26 Thursday Nov 2020
Together we made
a band of misfit angels,
plenty just so, plenty
with wonky arm and lumpy belly
and jagged wing,
together.
Together,
we rolled butter-based dough,
floured marble pin,
hand chasing hand, little and big,
together.
Oven warmed kitchen
and laughter warmed hearts,
kinda doesn’t get better
than a band of misfit angels
together.
28 Tuesday Aug 2018
In the cross-hatch seat of the chair
wooden, dusted in time and use,
a cat
curled
and sleeping.
Looking over at her, floor boards below and sun
reaching through a far window,
doubt can not waver the sweetness
of a morning with feline, coffee, a book
and silence rising from the woods outside.
05 Thursday Oct 2017
A coral bell hanging
brightly
amongst its neighbors,
a bear trundling along
alone,
a cricket sounding an evening concert
loudly
in the kitchen,
each, perfectly, to its nature.
Were the bear turning this way and that
wondering
how he looks in his bearness, his gait,
his hunger,
or the coral bell wishing mightily
it could be a lily,
or the cricket seizing upon the desire to stomp
like an elephant through jungle-
Where would we be?
Thankful to the trueness of things
may we seek only
our own magnificent, and fleeting, natures.
11 Tuesday Jul 2017
To the fierce woman–
not the girl, whatever the age, trying to look pretty,
to be nice,
not the girl in the woman’s body aiming
to be desired, seductive, adored, heroic, cool, mysterious,
No, no-
To the fierce woman who knows the song of her own heart’s beat,
who cares not about how she appears, but about who she is,
who isn’t reaching for the next best outfit, witty comeback, title or
right answer–
To the fierce woman who walks how she walks,
talks how she talks,
ages as she brilliantly ages,
sees how she sees and
loves how she loves,
my God, Welcome.
Welcome to this world.
You
are
needed.
11 Saturday Feb 2017
I think I’ll choose a valentine this year.
Maybe,
my valentine will be
the perfection of bells ringing
from the strand strung across the handlebars
of that bike slowly riding through town.
Or the wet bark of vanilla-butterscotch scented pine,
the one dropping sap spring into fall
for the bottoms of my feet to collect.
Or the lovely world view offered up by that children’s librarian.
Or the reflection of the silent patron
who sips coffee and dives into book and notebook-
shadow and light of paper, letters, pencil.
Or the hands of that man,
rough in all the right ways.
Probably, though, it’ll be the spark in your eyes
when the magic of this finite existence
brings a smile from rivers so deep
you never stood a chance to resist.
Hmm,
It might be worth checking your mailbox real soon…
02 Thursday Feb 2017
Somebody’s got their hands in the cookie jar
to take every last one.
And ain’t nobody having it.
Because it goes like this~
One for you, and for you, and for you and you and you.
Anybody missed?
Oh yes, please join us,
your stories are encouraged.
Here, warm your toes
by this joyous, abundant fire.
20 Tuesday Dec 2016
Roots set in frosty, frosty ground
hugged by grit and worm and mole,
the slowlystretchinggrowing silence of
tips touching stonewetsoft.
Ears needn’t hear, nor eyes see-
vitality cups darkness
and nutrients find pathways
up up up
to light of day, and sharp starry sky.
The underearth knows quiet
and no-hurry, no-worry.
Sit awhile atop roots and wonder
just wherehowwho far
your own earth arms wriggle.
17 Saturday Dec 2016
It wasn’t through torn paper
blackened shoelace
or scuffed wall
that I found You.
It wasn’t the constant push
circulating fear
or I-must-do-betters..
not even the inch between
the sidewalk and me
plus a bruised knee.
Not exactly.
Add the non-starts,
regimented dreams,
what’s-wrong-with-me’s,
attempts to fit when fitting fed starvation,
and the broken heart- birthday after birthday-
with one shattering
nearly beyond recovery
that, finally,
I found You.
The joke being
that I’ve carried You in me
since before the first sunrise.
Except now,
when I say hello
I can hear You answer.
15 Thursday Dec 2016
Riparian corridor
in orange and yellow
ribbons between greening hills.
Brown shaggy dog trots,
with pink frisbee flopping,
toward the river.
30 Sunday Oct 2016
What if we were as fierce
about seeing
finding
knowing beauty
as ugliness, fear, and lack?
Would we not become greater protectors
of the overlooked and precious?
Would our focus not
change
from what we want to avoid
to that asking
for further creation?
From being barefoot on rain-soaked earth
while sun breaks clouds overhead,
to cinnamon in coffee,
the perfect heat of a shower,
sustained note of a well-played cello,
to strangers reaching for each other’s hands,
and friends who have plenty to eat,
a car that starts,
the woodpecker we’d like to curse
for waking us out of sleep-only-
its tapping brought us a view of the sunrise,
and places in existence where peoples
are honored and heard.
Wouldn’t the goodness flood us
even if
nothing else could we sense but
the beating of our own heart-
wouldn’t miracles fill our days?
Salt, Smoke, Water and Stone 