All around

  the long bones of the trees

raise small green prayer flags

from their roots

of  winter solace


Signals humming in the first spring wind

“There are so many lost in their own momentum”


There is an urgency

as the intrepid green shoots

attend to the living word




As everything cycles new in the next few months, my activities surround the season. I’ll be lending my hands, my arms, my back, my muscles, my eyes and my ears where needed.  My softer parts and all my bones go along for the ride. …giddy with enthusiasm.

I’ll also be germinating the next set of audio broadcasts. The seeds have been planted. I am immeasurably grateful to everyone who listened and lent their own thoughts … such beauty….you have my heart….

I’m learning trust in so many ways

opening like a flower

in a field of wild light



Artist: Paul Klee


Words embracing form

Even substance cannot slow to definition

the holiness of momentum 







We’ve never been a good fit

as I’ve skimmed across your surface

scratching at dust

looking for entry

The humus of my life is enough

to sustain each season.

Never enough it seems 

to grow roots.


They counseled me,

” Don’t forget to breathe

   when the trees

   lose their leaves”


I watched those last brazen greens

that were stunned to new growth

by the sun warmth and rain of falling days,

their wildness ignoring immoral reason.

I harvested their leaves for winter teas.

Good medicine for this winter of my life.


The pulse now lies below



tucked in for reflection

networks of roots resting,

arms around each other.


When I too was brazen

I would empty myself with nights of hard drinking,

or when resolve quickened for release,

with bouts of high fever

Unaware of the pulse below

and startled by the clacking of human engagement

that other seasons hid from view with warm promises.


Now I have covered that distance between my mind

my heart

and have become a nomad in this civilized wasteland

as I follow the shifts in my perceptions.


My skin is a porous coat

I wear

in all weather



in all seasons.


When I went to re-post this poem I discovered that it had originally been published exactly a year ago on the same date. It’s good to listen again, poetry being such an amazing dialogue with self, with Other …


nothing and everything



nothing and everything

arrives unexpected


listen listen


and I hear the rising of my own story

surfacing for protection

who am I then?

the sum of my parts

or who I am becoming?


this aching is an intention

radiating in waves

the energy

a voluntary take over

I can feel it everywhere

my sex, my stomach, my bottom lip

inundated I feel I am sinking


drenched in the running colors

I wade to shore


the more I surrender

the more transparent I’m becoming



I hear


the earth is weeping



like smog shadows rifling valleys

the mountain holds its breath


Fragile like feverish water

the ocean aborts the moon’s children


Fragile like bees loosing direction

and stamens playing their last hands


Fragile like children born overwhelmed

by viruses perplexed


Fragile still

like a flower abandoned by the garden

in blooming makes no mistakes

intelligence in its unfolding


fragile flower~




Made captive by circumstance

in the garden of our sex

let there be a resurrection

of memory’s flesh held in stone,

the Earth herself embodying

the records of this undoing.


A longed for freedom

now pulses with a courage

transparent as a string of worn pearls

from the sea of this misguided betrayal


For we have always breathed as one

in any way our souls take breath

birthing a life

that blesses all


International Women’s Day


The deep has always loved me

deep woods


The red tailed hawk still perfect but road killed the colors of fall

The drifting snow burying the uphill windows to lit transoms

The absolute quiet of white

 The starving deer the dogs ran down in that hardest of winters

The deer’s bones in the morgue of the freezer until I would bury the bones in Spring

The brush fires I tended that burned hot or low for days under late snow or Spring rain

The old ghost tricking me in dreams to remember our children born of plunder and rape

The gourds that looked like the swollen bellies of whales

The purge of the creek in spring run off stripping bark clean from tumbling dead trees

The surprise of the rising waters climbing my calves the ground saturated to jelly

The path we called Cat Butt turned into a river the sound wild and competing with returning brown geese

A lightening flash snaking the grounding wire silencing the music playing inside with a preacher’s thunder

The swath cut through the static of long berry brambles catching hold and refusing to let go

The oldest grapevine living with the elder pine protecting each other with their roots suckling water from the bog

The young maples I sang with as I learned their grove’s language

The low valley road no one wanted to travel that opened my throat to the sound of a vowel’s reaching

The last call and thumping cry shock wave of each tree falling as loggers clear cut nearby

The hummingbird sitting in stillness on the tip of the branchless dead tree each summer’s day at four

The oceans of colored mushrooms swelling the deep woods just that one wet season

The bed of lace and leaves tatted by oak’s tannin where I lay in surrender to soft rain

 The purple woman’s hands of black cohosh rising from wet soil dressed in the mysteries of Spring


Photo: Deep Woods by Nicholas_T  ( https://c2.staticflickr.com/8/7296/8847022426_1d8de04c8c_b.jpg )





open to skies

deep in the left heel


I don’t need to follow you

I can see where you’ve been

in the waves

with their tongues of silver




photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/elliotmoore/45457311/”>Elliot Moore</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;