Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Bindlestiffs, for Marie

I gave it all Walt Whitman had
to celebrate,
and took myself past the Great Divide:

where the sand looks red
because the sky tells it to
and Mars doesn't seem so foreign

where I ceased to sweat
so I wondered if I was southern anymore
and what that meant?

Almost too late, I met a woman
who burned:
earning her money like a Bedouin
with fainting goats reluctant to herd

she gathered us up anyway
whispering in our ears
fears she had no more
but still relatable to us.

Cautious, we rallied from four corners:
marveling at sandfalls,
and Atlantis being dammed,
or myths of legend peoples turned to stone
with a coyote's moan...

soaked in dust, we'd rode for days
playing musical chairs in-between
while I listened for the needle's pause
and my turn beside the shepherdess...

it came.
then it started again.

Mumford and Sons with an Italian's drawl...
with tales of serendipity's' call from a salt flat shore.
I could no more deny it
than my own southern speak

from my shotgun perspective
with that sun's last peak singing
celebrating all that we had become
in just three days, I wished:

That we were just getting started.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

epiphany, for savannah



there comes a moment in life as a parent

a moment of undiluted, focused clarity

when you see the child watching…

and you know…

you know that child is at once your mirror

and also your sponge….infinite possibility:



your chance to make a difference in this world


and if you’re lucky, you’ve noticed it early

because you’ve been watching her as well?


you’ve watched her wonder about lengthening shadows

and the furrows on your brow…

you’ve watched her wander aimlessly with a stick

zig-zagging behind, zen-like in mother-earth

a meditation garden of her own imagination…

you’ve watched her come into her self.


and to be completely honest,

there’s a celebration to be had there?

a welcoming home….in letting her unfold

and be who she will…whoever that is,

learning from the zigs and zags in that shifting sand


all the while offering her a hand to hold when she needs one?


there comes a moment in life as a mother…

a moment when you discover

the child that you’ve delivered…

can also deliver you ~


if you’ll let her.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

someday, for my dad

someday ~ for my dad


days of grace, saving face as the last light fades on someday

in shallowed breath the time that’s left is marshy tide pulling away

subsiding tears ~ perfected fears of due time come to call

we’re all awash in the human cost of shadow's valley in the fall…


on someday.  One day I too will find my mirror lacks reflection.

I’ll walk alone the long way home catching memories of inflection:

energy burned in place, captured time and space I’ll revisit in our dreams

time and again we’ll walk hand in hand the foggy nightscapes so serene...


of someday.

Friday, March 20, 2015

the new collosus, revisted. . .


 for Ms. Agnes, Holocaust survivor

they wore stripes…

and stars pinned to chests

swollen with lies they were sold to get them

there...still freshly ringing.


tired, hunrgy and huddled

they yearned to breathe once again

a freedom they had known

just days before the death trains came

taking their motherland,

their family,

their identity,

their youth.


raining with a poison of generations denied,

numb even among the 7,000 remaining

they had no thing left but a colossal loss

embossed with apathy.


they were  like pinpoints on a black shroud.


we wear stars . . .

and stripes

swollen, proud chests

endowed and silently believing more than we should

the blurbs we are told to keep us shielded behind borders.


like inscriptions on a historical plaque,

we are tired, poor and huddled.

hungry for the ideal of our motherland

our family,

our identity,

our youth,


and our freedoms

to know the truth once and for all

in all of our stars and stripes.

Soon there will be no more survivors. 


Tuesday, January 6, 2015


as above,

I found this list
of places to look-up
without a stiff neck:
only paused wondering,
shaded eyes looking…
At that!


so below…


even more-so here: there’s
no fancying flight or Newton’s defying
antics …just being, sometimes
discarded or maybe lost?
my cosmos reflected in a storm’s drain
refraining from judgement


as within,


Can I do the same?
Within this cosmic realm of daily
Creation in waking and sleeping?
Promising everything?
Expecting nothing….
Whether I deserve it or not?


so without…


the mirror finds me:
with my naked words
whispered with a reader’s inflection
transcending  mortal immortality.

Monday, October 13, 2014

pumpkin sky




pumpkin moon, celestial bliss

shine down this giggling goddess ~


in gently rising autumn flight,

with tawny glowing sunset delight:

a pumpkin moon light’s watching me

in fairie worldly curiosity veiled in ghostly

cloud shrouds.


don’t hide away but help me burn

the seasonings of  passed learning:

in celestial delight with childlike eyes

I feel myself turning onward inward ~


with luminous contemplation

carved not by man, but woman’s

active imagination.


wax full ~ wane soft ~ still reminding me of lovers

sharing starry skies…spooning dunes and

questioning runes, new moon now in my mind’s eye:


blank still willing silence

freedom sky’s kiss on


illuminated goddess


tonight we fly

in our pumpkin sky

Monday, August 4, 2014

I used to think that ignorance was bliss, for all the children of the world, and in this moment, the ones in Gaza

I used to think ignorance was bliss


but then I kissed my ass goodbye

and opened up my mind infinitely.


I became possibility, and what did I see?



mosaic creation’d being:

all my pieced parts are you and me and we

every one and thing being in love.


so I don’t feel ignorance is bliss anymore.


I feel it’s a prison: divisions in the making.

I feel it’s war and apathy.

I feel it’s a sorry excuse for humanity:


nationality jaded.


I feel it’s children without hope,

starving in their bombed-huts…

while others are in the drive-up.


I feel it’s a copout.

I feel it’s greed and gluttony and perversion…

denial of subjectivity


in an immature tantrum…

a case of the conundrums.


I feel it’s conformity

and a made for t.v. movie,


or even a dumbed-down sitcom.

and religion on a Sunday morning.


I feel it invites mediocrity,

blind melancholy without seeing.


I feel it labels and makes us smaller;

I feel it denies our universal matter…


and wonder and imagination and beauty

I feel it’s just static scatter.


I used to feel ignorance was bliss.