As a child



I remember

arms and legs


everything into my mouth

pebbles dirt bees

I sang the earth

running rubber knees

kicking the sky swing

standing where the rain just……..stopped

laden fruit trees


I was used to shining light in the dark

glasses in the sun

hiding blindness

running ahead

while looking back

I trip upon the truth


now that I am on

the outside of the mountain


I’m trusting


love knows





photo credits:

They refused

to bury us

in the knotted masks of tall grasses

before setting fire to the cairn of chaff


our children

lie dormant

as seeds of light



as we were

are gone forever



defying gravity

I am here to witness

love breathing


through my own flesh


IMG_1745painting: J.H. White 2007


I want to thank my fellow traveler, Geo Sans. Even though it is a solitary journey, no one goes alone.



Hear me


You cannot return

to defile

the birthing of intimacy

within you.


My body is not a graffiti wall

absorbing the mark

of your disconnect.


The lack of boundaries you impose

will never dissuade the love

that takes us continually back to itself

as it births us anew.


Hear me


I am you.

But in this act

of willful indifference






 this seed, so stung

 germinating without sun

 grown from biting roots

 ungrounded in pain

 birthing emptiness

  returns to earth as dust

 as dust

 as dust


One Billion Rising

This poem was written for everyone who has been sexually abused….men, women and children. It is also for the abusers…those who clothe their own sorrow in indifference.

It is not a poem of exclusion. It is statement of strength and a prayer for the return to a sense of self and connection.

All aspects of sexual abuse come from the same seed. A seed that needs to lay fallow, bleach in the sun, and return to the earth as dust.



photo credit: <a href=””>henry grey</a> via <a href=””>photopin</a&gt; <a href=””>cc</a&gt;

Night mirrors

In my winter dreams

I look for seeds that have curled up in dry dark corners

caught there when the floods washed through.

I pull away the broken limbs and detritus that collect

and watch the seeds that float to the surface


Like mirrors end to end

they shift and turn

reflecting the barbed light of other suns.

Birthing memories.

The only heat sometimes is in memory

passing through the heat of the wound.


I wake from these dreams disconnected

I have instinctively stretched out in time.


Deep in the night

no birds singing yet

waiting for light.


intro page



                                                    I’m not

                                                    frozen in this moment…

                                                    My memory is as old as stone.

                                                    Relative to the rhythm of a tap dance

                                                    it is entertaining

                                                    but no longer of use

                                                    for direction.

                                                    I am


                                                    in the estrangement of local weeds

                                                    the cadence of direct deposit

                                                    the allegiance of filtered water

                                                    the geometry of home.

                                                    There must be

                                                    a more reliable guideline

                                                    in chaos

                                                    I tell myself…

                                                    I’ve worked hard to lose

                                                    the map of my soul.

photo credit: <a href=””>tlindenbaum</a&gt; via <a href=””>photopin</a&gt; <a href=””>cc</a&gt;



                                                             Winding down

                                                              inside the mountain.

                                                              Fingers tracing the edge of shadows


                                                              this is leading

                                                              to air and light.

                                                              Spinning slowly

                                                              arms freed from gravity’s holding

                                                              into the deep.


I used to think archetypes were stories we collectively tell ourselves that eventually, over time, become the fabric of our personal considerations, but now I understand they are more like skin.  More real, more intimate than the clothes we wear to define us.  More intrinsically ours.  The calluses, wrinkles, birthmarks and scars. 

It would seem that in order to have weight, to be as intrinsic as skin, an archetype would have to hold more than just story.  We are our skin.  Skin is experiential in every sense.  It is our largest sensing organ.

Going deeper…individual cells make up the structure of skin.  Cells replicate, know their purpose, are in relationship with other cells, have memory.

Archetypes are both the macrocosm and the microcosm of skin. Experience and memory.

photo credit: D. Sharon Pruitt at