Tuesday, April 30, 2019


looking out the front windows to the south
tossing words carelessly around as I try and come up with something worthy
worthy of myself, worthy of your time & attention


my interior landscape is bleak
not cooperating in the least
words pinball thru mind;
carnal love, familia love, intimacy, knowing, trust, ease


the wind shifts
suddenly lifts 
one of the dark motley gray branches of the oak tree
raising it from its resting place into a patchwork section of 
and I see it


in the contrast of this smooth alice-blue sky 
against the tattered & mottled feldgrau of the oak
in the electric alchemy of two things;
the colliding line where energy brings like energy

the cosmic ouroboros completed

humans believe in their whole & their true
when myth & grace teach us blue

fragmented little beasties 

the hungry take  the shiny ones break 
glass upon stone 
as intimate pirates
 ... and when the chains & pulsing tributaries of our soul recognize a smell, a song, a taste of another to 'sing the body electric' home where kisses taste of mandarin oranges & lavender and sex smells of lightening


Contrast alchemy;
there is no inch of skin too sacred, no word too tender or too wicked
it is the narration of a very individual story 
told in the contrast & collide of open hands upon warm waiting skin
it is the give & take
the surrender of self to take in
to fuck stars & dazzle your own soul with peace and presence and the unchartered understanding of another exhausted transcendence as it follows one steps back to self, to earth, where separation can be another set of contrasts; full to empty, happy to void, fractured to circled wholeness

the closer to the fire one stands, the more insane the remainder feels


and that becomes a rub 
...to pull the alchemy into your soul
allow it to shift awareness 
to lean towards life with more of everything

that thread becomes the axis
holding the thread becomes your being
your seeing 
to carry the connection thru to the ordinary hours becomes your religion

If you falter, let go 
well that is a dark companion that is hard to fight
hard to quell its stench and temper tight 

So hold on
let the silver & mercury 
mix with sulfur & gold 
allow the richness of knowing to cool against the dark
guard against the numbness 
staunch the flow of blood from that gaping wound 

the collide

That rugged line of gray against the smooth alice-blue 

Alchemy love. 




                           b  l  o  o  m  

Monday, April 29, 2019

between the roof & blue

dappled sunlight
no warmth brushed upon gray bones
with a smoothness belying the dark
wind steeps the heart
to wild

parsed into the folds of memory divine
tinkers with the edges
until they are worn thin
by love

in moonlight
I sit amidst the shooting stars
of galaxies unknown
knowing this is made
in breath & bone
to beam wild
this heart

Sunday, April 28, 2019

Sunday at five o'clock

this here
expectation perched as a wren upon spring
stilled story written between the spaces of a day

this here
fingers tremble on words dashed
floating past as skiffs of sun

will I be happy when it's done?
will I be content with the measure & mirth
of this here

whiteness tempts with its swallows of time
sucking every numbed & nuanced line
of this here

will I respect the pause, the rhyme?


this here is bleeding out in vapid technicolor
its emptiness

this here
is nothing or all
black is black upon this white page
beckoning with impossible lips of the wren's song

Spring's call

Saturday, April 27, 2019


In April when yet seem'd it the winter still
proud Puck did wonder and play at his spring
white vermillion drawn in every thing
bird's pied-flowers heavy with sweet spirit deep
lily's pluck tell of figures hue
or they dress'd nor sweet and nor different
absent in you of the summer's shadow story
tell me, smell the odour of that sweet rose with a youth
as I did trim from you all the delight
nor yet have I been in the lap with these
that and them
hath I make him nor any that lays in the praise
laugh'd leap'd away from him where
they were but of you
they grew
could Saturn make your pattern of all those after you

Friday, April 26, 2019


It is the season of wisteria,
watching for a greening, emergent tendrils of twining stems violet.
it is the season for waiting,
listening to winds shifting from north, to south and back again.
Cool-warming in this season of waiting.
Wisteria mysterious spring spell-caster.
Your seed pods a purple bane bright against the sun.
It is the season for the duality of the greening, emergent
energy binding to winter's traces. Wind bracing comes
carrying dust & delight & dandelions in drifts of
greenish growing scents. Senses explode in the conscious
wait & wonder of the season of wisteria, watching the shadows of
the day dance
against the sunbeams of warmth, waiting, watching for
Day dance, night entranced.
Conscious, curious expanding green,
demanding attention to the twining, the bine
of the bloom & the vine.
It is the season of wisteria.
It is the season of more.

Thursday, April 25, 2019


dancing upon my skin
dust motes bite upon cardamon bones 
jeweled glimpses of always


the pace & breath of now:
yellow shirt
plaid mini skirt 
untucked hope
yearning to collide against 
1,440 minutes 
summer's blossom 
sun thirsting
thunder bursting 
windows down
to Springsteen, Dylan, Taylor 
hand tucked beneath your blue jean leg 
forecasts a succulent promise 
your skin drips vanilla-nutmeg 
upon my tongue 
capture me for twenty-four hours 
new day in 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 sweep  
of the second hand

can we slow time's sweep?
can we cherish the sunbeam of breath deep?

before we know--molecules slow
the rising scent of earth & forecasted autumn rains
awash in apples crisp falling
calling the cooling 
richness clasped to clary sage 
leaves they turn brown, red, gold
suddenly cold 
chilled to winter's gifts--
bracing wind to arms embrace 
snow leaves a trace 
to these 1,440 tick-tocks of Fleming's clock 

take in without clinging
taste all--celebrate touch 
collide beyond breath
-not asking much- 

these stolen daydreams 
shadows & light 
sun returns 
fires chance....


Wednesday, April 24, 2019

finding Norma

between Cather's Later Novels and Scott's
Lady of the Lake
it rests in red
dog-eared 1954 Webster's New World
wanting to cheat the assignment and

that seems a simple benign thing

I resist
and buy-in to the task
I flick to
consubstantiality consultative consolatory cont.
page 316-317 Cs
being of a trinity--being an abbreviation for things in, without and to come
but it is the illustrations
one on each page square
white on black
(northern hemisphere)
(southern hemisphere)


I become
from Piscis Austrinus to Ursa Major
Cygnus, Lyra and Cassiopeia
then back again sailing across printed blackness so captivating
Ophiuchus to Orion
Coronia Australis & Sagittarius
Phoenix to Hydra
but suddenly
there sits Norma


a small constellation in the southern hemisphere
lying between
Ara & Lupus

breath stilled
am stunned a bit
as I am becoming my own refuge as a wolf these days
settling into the soft spot amongst stars & men
stripped of feathers & fear
opal magic is present in this morning hour of eight o'clock
amidst the birds & sun & red dictionary
this solitary sanctuary

the name of my mother
born this day in 1926

Tuesday, April 23, 2019


somewhere between the risk & the rain
traveling down
palomino highways
replete with tambourines & woolen blanket red

fast faster fastest

fueled by awareness, apples & Antares
the Milky Way illuminates the night
drowning out the buzz of tilting plants & thunder
burned out & left in a million shallow graves
nuggets of dreams & leanings dot the blurred space between
marked by harvested fields, deer crossings & pinwheels

flying along on the ghost horse


primal magic groundless & infinite
strength this constant accordion of movement
intention unspoken
we ride
we become
as the rain comes down harder making choice immediate
serenity fleeting as a glimpsed electric golden portal flashes
once, twice
defined & aligned with intent
purpose is murky & the way is overgrown with reeds of rust & linen
a mordant algorithm of aqua-depth & stars
purpose exists to be found or it is just a buckled paisley regret
the ride is relentless & the scope of beauty & possibility endless

time is everything & nothing

somewhere between pumpkin creek & morning
beneath a ponderosa pine we pause
wrapping the blanket & scent of night us about us

to wait out the rain

Monday, April 22, 2019

beekeeper's lament

gossamer thread worn thin-holds fast
beekeeper's gather by the hidden deer track
willow creek bends to the rising wind
over the hill--and back again

stretch a new canvas a thousand feet wide
pinned & buckled by snowy owl's cry
two broken barns it flies between
gesso'd white by flying machines

paint a landscape thick & true
inked with blood and certitude
fiddler plays long into night
when thunder comes--the fire burns bright

beekeepers & minstrels gather to flame
lovers & poets weave a gambled game
a path is taken, a fable begun
white-birch firelight & sunflower rum

spring's storm becomes the canvas--becomes midnight
plein air painting--blue-gray acolyte
frosted river echoes cranes descent
this glen-this tale-our beekeeper's lament

gossamer thread worn thin holds fast

beekeeper's dance

Mary Linnea Vaughan - artist

Friday, April 19, 2019

fledged burst of ....

Alacrity belongs cinnamon dulcet
eager filament given
holy incandescence
jumping knowing listening
unshaken velvet wholeness

Thursday, April 18, 2019


I should have known
as I did take note of the bold outline of each moment
the slender fragility of his body
the sharp tang of a hospital room
      its crisp sterility contrasted to night

we watched ER together

an episode titled 'Homecoming'
he really liked Dr. Greene

crawling next to him in the narrow bed
we lay pressed and still
the white waffle blanket was so stiff-starched
      its brightness such a contrast to the night

his legs were ice cold-so very cold
I love him so


that hole remains infinite
yet finite its missing

I don't remember driving room that night
but he died early the next morning
drinking coffee on the edge of his bed

just like that

      his love such a contrast to the hollow loneliness that shadows my days

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

...from the hackberry tree

she sits 
within that box removed from weather & the weight of sky 
by an energy that I feel in wires strewn from pole to box to pole again 
about this street this town this place 
curious how much she thinks 
not knowing how observed she is 
we all watch 
we discern her wonder 
how much we know how much she sees and doesn't yet see 
what's that like--the taunt stretch of smoothness over bones 
the upright movement so deliberate & designed 
what is the objective to her days 
where does delight lie 
I think she is sad yet oddly content with that 
oh!  how she does take note of changes in our song 
in the color of morning 
in the approach of the coming storm 
this one spring dawn 

I think she would like my feathers 
and my freedom 

Tuesday, April 16, 2019


It enters without being asked
It is welcome regardless
It angles differently from every glass
It sits momentarily at 45°, 30°, 90°
It is always a moment by moment thing
It is relentless in its discipline
It is soft sometimes blinding sometimes reminding
It illuminates time illustrates seasons
It is all colors mixed
It will prisms just right
It is truly actually white!
It is energies wilding
It is streaming in brightening
It is life beguiling
It warms, it fades
Dawning Sun--Break of Day

Monday, April 15, 2019



so easily it consumes me
this heaviness I can not shed
weight draped upon my shoulders as a winter woolen cloak
smothering heaviness at every step
this machinery of being
electric rivers of wind
such play in the connection of morning to movement
to this intoxicatingly new april air
I am

so I will rest
rest & wait
for the warmth of this day to come

Sunday, April 14, 2019


sweet this day done to dwell
tucked to corners break drawing close
sight unseen to wait to weight
poured as this golden one blew
to dun sun golden
suite no. 1 in e minor
oh wren!
oh site of mercy's blueness won
to blossom when once bloomed
to spring's wind
in a thousand winding ways

this day

Saturday, April 13, 2019

accendo cendere cendi censum

Crawling from the hollow
      below sternum
my heart creeps out to
weather alone
unseen against the backdrop of dark forgiveness
coyotes circle
enchanted by the odor of licorice & gravity
to right hip
carried there by the remembrance of feathers, flight
pinching cinching between
green glass panes
the thorns of winter's if 
slowly slowly
dripping into the marrow of a raven's thigh
heavy the sharpness
throbbing the spell
coyotes circle

Friday, April 12, 2019

waking dullness

my cleverness is mounted over the bed like antlers
majestic curved & shocking
to some

while tucked behind the door to the bath
curls my genuine

hard to catch as it slips between
impersonating a dust bunny
and a spring moon

this morning
as a single eastern towhee sings upon the hackberry tree
the antlered cleverness drifted out the door and rolled west
apparently needing more winter
while this trickster uncurled itself from behind the door
and asked for a cup of ginger tea

its boldness surprises me
no more
its slender glimmer
its voice melodic & soothing
fierce shyness easing
into luminous blue

the tea steeping
its uncurled dusty-moon form shifts
once more--
a prism'd light of hyacinth
and a blue jay's song
waiting for tea on a friday at dawn

we are awkward & unsteady together
but we are
waking to the quiver of brilliance

Thursday, April 11, 2019


sand--water moonstone born
strawberry feathered
irish lace sworn
captain kangaroo
books & clocks
gingham dress blue
richness drawn in roses briar
tomatoes stretched to summer's fire
hands that hold
longing told
while sorrow burns its hole
scotch-on the-rocks
velvet innocence
Kipling's equinox
tapped trimmed & tied
sacrifice tried
rocky mountain high
survived to scars & brokenness
found in emptiness
phoenix'd from ash
sand-water sworn
moonstone born


The rock rocking
translucent black cherry tangerine
growing to burst upon verdant richness
shelled path
heather rolling
meadow-grass fields
primrose & helleborine
shetland mouse-ears
black rock
suspension over dark river boiling
wilderness wildness disappears
Sgurr Fiona and the Corrag Bhuidhe of the An Teallach
he comes draped & known
of a name not my own
a winter wolf dark & burnished
sternum cracked wide
Polaris lies inside
sweeping embrace of night's sky

so loved on this side
emptiness becomes the present crown
nothing ever to fear
abide Gallizenae

Wednesday, April 10, 2019

dry spell

indigo dipped
forgotten fragility in buffalo flannel
tucked and tattered to the nines
by this blustery relentless wind awake
eviscerated by Bosch dreams serpentined & threaded blue
who was I before this day how
did I relinquish myself to the whims of weather
and men
who was I before you
is there a before or just an after
where is the river to our place behind love's door

indigo dipped
wind stilled for now
for now
fuck the wind and the weight of grain and golden sun
I am born ruby apple delicious
and empty
except for these fractal particles of history and
ah, this wind
put it in your pocket--save it for a rainy day
moments like these gleam with drala and fates design
winds of change

raining now

miraculous how that changes

Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Hollowing Things

One awaits the break of day in the quietest of houses where there is a lack of love, imagination and hope. Birds begin to awaken but their chirping songs bring only an interruption from a daydream of
mountains and majesty.  From somewhere to the west a dog barks in a lonely way. The coffee has grown cold and I am already too weary to walk to the kitchen for more.

No word from him and I am oddly fine with that.

A harsh winter has left the ground raw and brown. It will take some effort to find spring.

I miss carrying the smallness of him from room to room searching for ninja turtles and scary things. Longing to be somewhere I'm not.

These pants have holes.

Waiting for eight o'clock to make a dreaded call. Birds sing, morning dawns along with a forecast of
storms. I don't care.

I long for a nap upon a mountain, I long to carry him with me as we walk beside a river warm.
I will always remain even when there is no word.

The sun hides behind layers of haze and clouds.

Monday, April 8, 2019


In the pre-light hours of day
unwrinkled & still
comes the first spark of joy
of one then two
followed by multitudes waking
robins, wrens, gold finches, cardinals & crows
in their ancient bird tongue
the chorus rises in the brightening
sparking joy in their audience of us humans

who wish for feathers

Sunday, April 7, 2019

all objects rise vertically from the horizon

holding two things in hand
palmed and present
of weight and measure
discernment's cost
empty the field
meager the crop
lean to the lonely
rise to the sky
become the sorrow
become the cherry pie
holding two things
symmetry's requiem
velvet cage
swift flies the sparrow
reflexes fast
sun in your pocket
tender contrast

Saturday, April 6, 2019


don't know when it happened exactly

~ which hour of which day ~

the palatable exubruance & thirst for sun 
gave way 
to a lament for the moon

my movement
my being 
my hours 
quiet unruckus'd preparation
ducks-in-a-row clarity 
corners cleaned of cobwebs 
piles of life linear with logic 
dust swept devotedly 
from the totem objects of my accumulation 
flannel smooth
moonlight quickening 
tassels trimmed & pressed 
set free from lingering gypsy dreams

as if

should the wind be just right from that place of sun 
well then ... 
everything will be

as if 

I was never here 
or maybe 
my departure will come with
no burden
no adjustment 
or maybe 
I am just merely passing thru
pausing here

as if

just the right 


dawn's cooling

moist with dew
neighborhood streets fill with the fog
of a possible sun
open portals
while trees tremble imperceptibly in their worship
shadows tucked in the back of a blue jay's throat
gray and timeless
gray and ageless
light begs for admittance into this morning's kingdom of clouds

this moment
vaporous magic


of sixes & sevens

I lost my anger in the corner pocket of table six
or maybe it was in june of '68 ... in the red cadillac on the way to the parade
better to be invisible under stars & wooden desks
than to be seen for a creature dressed
in cyan & tattered sensitivity
able to absorb sunlight at a rate greater than or equal to
the speed of light
I am forgetting my mother's middle name:

anger was eaten with violets for breakfast in june of '68
just after my mouth was washed out with soap for saying "shitshitshit"
merely imitating the song of meadowlarks eating violets for breakfast

give to me your feathers & your strength
your wit & whiskey-wisdom orange paisley'd
of pine & sunshine & tomatoes

I lost my anger curled up behind a sofa at midnight
wearing flannel pajamas & watching the world in black & white
roll past
on a radio flyer
sunshine me home life oh life
sunshine me home to the corner pocket of table six
touch my cheek
I am my mother's name

Friday, April 5, 2019

coyote of the cactus moon

While she was somewhere being free
of unremembered skies and snows
of petals from some magic rose

no regrets coyote!
my tears are like the quiet drift
she was somewhere being free

while the sun is ascending
for eternity
of petals from some magic rose

she only means to please them
all my grief flows from the rift
while she was somewhere being free

in the middle of nowhere
there's no comprehending
of petals from some magic rose

so tremulously like a dream
it would crumble
while she was somewhere being
free of petals from some magic rose

Thursday, April 4, 2019

The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky

weighted gray morning
haze dims edges hard line
north wind warning
cottonwood's silent anodyne
no translucent moon
no sun rising bright
merely this quiet room
waking from hollow's night
Sisyphus these hours
these minutes to spend
pushing hopeless ivory towers
uphill to life's end
tick-tock strikes twilight

Wednesday, April 3, 2019


of fire brimble, ghosts & dogs
to seek respite before the dawn
grows regret from murky depths
rise from folds velvet sighs the breath
be quick!
fleeting we touch our shine
be quick!
the hawk will dive & dine
linen bones forgotten lore
solace echoes from the open door
what seeds may fall
what dreams may come

of atmosphere gimlets, brambles & grace
passing cars--tempting fates
anger buried in knots pink & brined
next to heart's bruised crinoline
be quick!
sit sit sit
before the shrine
be quick!
cooper's hawk's forgotten valentines
moonlight lingers
day awaits
hyacinth green & crocus fingers

be quick!
to what end this enterprise?
long the day--brief the night
viewed from this bended rhubarb light
why the hurry, why this press for time?
a fool's quickness love's secret rhyme
be still!
we have ten thousand years and a day
to hold the space
to steal fear's play
what seeds may fall
what dreams may come
meander thru the morning's hours
of lullaby bones & silver bowers
be still
we are sky's vast template
be still
no hurry
just allow
the breath the pace of here & now

Monday, April 1, 2019

one day

in the afterglow of the remove
in the silence of simmered things
nine hundred & twelve days
a blackbird came calling
what season was it?
winter with frost thick upon old glass windows?
are blackbirds here come winter?
what was the air like?
was it the neutrality of spring, not cold nor warm but laced with storm's forecast?
blackbirds are thick in spring
not the hot closeness of summer
not the smell of apple-pressed-autumn
winter or spring then
or some undiscovered season
one that belongs to the lost and found
and blackbirds
a tumbling bite/bliss declared submission
to self
a rounded larimer blue self
quivering to darkness & light
what damn season was it?
brightness of day illuminating
innocence transforming
heard within the
faceted amber understanding born of...
ah! spring!
with its forecast of thunder & surrender
spring then
a blackbird calling
uncovered beneath the translucent sinking moon of morning
tell me blackbird

why do I remember this hour so?

the how of finding self in the debris of self on a monday in april

Sit be still and breathe while sinking to earth rising to sky breathe allow the body's contrast the mind's ramble breathe the vastness of this day the blue the gray sit be still with the pain and trauma of your thousand years sit don't turn away from the sting of despair listen to its tremor feel the pressure of its rip breathe and sit know you are safe know you are full of the world know your own significance is greater than your trauma sit with hurt insight ripens  compassion drifts in on the breath buds of understanding bloom violet breathe know trust breathe discover the joy in seeing without adornment presence without confusion self without shame you are more than your trauma the blue the gray ten thousand marigolds bursting forth from your heart more than breath and bone and bruise breathe sit and risk the knowing open to the song of spring's birds at dawn open to the glow of this morning sky and depth of day open and be home