Wednesday, July 1, 2015


slipped in sidewise
maple leaves
the summer-pressed stillness
of this july morning ---
time opens its wonder
yet to come ...
wrapped in unfolding day lilies
at once
freckled sky against the spell
warming warming
this day
rustle & remark
even the blue jays are quiet ...

this moment
slipped sidewise
to the sun

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things are not always as they seem

some days
I wish the roof wild
to be ripped from this house
plucked by twister … or azure magic 
leaving exposed the lathe bones & plaster of its construct 
sun streaming in to light upon the broken corners
wind dervishing with no philosophic placement
random bits thrown to the unexpected
inside out
outside in
woken to the thunder of being
each breath miraculous in its chaos
such is the nature of storms

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Tuesday, June 30, 2015

when you are sitting in a dark room gazing

when you are sitting in a dark room gazing out into the black night and one lone firefly lights itself up like the fourth of july over the potomac all belief is suspended all doubts fade and there is a hanging possibility as it moves, darting higher and i gasp as it is beautiful and solitary and perfectly totally oblivious to the rain about to fall
the thunder and lightening gps-ing its way here to this small wee house on this small wee spot on this enormous big blue marble and all things become mighty apparent like the soul of horses the sureness of you the layered delicate task of parenting how fucking amazing books are
and the ridiculous over- simplification of wicked things like justice, water, poverty, illness, camping and lemon meringue pie - ALL become parts of the whole and parts of the something more requiring trust and love
that firefly sparks again and now there is thunder and the thrumming in my heart echoes into that place reserved for you delighting in that contrast of near and far suddenly the WHOLE sky lights up like one BIG firefly promising a crack, a passage, a thread of electric brilliance linking time and wonder and all things true and well  this crack this passage is waiting waiting waiting for completion for action and contentment to stay and risk movement
suddenly the firefly has vanished and as the thunder rumbles closer i am ready for a hot bath a good book and to dream of parts of the whole
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Tuesday, June 9, 2015


dancing upon my skin
dustmotes bite 
beneath cardamon bones 
jeweled glimpses of always 
light ... 
the pace & breath of now:
yellow shirt
plaid mini skirt 
untucked hope 
a yearn to collide against 
1,440 minutes 
spring's blossom 
sun thirsting
thunder bursting 
windows down
to Springsteen or Taylor 
hand tucked beneath your blue jean leg 
forecasts a succulent promise 
your skin drips vanilla & nutmeg 
upon my tongue 
capture me for 24 hours 
of a brand new day of summer's heat 
lemonade cooling 
slow moving 
green grass wafting to welcome 
backs arched 
arms grasping 
breath barely lasting 
listening to crickets
under a firefly strawberry moon
we drink
we laugh 
we do....
every every 
sweep sweep 
of the second hand 
turn --
give me an autumn day 
washed in apples crisp falling
richness clasped to clary sage 
smells pierce the glass to rising 
now ... winter's gift 
bracing wind to arms embrace 
to these 1,440 ticks 
of tock 
of clock 
take in without clinging
tasting without touch
collide beyond breath 
of being known 
fire of these stolen 
daydreams ....
dancing there upon my skin 

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lying in the shadows of morning

in spite of, or enhanced by the contours of your bones upon my fingertips
I feel things in the morning with this electric sensualness . . .
slow and like prayer,
I remove sheets from my bed, cotton-cool as i slide my hand inside
quilted cotton batting - frayed smoothness, memories of line-drying & my mother's hands
methodically moving thru the routine steps of a new day . .
sunshine fights it's way into this house shadowed by corners, walls & colored glass
methodically moving from room to room, making things right.
lining 'em up, dusting them off, finding their place . .
arranging a vase of wild thistle . .
careful of thorns
finding just the right light . .
it is quiet
laundry tumbles, sun shines
huck trots in demanding some sparkle-time .
( he likes to chase the sparkle, the luminosity made by bright-shiny-things reflecting )
so I give him some time, realizing
I need music & coffee to pull me out of this feeling of wonderland.
this quiet slightly-shadowed place ;
fix you pops up, coffee hot enough . .
examining my space
examining my life
singing along
tumbling along
laundry folded, plants watered, porch swept, poop bagged, baby lettuce encouraged, chamomile fondled with these wonderland hands
finding my life
finding a place . .
and returning to the sheets and their relenting stark coolness
feel and move through this day
noticing the shine ....
feeling the cool cotton weight of another day
chasing the luminosity
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Wednesday, June 3, 2015


I have never been comfortable with birthdays.  Very sharp memories roll across my personal
super-screen of sherbet-tight ruche'd dresses, bobbie socks and birthday hats.  It is when the singing begins, that ballad to birthdays, that I would bolt from the room inexplicably overcome with …. something.
Birthdays make me squirm … make me long for quiet, solitary moments near water or mountains or sky.  Recognition became intangible, uneasy … emotional.  Somewhere along the timeline, my psyche determined that to celebrate birthdays … to celebrate myself ….. with abandon and delight, somehow appeared wanting … I was afraid of the emotion of joy.
But, something is happening. Over the last few years, I am learning how to bend into the receiving, allow room for the gathering of things given : parties, cakes, trinkets, and artistry … and Love.
I am learning how to make room for not only joy, but for myself.
In receiving, I am softening & leaning into the grace of openness.
It is an expansive and grand thing to be recognized, to be celebrated …. to be seen.
To those with the patience and skill to 'teach' me … to love me enough to really know me - thank you.
We should never be afraid of being seen
 ,,,, just don't sing that damn birthday song. 
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Sunday, May 31, 2015


there is this fugitive quality to my hours
thru webs of mortal fiber & prism fire
my scent raw & wet
upon the palate of creatures buzzed with steel'd will & death
fate sealed in a chinese-cherry-puzzle-box
thrown to fate on a bluejay"s wing
there … 
nestled between the light & fragile feather bones
lies tucked
.... the scent of mown grass in june
the coolness of cotton sheets
the wonder of beauty
the scratchy pleasure of wool socks
the fine roughness of you
the walnut-salt-home smell of you
honey'd lemonade on my tongue
poems & prose
words looped & rhymed & measured by wit & thunderous swelling
fancy clothes
words ancient & music eternally pressed along the rings of saturn
childish de-light ever-present, ever-there
in the space between
every minute, every hour
the blessed secret softening of the sorrow of all things
leaning in ...
leaning in ...
to heart
to soul-space
discovery & secrets i carry nestled between
fragile feather bones 
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