All The Lonely People ...

A new anthology …. a visit into worlds wrapped in the poignancy & intent of knowing, lies inside the ethereal pages of
Plum Tree Books newest Anthology : All The Lonely People
It is sometimes our stories of loneliness that make us feel distinct & solitary, yet these same stories unite us in understanding.

This is a truly stunning & comprehensive work I am thrilled beyond words to be included in, and humbled by the fierce talent & presence of so many gifted souls ….

Please, step closer … take a look 

Discover parts of yourself tucked inside ….

April 1st

what is relevant ?
... is the creaking sound this old wood floor makes as i walk across it in my stocking feet any less or more relevant than the song of the cardinal outside the bedroom window ?
the curled brown leaf on the porcelain berry vine trembles from lack of relevancy just as the shine of the sun trembles upon the book shelf.
Kipling stands next to Milne which is by St .Expurѐy ; is one better than the other ?
dust settles upon them all .
the dogs sleep in quiet irrelevance to this startling april blue sky and yet, the same april blue sky plays no role in any sorrow or loneliness  found under it's care.
the curly willow is turning green, relevant only to itself , irrelevant to the play of shadows across the yard and the before-mentioned sleeping dogs.
we punch & crawl, pacing ourselves thru the days fighting & striving for relevance.
to be noticed, to be heard, to matter, to be .
yet perhaps it is in the acceptance of insignificance that stillness & grace are revealed
and in letting go, true relevance is at last found.

Golden

Two steps down to enter,
20 degrees cooler in this maple-tree'd bower
. . . not allowed in very often
the scent hits you first of youth's promise and compromise
Circling golden
Twin blonde beds draped in chenille white & pillow quilt-tufted
Beige on beige on beige on
Golden coolness
Maybelline abandoned alongside silvered brushes, mirrors turning
Ghosts pressing in
Lark cigarette smoke
Reflecting the light from windows of a kodachromed spring
Vanity encouraged with tendered ivory elegance
Presence strong as tabu, time & tan lines
Circling golden
Circling
Circling

Home

Étaín

I read the words of poets 

placing their black upon white 

scrapping and clawing into existence awareness honed and winged 

fighting for the shadowed lands and quartered secrets 

truth hanging …

hope carving petals into the tilled soil of this day 

this night where everything strives for a measure of brilliance 

a 

pause 

amongst meteors and moons 

to know with every turn two songs play and a story runs river-wild as the owl takes a left to Venus swallowing this night 

these winged words black upon moon white

maybe ....

Maybe we learned it a long time ago
like the art of the curve
or how to love slow 

maybe we traveled to far, distant shores

orient express or carriage with four

enfolding our hands, pledging our lives

as we walked across time

our paths intertwined

...maybe we fought on Cullodens red fields

striving for freedom our bodies to yield

maybe we struggled against wind on the plains

carving out promise regardless of rain

maybe we played countless days on a river

climbing trees, catching fish

you an arrow

i the quiver;

one holding fast

the other to fly

reunited as all else we love blindly dies

then under piercing stars and a full harvest moon

some ancient page was turned 

maybe this time--love is found in the burn

maybe we've always played our parts too well

navigating back to waiting arms somehow

reaching for the other with every circle of the moon

scarred, bruised & bleeding

love waited in the wound

maybe this time, it's not about the bond--

the truth and the strength of what we know

maybe this time

grace

is

in the

letting

go 

bOdy

In water pulled from aquifers muddy lineage
i marvel at nails planted upon the tops of toes
incapable of suction, grappling gecko-like to the brick of things
legs skinny and ill-suited for withstanding years of running, leaping & kneeling
upon alters thick with the incense & faith of the night
pages tuned & burned by use & hope
veins deep & raised - swelling to allow the pulse & rhythm of blood :
copper & crimson
hands small, and clumsy
ill-suited for holding onto things
our fist of heart - fragile & transient
veiled in the alkaloids of red clay & garden beds
yet down our spine runs the Milky Way . . .
vast & hydrogen-starred
white phosphorus
incapable of remembering the hollow rattle of bones
and the songs of larks . .

shift

sometimes ...

when one is not looking, 

not paying close enough attention

a shift occurs 

a shift in the earth beneath your feet

a shift in the focus & light gleaning into the circus kaleidoscope 

the colors mute and bleed, leaving one

less full 

shapes can not be determined, purple becomes blue becomes green becomes

grey

puzzling 

over the events that could crash about one in puddles & shards of emptiness

the fog rolls in cold & hollow - veiling the light

the indigo bubbles fail to rise and your soul is left

in a labyrinth of regret & desire
circling as a thin, grey wolf would 

hunt: solitary & famished

empty

how does one keep striving in the shift 

how does one believe in the power of .... love

darkness aches for the wound in the soul 

and yet .....
there is a smell ....

earth & moistness 

something alive and new ....

really  ?

or is it merely another trick of the kaleidoscope 

shake it

hard

close your eyes and listen ....

there.