkest haven of the heart.

Oh, the heart.

With two cupped hands, keep reaching
into the the blue of the sky. Listen…
Silence becomes song.
Silence becomes song.

Burning like paper we fizzle out,
we burn too bright.
If we were birds we would use our wings
to hold up the sky.
Let your hollow bones be filled with embers,
filled with light.
Give me the fuel for the right fire,
the right fire.
I know your perfect wings
will hold you up high.
You can trust the stars to hold up the sky.

Oh the sky.

I’m not fire, I’m not ash;
but the phoenix who rises through both.
You’re not lost, you’re not found;
what you feel is not what you are.

Silence becomes song.
Silence becomes song.



Want To Want To

The sad smiles on your face

blaze like flames in a fake fireplace.

My belly capsizes, I sink

but I pretend to be heat.

Take my words into your lungs.

Breathe them back out as goodbye.

Even water burns,

water burns when the kettle runs dry.

How long does trust take to bloom

after it’s been pruned?

Can I keep swooning keep falling in love,

like embers fall into flames along wood?

Like flames along wood.

How long does trust take to bloom,

after it’s been pruned?

I believe you want to want to love me.

I believe you want to want to 

hold me in your arms.

I want you to want the life you live.

I want you to want the love I give.

We wade through ash up to our hips:

silent syllables, burned up bits

of words that never fell from our lips,

words that make ashes and ashes.

Old flames together

on a deep bed of ash and ember.

We burn just for the heat.

Will the ashes make us complete?

Fall in love like embers

Fall into flames.



Moon Pocket
If I always had the moon in my pocket,
the stars would come along with me.
I’d never forget who I am,
I’d share my heart freely.

Sometimes I turn into a turtle,
and I hide my face deep inside my shell.
I don’t want anyone to hear me,
and I don’t have any stories to tell,
I don’t have any stories to tell.

Before she takes flight she must shed her cocoon.
To touch the sky,
Trust her wings to fly.
Trust her wings to fly.

If I always had the ocean in my teacup,
I’d drink all the earth’s salty tears.
I’d hide dolphins and whales inside my belly.
I’d keep them safe for years and years.

Sometimes my ears turn into seashells,
and they ring with ancient echoes of time.
All the news I hear turns to nonsense.
And I don’t believe the Earth could ever die;
I don’t believe the Earth could ever die.



One Tree

I am the breath of one tree sighing.

I am a slight flutter of life

standing at the shaggy, sprawling base

of an ancient cedar

rising to glory clouds.

My transient human presence is felt

within the slow swelling sap of this stoic cedar

like a moth, grazing her eyelid in the night.

My hands trace flickering hieroglyphs onto her trunk.

She weaves me stories with the swaying of her branches.

This is how we talk.

But I know, I know!

Even if I were to stand here,

for this entire life and the next,

I still would be only a single lick of a flame

rising white hot and gone

against the rhythm of her ebb and flow.

She breathes greenly,

at a different pace.

But maybe I can slow my breath to match.

Maybe I can stop dancing the jitterbug to our culture’s cacophony.

Stop dancing to the rapid fire staccato pulsing

that leads the caffeine-laced production pace

of a blindly industrious, numbly productive, self-destructive

human race.

Maybe I can slow down my startled rabbit heartbeat.

Redefine the outline of my spine.

Become a curving pillar of brown bark.

She is a bemused Grandmother,

holding her branches out

to her frantic chattering children.

She measures time by the watery tides of sap

that rise against gravity

within her rough and flaky cedar skin.

When I breathe with her,

my lungs open

into spongy green fronds,

and I become the tangy scent of her lost needles

spilling orange on the forest floor,

hot and sweet,

with last year’s summer sun soaking out of me.

Each exhale a memory of last season’s brightness.

Each inhale an invitation to


I am the breath of one tree sighing.

She may not see me,

but she feels me.

A shy shadow husked in silver,

a moth grazing her eyelid in the night.

I am the breath

Of one tree



Winter Night
The winter wind polishes the stars.
Through the icy air,
we can see so far.
Come and walk in the moonlit snow,
come and step among the stars.
Let your footsteps guide you,
where you dream to go.

The winter night lasts so long,
but shines so bright.
The coldest winter night,
wraps it’s icy fingers around us tight.
The coldest winter night lasts so long,
but shines so bright.

The moon rules the winter darkness.
The wind is her heavy-handed king.
Through nights etched in diamond,
the two of them sing:
“Come and walk in the moonlit snow,
Come and step among the stars.
Let your footsteps guide you,
Where you dream to go.”



Love Poetry
Your hands are embers fallen from the sun.
Your touch leaves trails of light on my skin.
You trace me with beauty,
you pour your beauty over me and I glow.
Generously I glow,
with a beauty you now call mine.
Your trace me with beauty,
you pour your beauty over me and I glow.

We are love poetry you know.
Making up the words as we go along,
in a torrent of dizzy sweetness, dizzy sweetness.

Oh, I love you…

When you look at me I feel seen.
I love the shape your name makes in my mouth.
I love the shape of you,
in my life, in my life, oh.
Just like pieces of a puzzle we fit.
We are the petals on the flower of life.
I am the night sky,
you’re the stars, you’re the stars, oh.

Words like white sparks
Are tangled in my head.
Does it matter what I said?
Truth can be read in silence,
Like a book without a word,
You look at me and I know
I am heard.



Never Alone
I lay my heart in the palm of a starry hand
in a vast, dark sky,
and rock to an eternal lullaby.

Oh, I want you to know
You’re never alone
The entire universe
Is within you.

Lay your hand in mine.
Together we will walk the mystery.
Holding each other high,
higher than we ever
could do alone.


We are Mythmakers.
We are underneath it all, submerged in a stream of stories.
Carried along in riptide currents of mental images, that fly by behind our eyes. 

This tumbling torrent is the template we draw form from.

Our daily life rises, dripping,
out of this rushing mythic river.
Our dreams gestate, take shape

within the waters of this place, but
like fish born swimming, we do not know how the river whets our dreams,
we just drink it in
with eternal thirst.
Always thirsty for themes, patterns, plots; thirsty for the mythos
that drives our unbidden rhythms.
We need metaphor, like manna
to feed our inner worlds,
and we grasp at myth offered,
like a babe on her mama’s breast.

Turning on our laptops, our backlit screens,

we are drinking from a soiled stream,
that cannot fill us, but leaves us starving, empty, even as our bellies expand:
gulping in glossy-paper-plastic images,
cramming ourselves with gritty handfuls of
compare, compare, despair.
Not good enough, not new enough, more, more;
gorging on images of gore.
Numbing ourselves with the shock of human neglect, disrespect.

Drowning in sea of external gratification,
where no hero can face her shadow,

or rise above her challenges,
because she wears the wrong mascara,

her shoes are too cheap,
and her car is not a true reflection of her ultimate life values.

Besides, since even the most celebrated, venerated female form betrays her own beauty
By being stretched hollow over a photoshop template of reality

until inhuman plastic proportions are achieved,

how can her own imperfect beauty be believed?

Turn off the tap.
Turn the tide.
Turn the tables that spin this media ride.

Mythmaker, take an image bath.
A story sabbatical.
Purge the urge to media medicate.

Make conscious the myths that carry you in their current.

And from the stream that moves behind your eyes,

go fishing for translucent scales; balance
on the edge, dive in.
Swim into the darkest, most cavernous reaches.

Revel in the brightest bluest bubbliest lagoons,

and tell me.
Tell us all. Tell us, over and over again,
with your true voice.
Human voice.
Raw and shining wild voice.
Tender blossom unfurling voice.
Tell us Mythmaker, what do you see?

What do you see in the rushing white water river behind your eyes?
We are both born from

and are birthing
this river.



Love It All

Collect problems like pebbles,

build me a wall,

so I can cast a shadow so long.

Weave a blanket of stories to stuff in my mouth

and keep me from singing my song.

I take one step forward in trust;
Two steps back in self judgement.
Running an impossible race.

Until I settle deep
In the only presence I am.
I give myself permission
To love it all.
Just love it all.

Peace is hiding, always hiding,
Peace is hiding in the heart of any struggle.

Can this many thoughts even fit in one mind,
Curled up tight in a ring?
Like a snake in a circle, biting it’s tail;
I over-think everything.
I take one small moment in time,
And live it over and over.
Playing an impossible game.

Until I settle deeply,
In the only presence I am.
I give myself permission
To love it all.
Just love it all.

Holding onto shadows; fist full of shadows;
Holding onto shadows never ever,
Ever brought me peace.

It all happens for me to

Love it all.

Love it all.

Wanting what you have

is the way

to have everything

you want.

Longing is honest,

Longing is just confusion.