Tag Archives: writing

Open Ocean

20 Mar

When I woke up, it smelled like someone was making breakfast.
Some things, I’ll never understand.

I’m not going to cry.

I’ll get up.
Dress comfortably well.
Go have tea and oats.
Organize my life for tomorrow.
Sit, dream and watch people.

If there was a dart to throw at one point of the world
where the flower of dreams blooms,
I could attach a strand of red wool
and chain stitch toward the plotpoint of
where I’ll find you.

But for now it’s tea and oats
and forgetfulness in focus,
shuffling tiny stacks of details
like sand bars to navigate before
open ocean.

And I’ll leave this treasure map
unfixed or finished.
Because finding one’s way
is never smooth nor even
especially when light becomes
more precious than the prize.

January 15, 2018

Not Yet

13 Mar


On morning winterwakings
sometimes I speak
into the cold quiet
to break the breath of the comatose air,
a Lazarene call
under quilted cloth and doubt.
“Don’t think to Spring,” I whisper,
“to sparrows in the redtree,
to when earth opens for Love and tears.
Right now is not leaving you.
Each Janus breath flows shallowblue
over his cold shoulders
and your warm feet.
Lie like a cold seed,
a promise,
covered in a coat
of bitterblack.
Let the numbed edge of wasted word and expectation
bruise, blacken and fall
from your collar and cuff.
Look up.
Cheer the last leaf on the limb
still waving welcome at dawn.
If she can greet the heatless sun drybrown in breathless praise,
you can, one green morning
unfurl a slim arm
and catch her
final fall.

January 10, 2018


Mistress Mana

9 Mar


Mistress Mana
waves her sovereign hand,
delivers a crisp scripted
edict of feathered stars
over slope and broken rock.
Her white whisperlaw is read
at every window.
“Today ye shall
make love,
tell story,
wrap your body in blanket, sock,
and pillow.
Eat and drink
by the pyre
of felled oakprinces.
Unlock the heartchest
and play games of chance
with memory.
And when the darkness falls,
ye shall breathe out
onto the blackblue
mirror of night
warmwhite exhaltations
For I am.
I abide.
Even in the silent pause,
between each degree of earth’s turning .”

December 9, 2017


12 Dec


I do not measure
my heart in sunrise
and sunset,
though the glory
of colorcoming
and lightleaving plays it’s part
in the drama of days.
But in leaf and limb,
inhaling and exhaling.
In spans of inevitable green
and glorious gold
before fallingdoubt and near deathsleeping.
I learned to love
from oaks
who know this secret,
a faith coded into their ringbones
repeating return.
They keep the soft velvet
the touchbend and retreat
from sky, a clockcase
full of
freedom and foreboding.
Yet adore the sun,
like a fickle lover
here one day, gone the next,
needing and abiding equally.
Damned delicious sun!
Longing is to sigh again, green.
What can they do
but live,
dressed in lush love
or bear quiet cold
in naked dignity.
till his return?


29 Nov


blanket and bundle.
At my back
a ball of breathing
black pillowdog,
a warm cocoon against
the cold coming day.
They say
be happy right now.
Not to wait
or time will run out.
So I am happy for this half
of the bed
that holds me.
And  dream chill stillness
slows the seconds
for the other.


20 Nov


I wonder

what happens to

women wizened and wise,

those bent inside their

cottage and fence.

Were once, they fae?

To dance fields of flowers

seems an awful bargain to

absent the flesh of rocking cradles.

To have pockets filled of

dustwishes to give,

but not for use.

What of her own

when there is nothing left

inside paperhusk and rind,

past fruitfulness?

Two wells for eyes,

the color of


Is that why they sigh?

To rock the ache away?

To be a sentinel of time,

the herald of fate,

scissors dangling from red ribbon

clipsharp ready,

full of lessons learned

like a compass needle toward

Mother and our inevitable return.

Are they not healers

of earthly souls?

Some say a magic far

greater than desire.

Would they not remind us

to hold a warm child tight,

the beloved other

to touch in the night?

A soft pillar of persuasion,

serving tea

and sacrifice.

Extra Longer

5 Nov



Things I hope you will love
extra longer:

Sitting in dark velvet quiet,
another world flickering and blue in front of you
both hand in hand,
remember the feel of rough fingers
like the bended fold
of a thick linen envelope.
Entwine arm in arm.
Save the date of the moment and
linger longer
than you might,
one moment maybe
just for me.

When the shower
cascades in percussive rounds
like a trembling cahone
off the rock of his beloved body,
listen a little longer
to water
singing the curve
of a road often traveled
by your once hot heart.
Catch the last note of the
stream like the intoning bell
calling All to notice
the moment,
each your gift.

Gather one drop
for me.

By the nape of his neck,
let your eyes fall like autumn shadow
over the dark slope
of tender openness,
let your view drape across
muscle bending toward the heat of collar
and brave bone.
Lean in.
Place your mouth there
extra longer,
tasting the gratitude in sweatmaking.
Roll onto a nightslept pillow
full of scent and salted musk,
breath him
in like a Second Coming.
He’ll return.
He always does.
Have you noticed,

So when your hand finds the moss
covered cage of sinew and heart beat beneath
listen a little longer
for the rest of us;
our longing hovers above you like
a haint blue porch ceiling
Don’t you dare forget a miracle.
Cause you carry dreampromise
in your limbs and loving
like an autumn wind warning
the fury of frost
and lost leaves.

Taking Space

4 Oct


Five out of twenty nine.
As if with each caulked casement
leaving there is more room,
the air itself a rushing
love for lungs to drink.
Each cracked pane, each broken rope, each curling lip of lead
paint wrapped, carted away.
Wavy panes of perceiving
held together by bracing and time,
removed. Each day,
while I’m not watching.
Sometimes you don’t watch.
You lie still
and notice
when the house is opening,
and the dreams are leaking out somehow
like breadcrumbs for the Divine
to follow, gather,
and bring back to your bed
like lovebreath whispers
in the early light.

Quizzing Glass

24 Sep

Her eyes said to the professor,
Why don’t you stop studying me and
be with me.
And then she was grateful
to have become so very
not something buried then
a curiosity for
But like a live oak,
limbs and leaves flush with green,
hung with soft sighing hair,
he was just unable to see
beyond the glass
in his own.

Texts Not Sent #57

18 Sep


Begins so casually.
Is there a Biscuitville where you are?
she starts to type.

And do you like
egg, cheese, and tomato buttered biscuit
Sunday midmornings
after coffee, after pajamas, after loving,
curving together half a dream in soft
tangles of limbs and lips,
after the first waterblue moment of quiet room,
noticing that three inches
from the bareness of
the back
of your neck
there is heat and beating heart under
the vulnerability of skin and vein
alive with the sound of oceanbreath…

Her thumb above the arrow.
And memory quietly said,
not to.

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