Archive | April 2013


So many swallows,
and the warblers are back.
This morning is
outside of time.
I close my eyes,
and you ask the questions.

It is a waking day,
a celebration day —
hints of summer
in the blessing sun.
I open my eyes,
and don’t know how to answer.

We grow serious
among the frolic.
I would give you all three,
but fear such tests of truth.
So instead,
I hold your dirty hands.

And I promise
I will not ask you
what you wish for,
if you promise
not to ask me
who is my muse.


tiny pleasures

…sleeping without socks, dirt between toes, muddy knees, wolf spider on my hand, pause to breathe and drum the heart, soprano voice of childhood from the backseat, a birthday song, carry me, windows down, turn it up, wet eyes, imagined eyes, three, reflect the sky…

Strange Light

Space Between

I am not a Child wearing a brightred Superhero cape.

I am not a Bird, disturbed by and dreaming about a party.

I am not the forgotten Mule, raising my voice with bottle in hand, screaming for 25 years gone.

I am not the Girlsolo at the end of the bar with an eye to the door for Kindred.

I am not the shadow-wed Lady who forgets the Truth and breaches the wall.

I am not the Woodenman, hands dancing in the blueroom.

I am not the Darkfriend, imbibing the Moon’s silver honey on the waves.

And I am Not speaking or stretching. And I am Not mending or minding. And I am Not praying or pining. And I am Not weeping or weaving. And I am Not touching or taking.

And what will it yield — to add the sum of all I am Not to the space stretched between the charges where Mass converges to a point of Light?

The Allofnothing plus the Nothing —

What could be the Yield?


It rains on me
as I sleep.
And in the night,
water rises
and the river rolls
over the bridges.

And if it is to be
a drowning,
then let me dive deep
before going —
eyes open
and shedding
the cobweb

Let me dive down
until the above
is silence,
and only the sound
of the surrounding

dirt —
all recedes
into the sound,
into the sameness,
into the serenity
of below.


I stretch through
degrees of separation
to touch you
and reach you by proxy.
Make a list
to trace back
each turn or full stop.
I savor the taste of the edge.
And my mother would tell you
I don’t mean trouble,
but am just adventurous.

you’ve got me
on my knees.
And I can’t tell
if I’m begging for the end,
or pleading for more.
And anyway,
how can you uncast
your sideways spell?

We lay bare and blistered bones
down on the greening field.
Let the sun warm them clean again.
Wind whispers,
tell me what I must do.
We put our faith in outside,
because these dreams
are a fog we can’t think through.

The question hangs here.
Which is better?
To continue to be drawn
outward by a rising spring?
Or to dive deep into
the running water
and watch the world widen
from below?


This false choice
need not be made.
And I do myself no favors
with Awakening —
or anything
that might seem
to defend or justify
this wanderlust
(despite the desperate
and desolate end).

Indulge it
in the unspoken page —
we could fill
1,001 graveyards
with these dreams —
and on waking,
busy hands will keep
the devils at bay.
But all the strain
of these constant adaptations
begins to tell.

And I am told
the truth will out —
just like the water’s whispers
rise to roars
as it bursts its banks.
And I am fearful
of such naked words,
but want to welcome
every advance
brought by this
grand turning.

Until we grow daring
and sunkissed loose,
I will trust
in your humility,
your goodness,
your skill with a spade
to keep my feet planted
in the sweet black soil
of the homeland.