Archive | March, 2017

Cosmic Cup

31 Mar



there was a way

to empty all the words

right down to the curve of the heart’s cup,

a way to let them pour without spotting,

without the fear of stain

on the ironed cloth of present being.

Cups are supposed to hold in curved kindness,

despite crazing of human heat,

despite bits of golden rim dissolving into the drink.

Nevertheless, purpose serves.

To empty and refill from a darkened kettle

steeping stars and nothingness,

a limber liquid

offering all, over and again.

Love and eternity

in each dark sip.

To Oz, R.S.V.P.

26 Mar

I used to have adventures.
And I will again.
But Aunt Em is gone now and the house needs resurrection.
Somehow the wonder of new places is tinted a bit blue.
Toto #2 prefers the back porch,
and the witch, she’s long melted 
My friends have all found their missing parts.
They write often.
In answering your question, yes.
I know the direction.
Although I can’t see the rainbow from here,
I still know it’s there.
The bluebirds are building in the bush out back,
their wings folded round things to come.
Expectancy is the very air.
And while I’m grateful for the invite,
and it tugs this wanderer’s soul,
I’m hoping,
if I stay in one place and make ready,
Adventure might come over.
Who wouldn’t want to find the rainbow ends
right where it begins,
in her own backyard?

How Fairytales Die

14 Mar


like the little ducklings of resurrection morn,

are soft boned and quick breathing,

precious passing promises

in an ecstasy of pin feather and fluff.

Archetypes of the tender hearted,

yearning fingers close

around their bright quickening

to cage heaven,

only to rebirth in raven shadow

a whispered craving.

Close and closer is its keeping,

till memory and time

is all one holds onto,

like rising mist from

the green glass of a morning pond

in April Sunday sunshine.

What a pressing poisonous

surprise to open

captor hands

to find


so soft,

so silent,

so innocently


Pasion de la Cocina

7 Mar


Tonight I crave the rice you made,
the grains popping in the singing oil,
musica latina tangled in your hair,
dancing barefoot in the kitchen
amid sizzling clouds of comino y cebolla
and curling swells of culantro
as green and hot as your coyote eyes.
Your caramel lips,
cafe con leche cushions
parted for kissing,
whispered delicious songs
into the fragrant rind of my ear.
Reaching melodious chords
around my waist,
and down my thigh,
sang of stirring the sweetness and heat
of my own beautifulness,
like palming the round of a glass
to warm the spirit,
like rubbing the rim with one wet finger
to hear it sing.


The Note I Wrote

3 Mar



The Note I Wrote


“Spirited away by Latin poets.  Do not send ransom.”

For their ravishment has freed me

from a flat white ironed life,

crisp and starched,

where you once placed me

brim filled with the rapture of carmine fire


only to sit in silent sparkling

alongside the cold silver.



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