Wednesday, August 21, 2019


three peaches sit upon the dining room table
waiting for something ....
four & twenty blackbirds?
plucked, frozen tender--a winter's secret
a peach crisp?
i heard recently that a true poet does not use images, photographs, pictures... art
that seems vapid somehow
damn, i am not a poet
as if i could write without fingers
the sound of this south-east breeze
to lay down words bereft of what it was that lead me here
here here here
i think i'll settle on the crisp
the birds won't settle down
three peaches sit upon the dining room table
          something ....
for a landing
a invitation
a room with a view of our wabi-sabi
oven warming to 350
clouds obscure the sun
as does liberation's smoke
can you smell it from here?
the peaches, not the smoke from fires burn
ooh sweetness rising
blue jay's summer passing
stolen naps with hundred year old quilts wrapping
time & traffic pressing in from windows dusty with choice

three peaches sit upon the dining room table
i am waiting for something

from a dream

The time she woke herself....
somnolent stirring of lash & limb
five thirty-two 
trembling with the weight of who she was 
with him 

echoes of blue jays--rain weary day 
stormclouds mask the dome of everblue
love drifts away 

sureness lies bare 
exposed to this hazed light 
no lingering of his amber ghost remnants 
truth softens the night 

golden the moment 
intimacy's grasp 
holy the bind 
release the clasp 

awake to fire
'neath willow & briar
drenched in August
becoming the thunder...

Monday, August 12, 2019

after the perseids on the plains

eastern sun upon the curly willow
green to green
as blue jay song lines the rising
a cool breeze
wakens trembling soothes the summer haze
a marked stillness bridges
from here to there from there to here
wakens trembles soothes
shimmers in the green to green of day

Tuesday, July 30, 2019

# twenty-two thousand three hundred and twenty one

... and the day breaks in sugar-snap marigold brilliance
trembling in the divinity of wrens & robins
light breaks upon the hackberry white on white
masquerading green to glory
how can one breathe when this is all so breathtaking?
beautifully ordinary
how can i hold my place here amongst this shimmering life?
the earthworm finds respite on the sidewalk away from the robin's search
while rabbits dart from fern to root in moment's furrow
of place of breath of day
all this summer's feast beneath the bluing blue ocean of sky
a bluejay calls ...
and I am lost to feathered flight once more

Tuesday, July 16, 2019


it would astonish you how swiftly

one moment i am the gray wool blanket upon the sofa

next a
dust mote
caught in the sunbeam coming in from the west window
at 5 o'clock


a breath

mind juggles the leaves on the birch tree along
with the blue jay feathers
i found
in the orchard this morning
as one hand held a watering can the other

transforms me

i am a smooth peach alive with wonder & fear
(in equal measure)
i am sky--clouds
memory & ash
i am everywhere


Wednesday, June 19, 2019

Stella to the blue

in the still quiet thrum of morning
all the words have been written
no revelation
no revolution
no eureka-thesaurus moment where words & time roll into the place of always
nothing but the early thrum of day dawning



a breeze barely rocking the curly willow
ghost dog curled against my back--pressing pressing
tendered always
a sky carousel-blue...unreal in hand-dipped perfection

sunshine strikes my face
eyes close
here upon a weathered-dried-in-the-sun cotton quilt
in a cicada field green-summer-golden



a breeze barely rocking the curly willow
a distant thrum from rivers wide

all the words have been written
there is no more than this ...

a bluejay sings its warrior song
claiming this piece of carousel-blue
Stella May June

Tuesday, June 18, 2019


....given a different latitude & longitude
the drape of water might have felt different

given a certain tincture of contentment
there might have been time contained within the velvet box of us

given a moon phase reflected in amber & nobility
we might not be here now

perhaps there would be cake
or the repetitive lapping splash of tides

given riches or earth resplendent in darkness biding
sunbeams hiding
beyond the atmospheres of this golden field

would we be?
would we care enough to pause in the pace & space of our hours
to notice
the tightening recognition of the impossible