Sunday, December 31, 2017


Flip-side shadows:
murky land—moonlight
uneven footsteps—assurance of night vision
crouching in the dry, beach grass—trees bellowing foreboding groans
blasted by the ocean wind—skin to skin on my mother's breast

Out on the boardwalk
Luna relumbrante.

Thoughts suspended in gravitational clarity.


Misty undertow of dreams drawing in
the tide, the womb, the mind, the heart.

Obscurity in reverse:
murky sky—moondark
land disintegrating underfoot—eyes fixed above
arms outstretched on a gusty flight—forest emptied of creature stirrings
blasted by the night's stillness—pressed on by my mother's hand

Thursday, December 21, 2017

The Wall

My lover's words....

A few simple words. A request...

...the ill-treated child within my being read coercion.

My body continued but my mind coiled around the words and locked down until my body could no longer continue—until I couldn't speak or move.

I recoiled, escaped.

Trapped in a mental assault, with the bathroom light on, I latched onto the towels, hoping they'd provide some tenderness. When none came, and the voices grew louder, an icy rigidity seized my body. My eyes clamped open.

Each thought laid itself like a brick, stacking layer over layer over layer, sealing me out. The bricks rose higher and higher. Seconds became years. My mind sentenced me to an interminable, impenetrable misery of the wall. I longed for death, some end to it.

I removed myself to the couch and laid out an isolation shroud. I sank down, leaden and listless. Resigned.

Some filament of something began to grow through a tiny crack in the wall, too small to notice at first—a memory, the scent of sap, grounding, bare feet on the soil.

Wall construction continued. Resignation turned to a panic-stricken search for a door, some passageway through. My eyes darted back forth until they came upon a tiny root curling itself through, and stopped.

I reached out and touched its delicate, silken hairs.

“Go outside,” it whispered.

An answer: I could make my way through the wall, from the outside in, calling on the Earth. Though, at the time I didn't recognize how I'd get through in this way, the message was clear: go outside.

I pried myself off of the couch and willed myself back into the bedroom.

Clothes... protection from the cold.

His voice asked after me through the wall, from miles away. I could not answer.

Clothes, protection. Rigid mind and fingers fumbled through the dark to find them. My mind began to thicken the wall with new layers—but I could not forget the root and its message: go outside.

Clumsy hands grabbed his coat and heavy feet carried me down the stairs. As the cool air hit my face, tears came. Water for the root.

Wall construction hurtled on at a frenzied pace. My mind calling me to perform some drastic, self-destructive act—continuing to invite death, violence to dash out my thoughts.

But my feet were sure by now and carried me down the path, over fallen branches and to a cold, dew-soaked, mossy tree trunk. I reached out a hand and leaned in. Sobs leapt from my chest.

The salty water soaked the root. It began to stretch itself down to the Earth, upwards, sideways. Braiding and entwining itself. Taking form. Taking up the substance of the wall into itself. It was becoming an archway and light began to seep through.

I walked out from the forest and back to the path. I stepped out of my shoes and onto the roots of a giant read cedar. Here was all the tenderness I needed: the girth of its solid trunk, the sweet smells of its bark, the damp Earth. An ancestor to hold me, to stand with.

The light flooded through the wall's rooted archway and into my body. The thoughts subsided. I could remember tenderness: his, my own, and the world's. I could go back with an opening in my heart.


Thursday, March 20, 2014

Forest Bathing

Full creek,
   cloudy with sediment
and the rush of fresh rains

a musty, mossy scent
thickens the air

the forest is fluttering,
   floating by
rivers of motion:

cascades of winter wren trills
branches heavy with buds
little dogs
muddy-footed runners

even the skinny jean advertisers
  are taking in
    the first luxurious morsels

of spring.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

A lover is born!


29 years ago today a lovely human being was born, somehow scooted, sat, cried, crawled, walked, ran, jumped, played and eventually made it across the street into my life. How wondrous a being he is and I love him dearly.

He sits across from me now, tea slurping, burping, lips pursing now and again as he reads. This lovely human being with whom I feel so at ease, even when riding grumpy, whiny, annoyed, fearful, anxiety-ridden waves, the ones I don't acknowledge in the company of pretty much anyone else.

Well, I love him dearly, what more is there to say? THank YOU Universe for this delicious beauty I get to share in, for this man, so of a man!


Monday, February 3, 2014

Gratitude. Months Later.

One teacher recommended simply saying gratitude to oneself and seeing what arises....

Safe home
stuck (can't think of anything)
a loving companion (handsome, gentle)
The cat, full of cuteness, curled up, warm and snug, loves it when the heater's on.
The miracle of electricity (somehow rushing water and wind bring light and heat to my living room, power this thing I'm typing on).


Socks, the hands that made them, packaged and shipped them. Hands in Mexico? China? India?
Every item in my cluttered living room touched by un-named hands.
Interdependence, somehow it all works.
A day to rest when ill, paid sick leave.
Stable work.
Supportive Family.

Making birthday cards for friends.
Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping late.

Remembering gratitude.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Written sketch: cat, lover, guitar

There is a stuck bit.

Cat pouncing on her prey of air, shadow and string.

The lover whistles Star Wars and asks,
"Whatcha writins?"
addresses the cat, then removes his guitar from its case and sits.

Tuning and tinkering. Nimble fingers remember rhythms and patterns
like a young boy calling his dog out to play fetch.
It's a game they both know quite well
boy, ball and dog
fingers, strings and vibrations.
When he sits in the corner, strumming, what a beautiful dance of plunking,
strumming, pressing, face scrunching,
head tilted down and slightly to one side
encouraging the notes to come forward like shy little children,
ever so gently, ever so persistently.
There's a luxurious, honeyed serenity in his expression,
a silent joy.
The beauty of concentration wrapped delicately in each of his movements.

'barassed, looking over now and again at this spy.

He stops playing.

And again they waSH over me.

He switches guitars and addresses the cat a second time.
Again tUnInG
again  f l o w i n g  notes.

His left pinky curls in and out ever so slightly about the air
while the other fingers press down on the strings, so rapidly
as to land in a blur.

He moves the capo up and down the neck
slipping from one song into the next,
protests at my request for further playing
but hugs in his guitar in for one final tune.

"What's happening?
Whatcha doin' over there?"

Friday, March 29, 2013

Vanishing Act

Sandy footsteps stolen by gusts of wind,
laughing away any physical remnants of
our walk in the canyon.
Does the cold granite remember the warmth of me?
Or the flittering tendrils of butterfly feet
that alighted upon it?

Heaving breaths and footfalls later,
the thrasher zigzagged among boulders and cholla,
dancing along the threads of its harmonic web;
ducking, perching, puffing, calling out,
frozen and piercing with its amber eye,
then off again.

                                                 Tracing backward:
Before slip-sliding down gravel paths
and climbing out from the hills' shadow,
whispers of water seduced my parched ears.
Evidence of her sweetness
in the smooth grooves and dry canals,
the force of her reduced to
a few damp patches of earth and one trickling puddle.
She vanished;
a hint of willow green,
sweet nectar for the mourning cloak...

...transient desert Mother.