Poetry

After the election

Close I sit to the woodstove
to pen this poem. Not for warmth
but for good company.

Fireside I find myself remembering:
with my thoughts I make the world.

Outside in the woods, darkness
hints with daybreak. Larch needles, 
once shimmering green then gold, 

fall with the grace of prayer to seed
quietly what will rise in the spring, 
once winter has her frozen reign 
on this wild kingdom. 

I’ve known only great fortune
today. Movement of body and 
stirring of soul.

I’ve known only the nourishment
that comes from investing in my
own upliftment. 

The necessary enchantment I 
provided myself early this morning, 
by having a solo dance party in my
living room. 

-Nov 7 2024

Swoon & Sorrow

For the heart to swoon, it must also
have permission to feel sorrow.

Expansion cannot be without 
contraction. It it impossible
for the ocean to only exhale.

So when I am uplifted by the
chorus of coyotes, who sing in
response to the temple bell 
reverberating in the chaparral, 

I consider it a good sign when, 
upon seeing a seagull limping
on the sand alongside the Pacific, 

my heart goes out to her. 
And breaks, just a little.

- Oct 13, 2024

warm hearted

So very many afflictions haunt &
plague our precious people. Our
loved ones, acquaintances, store clerks, 
passing strangers. 

Dark nights of the soul, 
acute or chronic, abound. 

Abuse, war, neglect, a lifetime of mistreatment. 
Loneliness, sickness, grief, heartbreak. 
Mental illness. Anxiety. An underlying
thrumming of discontent. In no particular
order, because comparing and ranking
will never be a good idea.

Important to know and helpful to 
keep in mind, is many people are up against it. 

Internal struggles are in motion
on the battlefields of the many. 

Blazing infernos of the mind. 
Smoldering campfires of the heart. 
Fierce winds of the soul. 

May we all be warm-hearted to 
one another today, regardless of
how others present. 

We are all each doing our best
with what we know
about how to survive.

- Aug 30 2024

Untitled

Do whatever it takes
to fill your tank with gladness. 

Life is hard enough
already. 

Be moderate in your consumption
of the news. For every head turn
in the direction of struggle, 
take two or three to face
what is good. 

It is not a self-centered act
to invest in our own enlivening. 
A down-trodden person can do little
to bolster the spirit of others. 

Remember who it is you’re routing for.
Allow it to be yourself, for the benefit
of us all.

- Oct 14, 2023

The Greats Make it Look easy

The poet greats make it
look easy.

"Happiness isn't a town on a map,
or an early arrival, or a job well done,
but good work ongoing," she wrote.

Mary Oliver is a lighthouse and a
flashlight simultaneously.

I want to remember always what
Macklemore said once in a song:
"The greats weren't great cuz at
birth they could paint, the greats
were great because they paint a lot."

I like to think the more bad poems
I write, the greater my chances ar
for churning out a decent one.

But then, the outcome may not
be nearly as important as the
act itself.

And actually, the finished product
may not even be the point at all.

- penned on June 28, 2023

Bone Dry

For those times, whether 
fleeting or unmercifully long, 
when our chalice is bone dry, 
and life, woefully, keeps
carrying on despite our 
dehydration, there is something, 
perhaps, worthy of remembering. 

Our spirit, or whatever you
fancy calling it, requires care
& attention. 

How do I further explain? 
Just as we can see the tops of
trees moving in the wind, 
but cannot see the wind itself,
that which inspires our pulse
& rhythm is beyond sight. 

Our thinking mind is
ill-equipped to tend to
such important matters. 

To invest in our own
enlivening requires sitting down
in a comfy chair in the living
room of our heart. 

Trouble brews when we
identify with being only
the tree. Truth is, we are
made possible by the wind.


- penned on December 1, 2022

Altered Slightly

Even today, this last
October Friday, waking
as I did to a van chilled
to 38-degrees, like a
beverage I would've
preferred warmer but
drank just the same,
nested in the national
forest of San Bernardino,
I am woman altered slightly
from the day that came
before.

- penned on October 28, 2022

Deep(er) Looking

It might be too soon for this.
It might be that the tragedy is
too recent.

It might not be the right time
to hear what I have to say,
without corkscrewing it into
something I’m not saying.

Alongside my sorrow for the
loss of all those sweet children,
for the forever rage that
will linger on in that community
for generations to come, for the
parents who will never ever
get over losing their young ones,
off to the side, in the shade,
sits a quieter sadness.

A mourning for the teenage
gunman. An imagining of
what he must’ve endured
in order to carry out the act
he did. Sparks of compassion
for the brevity of his life,
the trauma-body he carried.

I do not believe anyone
does anything
for no good reason.

I believe in our human
capacity being vast,
and growing exponentially
when other factors are
involved. Factors like
poverty, abuse,
mistreatment,
chronic loneliness,
being othered, and
neglect.

Just this past Monday in sangha,
we read this passage from a book
by Thich Nhat Hanh:

“When you plant lettuce, if it does not grow well, you
don't blame the lettuce. You look for reasons it is not
doing well. It may need fertilizer, or more water, or
less sun. You never blame the lettuce. Yet if we have
problems with our friends or family, we blame the other
person. But if we know how to take care of them, they will
grow well, like the lettuce. Blaming has no positive
effect at all, nor does trying to persuade using reason
and argument. That is my experience. No blame, no
reasoning, no argument, just understanding. If you
understand, and you show that you understand, you can
love, and the situation will change.”

May my love for the world
and its people expand to fill
the cosmos.

May I do the work necessary
to not leave anyone out.

May I look deeply to see
each of us is the result
of what has been watered.

- penned on May 26, 2022

Live water

Through fogged up windows,
all the world looks grayer
than gray, our breath is
thick drops of condensation
beaded up on the windshield.

Despite how very solid
we may feel, how fixed in
place by a scaffolding of
bones and propelled by
will & conditioning we
think we are, we boil
down to live water.

We are frozen just the same.
Warmed to steam.
Burned to ash.

We can be a temporary
puddle for someone to
splash through. An ocean
for someone to get lost in.

Or a high mountain lake
seldom visited. A place
so remote it gets left alone,
by everyone but the most
adventurous.

- penned on May 7th, 2022

pledge of allegiance

I pledge allegiance to
Mary Oliver and Ani Difranco.
To my teacher Thich Nhat Hanh.

I declare myself a committed
citizen to the constitution of
kindness.

And when I fall to my knees
weary or weighted,
from all of what it means
to be human in this wide,
beautiful and aching world,
may I, while I’m down there,
know how to fill myself
with humble prayer
for the reverent joy it
takes to get back up.

- penned March 13th, 2022

Last night the moon

Last night,
the full moon.
She rose
in an obsidian
sky as I was
strolling by.

My smiling eyes
danced in her honor.
Later, I sang to her
a song about
ravens.

In her presence
I am amplified.
A glowing source
illuminated from
within.

We moved
through darkness
hanpd in hand.
Our lights
intertwined.
Inseparable.
Dependent on
one another
in the best
possible way.

She is the loveliest
thing I know.

- penned on December 19th, 2021

3 More Days & Nights

3 more days & nights
till we say not with words
but with action: Here you go,
new owners of our house.
It's all yours.

Our son was 3 when we
moved in. He'll be 22
in 3-weeks.

It's both kind of a big deal
and also just another little thing
happening as part of life.
Is it a thing to hold on tight
AND open into the great
unknown?

No. This is one of those rare
times it can't be both.

Part of me wants to savor
every last morsel of this
place. Commit every splay
of light on wood surface to
a flash drive I can plug
in to my memory bank
20-years from now, and
have it be as though I
never left.

Part of me wants to pen
a poem that will capture &
preserve our time here like
butterfly wings set in glass,
to mount on a future wall
out of direct sun so as not
to dull the colors.

I do know this.
Just as wind, sun & rain
shape the trees & mountains,
bending limbs, carving stone,
who I am was crafted
by this house.

Though memories fade
& distance is gained,
there can be no true
separation.

Besides,
it's never the what that
has happened that matters
most but the who we become
as a result.

- penned on October 15th, 2021

belonging

1.
Seldom is there one right
answer to the question:
What shall I do with my life?
Or even: What shall I do with my today?
There is only what we wind up doing -
methodically or haphazardly or a
soft mix of both - followed by
navigating whatever comes next.

2.
I wonder if there's a way for
us humans to change because
we see the need and not because
we feel the heat.
(Insert space to think here)
Nope.
I don't think this is a thing.
Not really.

3.
Maybe all of this trying
to be someone else for
someone else is the biggest
global problem we have.

4.
To belong to our self
is lifelong work.

- penned on October 7th, 2021

Reiki

Pulsating with the flow of energy,
as the body's lines blur to form a
sacred accord with the heartbeat
of the universe; all beings past &
present; the radiance of the Earth.

To be open to one's own healing
journey, not separate from the path
of every other being's direction of travel,
is to know what it is to be filled with
the possibility of enlivening to a
blooming state of ease.

Rooted and winged at the same time,
I turn myself over to the flow of life's
rich energy, moving like a river of light
within and all around me.

- penned on September 2nd, 2021

10,000 joys & sorrows

As Jack Kornfield once said:
"We got ourselves born into
a world of unbearable beauty
and an ocean of tears..."

Each of us knows what it is
to hold 10,000 joys and
10,000 sorrows.

Each of us knows the bounty
of a world seen through eyes
trained to see the good.

Each of us knows the terror
and heartbreak of a world
seen through eyes trained
to see only darkness.

The task given to us,
as breathing & beating hearts
walking firm on the path
of transformation,
is not to pick one world
over the other.

It is not to look solely
in the direction of the good
at the expense of ignoring
the darkness.

It is to gather our attention -
as though we were bringing
in close our most beloved -
and apply it like sunshine
to both simultaneously,
with radiating warmth
and spirit of caring.

- penned on August 30th, 2021

Batten down the hatches

At least part of us knows
life can change in an instant.
A bigger part of us knows
if we were recent recipients
of an event that reminded us.

But oftentimes, our memory
quickly fades into a suburbian
version to the big city proper
of what really happened.

Then we sorta forget the whole
life is change thing. We revert
back to our old ways and think:
Huzzah! I am a permanent self
who will live forever!!

There is no substitute
for real experience
when it comes to learning
the art of captaining
our own ship on the seas
and swells of change.

We won't really know
how we'll respond
to a big storm
until it comes.

But then, we can be pretty sure
we'll be able to weather big weather
when we practice battening down
the hatches when the water is
steady as she goes.

- penned on August 18th, 2021

We Are All the Same. And. We Are All Different.

When I say "we are all the same,"
what I mean is: each one of us is
what happens when a myriad of
influences weave & wind themselves
together.

When I say "we are all different,"
I mean: no two people have the
same exact set of circumstances.

When I say "we are all the same,"
it is not at the expense of
honoring & respecting
our differences.

Too often, when we say "we are different"
we mean: one of us needs to change
and it should probably be you.

Do not be fooled into thinking
we are all the same in a
if-I-can-do-it-you-can-do-it
sort of way. This approach
ignores lifetimes of momentum.

Do not be fooled into thinking
we are all different to the point
of giving yourself a pass
while taking others to task.

Too often, being the same
means being connected
and being different
means being separate.

When I say "we are all the same,"
I do not mean we do or should
all look the same; talk the same;
act the same; think the same.

When I say "we are all different,"
I mean: we are all interconnected.

- penned on August 10th, 2021

Five Things

First: Do not make as the aim of your life to change the world.

Second: Learn how to rest, not quit. Also know: sometimes quitting is what is needed.

Third: Practice to infuse gratitude into everything you do.

Fourth: Prioritize and uphold with vigor everything you know that matters most. Do not be tempted to bend or sway your convictions of heart.

Fifth & Final: Be gentle, friendly, and good to you.

- penned on August 4th, 2021

Forte, Forte!

Cherries are ripening
up north around the lake
in the orchards.

Huckleberries are reddening
on forest bushes.

People are right now
waking up in sleeping bags
inside tents next to cold
mountain lakes.

Our great Sun is conducting
summer, pointing its baton
in all directions.

"Forte, forte!" Sun says
without saying.

"Play play, as loudly
as you can."

- penned on July 23rd, 2021

Now more than ever

I have witnessed two mothers
being horrible to their child
in public over the last few days.

One was in the self-checkout
at Albertson's. The other in a
parked car next to us at the
Bonner truck stop.

In both cases, I thought:
This is how the cycle of abuse
carries itself on. It gets passed
down, one generation to the next.

Those poor children, I thought.
Those poor mothers, I thought.
Those poor future children
of the children, I thought.

What torture it must be
to have no way out.

Seeing these acts of abuse
inspires me to up my kindness.

"Be good to people,"
I often remind myself,
"even when your spirit is
lagging, tired & sore.

So very many people
need your kindness,
now more than ever."

- penned on July 21st, 2021

immortality

I am going
to live forever.

You will too.

The movement energy
of our actions
speech
thoughts
can never be extinguished.

No whirling of wind
goes un-remembered.

An ear touched
by birdsong
is a heart
forever
changed.

- penned on July 14th, 2021

open as the sea

Open dear morning,
fresh sprig of time,
like a child's hand extending
in reach for comfort and safety.

Open as though you have never known
abandonment. Never known the damage
of what it means to be unclutched,
then blind-sided by so much wind.

Open as though you were once
told by someone dear and trusted
that to close is a way of dying.

Be open like the sea
turning no one - not ever -
away.

- penned on July 5th, 2021

on sunday

Sunday, I was over-joyed
to make a trip to the landfill.
To be directed up to the top
instead of the common spot
for unloading.

Ravens are close to
never seen in town.
They exist in droves at the top
of the landfill.

There is something unmistakably
& beautifully honest about the dump
and its great winged sentinels.

Sunday, a task that was
supposed to be easy
was difficult to the point
of madness.

Sunday, I opened an email
I was at first grateful to receive.
Then it broke me.

Sunday, I watched a livestream
program during an online retreat
I felt so angered by
I could no longer
sit in my chair.

Sunday, I shed tears for the pain
of a woman I do not know.
And a little while later,
I shed tears of my own.

- penned on June 29th, 2021

Hard to be human

It's hard to be a human.

Hard to not armor up
against all the reasons
that make good sense
to armor up against.

Hard not to take things
and the actions of others
so personally.

Hard to be what sometimes feels like
the one person cultivating joy
in a world of sorrows and cynics.

Hard to use one's voice
when that voice does not
fall in line with one
established side or the other.

Hard to connect
in a world geared
towards separation.

And every bit of it is also
what matters most.

- penned on June 18th, 2021

Upon waking

I greet this morning
bare footed and soft smiling.

Upon waking, these were
my silent words:

Waking up, I smile to the earth, our land,
and the world, our people.

With awareness that I am alive on this earth,
breathing with all beings around the world

May I be useful today,
May I be kind.

- penned on June 9th, 2021

june outside, winter is coming

Just as it is June outside
but still it can be said that
winter is coming, death is
on its way but life is
happening now.

To think nothing of tomorrow
is near impossible.
To think only of tomorrow
is unwise.

What we do today
informs what we do
the day after.

To keep an eye on death
is not to pattern our feet to
walk with fear but to remind
one self that life is for the living
and old age is no guarantee.

- penned on June 7th, 2021

On Waking Up and Starting A New Day

(Inspired by Nick Seluk's comic The Awkward Yeti)

Heart: Best day of ever! Hooray for all the things!!

Brain: Okay, let's see. What do we need to do today? I know, let's make a list!

Heart: Good morning Brain 🙂 Hows about you and I strike an accord?

Brain: I'm listening.

Heart: Let's start the day by reading some poetry and then maybe writing some poetry - and we can also enjoy some tea and listen to the birds! Then we'll sit and meditate for a bit and THEN we'll make a list.

Brain: That sounds reasonable.

Heart: Great! It's a date!

Brain: You mean a plan.

Heart: Nope, I mean a date! You plus me is a dream team, friend! Together we're capable of anything! Let's reach for the stars!!!

Brain: (sigh) And here I was starting to think I was rubbing off on you.

- penned on June 4th, 2021

Be good to people

When we name-call, say,
a political figure, no matter how
well deserved we think it is,
we are contributing to the slow
eroding of a civilized world.

Have I mentioned lately
that words matter?

How they not only matter
but they travel and translate
into how we and others
view the world?

We need to hold ourselves
to a higher standard of decency.

Not everything we think
is worth saying out loud.

To name-call is to dehumanize.
Let us not fool ourselves into thinking
it is anything less.

- penned on June 2nd, 2021

Was/is

I want to think there is a way
to respect and show genuine care
for those with whom I do not align,
even if our misalignment is as
great as the year is long.

Respect for all the factors
influences and ancestry that
make up who they are.

Care for the truth that they are
who they are because everything
else around them was/is like it was/is,
just as it was/is for me.

I do not believe there is any such thing
as an evil or no-good person.

No one was created
in an instant.

All of us were developed
over time.

- penned on May 31st, 2021

Today is not yesterday

I know what you're thinking.
(Okay. Well. Not really but just go with me on this.)
This spring day is just like any other spring day.

Birds: check.
Sunshine: check.
Flowers: check.
Chilly morning air: check.

If you were dropped randomly down,
bare feet on greening grass,
the year would be undiscernible.

This spring day could be last year's
spring day as easily as my blue sky
could be your blue sky.

But then, what about how everything
changes? And by everything
I mean the way it's impossible
to see exactly the same thing
in exactly the same way
more than once.

I mean the you who is reading this
spring telling and the me who is
penning it, sloppily, in her notebook
nearing its papered end.

- penned on May 30th, 2021

Life is hard right now

I do not want to hear, for you to tell me,
that the unknown is a magical place
full of wonder and rebirth.

It's not that I don't believe you,
it's that now
is not the time.

I do not want to be told
to stop feeling
what I am feeling
because you
do not know
how to listen.

I am in no mood to field
your unsolicited advice.

When I say life is hard right now,
I want you to feel what it is I am saying.

I do not need
to be saved
or for you
to fix it.

I know what I'm about.

When I say life is hard right now,
without drama or fanfare
or want of verbal response,
I am honoring what it means
to be human.

- penned on May 26th, 2021

Today, 1st & 2nd

First:
I woke to my alarm at 5am.
An unexpected pleasure.

I mentally prepared for being roused
in the middle of the night by a sudden
fever swell, like so many others before me.
The spell of the 2nd vax stick.

I was geared up to feel miserable.
Supplies on standby in easy grab reach.
But so far, nothing but a sore arm.

A swell of sickness, of bodily response
to whatever is happening now in preparation
for whatever happens next,
might still take place.

But so far, nothing but a sore arm.
And a quiet satisfaction from feeling
as though I am helping to protect all those
around me, near and far.
_________

Second:
I drew open the front curtains.
Another unexpected happening,
this time a delight. Or was it a pleasure?
Nope. A delight.

I was prepared to see a thick gray blanket
of clouds, maybe even a skiff of snow.
Instead, I was greeted by a clear sky
fixin on ripening to blue.

The spell of springtime in the north country.

Another wave of chill and flurries,
of nature's way of testing the hardy,
thinning the herd, here in God's country,
might still take place. Today, even.
One never knows.

But so far, nothing but a bright
and birdsong morning.

- penned on May 22nd, 2021

misfit hairs

I bought my first bottle of hairspray
2-months or so ago.
Figured at 41 it was time I did
something about all these misfit white hairs.

Part of me wants to honor their
non-conformity of youth.
But as the hairspray indicates,
a slightly bigger part wants to
put & keep them in their place.

My first bottle of hairspray
since middle school,
it's worth clarifying -
which was both a lifetime ago
and just last week.

There's part of me, too,
still considering shaving it all off,
for what would be the fourth time.
But I don't mind telling you
it's my age that has me on the fence.

Youth has the benefit
of giving things a go
with a healthy disregard
for what comes next.

Still I sit in question,
in dialog with my long brown hair
streaking more and more
with silver strands. Oh how they
catch the light!

Thin threads of tough stock
hard to tame into submission,
rouge agents of change,
fixin to steal my own heart.

- penned on May 17th, 2021

matriarchs & Meals

Across cultures and country
sea and sky,

food and music are great joiners.
Great gatherers.

Great vehicles to bridge the divides
that threaten to keep us separated,

with you over there on your side of the canyon
and me over here on mine.

Matriarchs tending to breads
and soups, meats and sweets,
have held our ailing and wailing
families together throughout
space and time.

But what I think my country needs now
is not to hyper focus on our
collective similarities,

not to sing the anthem of
how we are all the same

but to recognize
and then respect
our differences,

while learning how to sit down
at the dinner table together
to share a meal.

- penned on May 5th, 2021

Great Welcome

Take fully in this sun rise
my dear sweet pumping heart,
inhale it as deeply as you can.

Then pause and hold it
for just a moment
before you exhale completely
everything it told you.

Invite with great welcome
spring birdsong
fresh shoots
the memory of a stranger's smile.

Draw open your curtains
a little wider.

Then, when you're ready
my precious heart,
invest your uplifting
as a grand unveiling
of kindness and care
in all the directions you can.

- penned on April 28th, 2021

Three Head Shavings

This is me
remembering
the three times
I've shaved my head.

Went from long hair to no hair.
Bucked the stereotypes
of what it means
to be a pretty girl.

I was 18 the first time.
Did it because I wanted to be different.

I was 21 the next time.
Did it because it was the easiest way to start over
after having dreads and then dying my hair a wild color.

I think I was 24 the third time.
Did it because I felt too caught up in my long hair,
too dependent on it as a driver for my personality.

I am 41 now and considering this act again,
for reasons I don't quite understand.

Liberation? Ease? Simplicity?
Frustration?
Yes.

But there's more to it I think.
I'm just not so sure what it is.

Camaraderie with Ani D's recent
head shaving at age 50?
No.
Well...
at least I don't think so.

- penned on April 25th, 2021

-ist Words Frighten Me

I am an advocate for certain things,
not an activist.
I am an ally, not a feminist.
I have implicit biases marring my
inner and outer landscapes
but I do not think that I am a racist.
I am white with privileges
but I am not a white supremacist.

I lean blue but I am a moderate not a leftist.
I am a vegetarian but not an extremist -
I have zero interest in converting you.

I even shy away from calling myself a Buddhist,
opting instead to say I am a practitioner
in a Zen-based tradition or maybe a Buddhist
practitioner, as at least it de-emphasizes
and doesn't end on the -ist.

I do things to reduce my eco-footprint
but I do not see myself as an environmentalist.

I may sometimes like to point something out
but I am not an alarmist.

Like you, I identify will being all sorts of things.
Like you, I align with certain things and not with others.
Like you, I want to be seen and viewed accurately.
Like you, people assume false stuff about me all the time.

My loyalties lie with critical thinking,
not fanatical devotion. Intelligent discourse,
not propaganda. I value skillful speakers,
not charged up instigators. And I'm open
to listening to others with very different views;
interested in trying to better understand
the collective/diverse/varied You; willing to learn
and be corrected - and I have no puffed up
agenda which centers around presuming
I know anything about what you should do.

- penned on April 25th, 2021

Blood pumping little heart

My heart holds many faces.
Thank goodness it keeps expanding
a little more each day.

There seems to be no stopping me.
My collection grows and grows
as time plays on.

In the quiet of morning they appear,
one by one, all those I carry,
like prized eggs from the hen house
to the fridge.

I walk slowly with each one
warm in my two hands,
careful not to crack or break them.

From monastery to prison
crib to deathbed,
just like my mother,

I pick up and tend to each soul I feel drawn to,
placing them gently in the pocket
of my blood pumping
little heart.

- penned on April 21st, 2021

in mimicry of Naomi Shihab Nye’s Poem “Fold”

I am partial to poems that turn
mundane moments into marvels,
everyday people into everyday people
worthy of mention,
the world on its side.

Also the way grass greens and grows
at the river’s edge here in my
springtime mountains, after so many
cold months asleep.

Cats in a window do something for me too.
Even empty sills where cats once stood
hold my eye when I pass by, knowing
they could appear any time…

can you see my proclivity for the words
“everyday” and “mundane”
a desire for making life approachable
digestible in a world given often
to excitements and tomorrows?

- penned on April 18th, 2021

waking up i smile

"Waking up I smile
and I embrace the world."

These were my first words upon waking.

I even outstretched my arms up and out
into the 5am darkness for added measure,
as though I were reaching for
the whole of the world to wrap up.

The thing is,
I love this world -
not only that,
I am in love with it.

And I think it might even be
the remedy for so much
confusion malaise division
apathy rage heartbreak.

Fall deeper in love,
this is my advice.

Fall so much in love that it becomes
impossible to do the work of hating
complaining separating.

Fall so much in love that forgiveness
is your default setting.

Our mighty home is both
a planet and a world.

When I think of our planet
I think of animals and nature,
when I think of our world
I think of people.

Don't love the planet
and not the world.

And when you learn to love the world,
love all of it. Do not leave
anyone out.

Love not because you think you should.
Love not to get love back.
Love not in such a way that is un-tethered
from real thought and action.
Love instead because you understand
the depths of our connection.

Make your love unshakeable
unassailable non-negotiable
unconditional not for sale.

Then, take your love
and have it be what guides
and propels you forward,
in whatever it is you are called to do.

- penned on April 14th, 2021

Four Wild Horses

Some things are relatively easy to
accept
forgive
change
let go of.
Other things take a bit of work.

I can accept without much fuss at all
a hospice patient dying in their late 80's
but give me a 33-year-old friend
who dies by suicide and that's
a different story.

I can forgive people all day long
for missteps large and small,
but without a genuine amends
or proper recognition of harm created
when it comes to breeches of trust,
I can hold a grudge till the cows come home.

I embrace all kinds of change,
so long as it was my idea or makes
good sense to me. But if my husband
folds a blanket a way I don't like,
I refold it and set it "right."

I have few qualms about letting go
of stuff or seasons but I can hold on
for dear life to my ideas about
what's right & wrong.

And it's not that I'm interested
in mastering these four wild horses.

I'd settle for gaining skill
simply to stay atop them
whilst riding through
varied terrains.

- penned on April 13th, 2021

Ready? Ready... Ready!

Because I know how un-simple
simplifying will be

Because I know enough to know
that I won't know how hard it will be
until it happens

This is me preparing
underneath my solid earth
the wriggling of wonder

in hopes that with enough proper tending
one day
a shoot will spring forth

Part of me will never be as ready
as I would like

But then, who is it
that has ever felt ready
to take on what they have
only dreamed about

Such readiness can only be gained
in the adventure of bringing
the dream to life

- penned on April 9th, 2021

The trouble with

us humans, is that we're not
so very good at being,
so all of our doing can sometimes
mean our demise.

Mondays, is that we've set ourselves
up for weekend living, and joy is
something we assign for later and
place in the hands of someone else.

living, is it entails a non-stop parade
of letting go, even though we know
that everything worth while requires
an ability to hold on.

- penned on April 7th, 2021

More stuff less people

If I weren't diligently careful,
it would be easy to accrue
more & more things
as my lived years stack up
like cord wood.

I can see why so many people
feel they need an ever increasingly
larger house.

Why in addition to the house
a garage is needed.
And a basement.
And an attic.
And maybe even somewhere
a storage shed.

Funny.
The older we get
the more belongings we have
yet the more people we know die.

Is it the hole that opens up
when someone passes
what we're hoping to fill
with more stuff?
Or is it in preparation
for our own demise?

Our piles a left behind testimony
that we were here.


- penned on April 5th, 2021

Change your face

Spending time on Zoom
is a good opportunity to practice
changing our face.

What a unique chance to see ourselves up close,
to witness how we present to others.

Oh how grumbly and serious
so many people look!

Do you know what your facial expression
is relaying? Do you know it makes a difference
how you fix & hold your face?

I was on a Zoom call the other day
where one 30-something male
would’ve been very handsome
were it not for his intensely scowling face.

His one sour puss in a box amid 25
was a scourge on the screen.

I put value in the potency of smiling,
in the transformative ability it has
to make myself and others feel better
about the world.

In private moments I practice.
Softly smiling while
washing the dishes/making the bed
folding laundry/walking to the curb
to fetch the mail. When I wake up/
prepare tea/sit waiting at a red light.

Do you know it makes a difference
how you fix & hold your face?


- penned on April 4th, 2021

Good & necessary work

My alarm is set each day
for 5am

but when I wake at 4
on my own accord,

which is not at all uncommon,
I am gladdened by the extra time

I am given
in the dark.

Enjoying tea & poetry
quietude & solitude.

Every poet knows early morning
is the best time to write.

Okay. Not every poet.
This poet. Me.

I am forever wanting
to pour over others like a blanket

my felt experience, as though
our shared humanness translates

into being the same.
A little slice more every day,

I am doing the good and necessary work
of disillusionment.

- penned on April 1st, 2021

No need to go all in

Lean in.
Not all the way,
just a little.
Start small.

There's no need
to go all in.

Don't put your trust
full throttle into anything
or anyone
until it's time.


- penned on March 26th, 2021

hard labor

Behind me: the mischief of the road.
Always in front of me:
the possibility of returning.
Not as the same me, mind you.
That's impossible.

An asphalt kingdom's allure is the
shake of the dice of where to go
where to linger and how long
which dark and hungry snakes
to follow.

But, then, it isn't chance
or luck or any kind of magic,
is it?

Highways, byways,
dirt tracks, and other carved paths
we can travel with wheels or feet,
were placed with grit and sweat.

Nothing at all exists
without the unromantic scent
of hard labor.


- penned on March 24th, 2021

The five powers

The way a day
starts without question (faith)

The way she goes on living
even all these mute wheelchair bound years
after her stroke (diligence)

The way these elder mountains
teach me how to root down & look up (mindfulness)

The way any one of his poems
fill me to the brim like
thanksgiving dinner (concentration)

The way my neighbor's porchlight
flicks on any time a car passes by (insight)

- penned on March 21st, 2021

Two u’s in vacuum

I have high hopes of one day spelling
the word vacuum correctly
on my first attempt.
I just can't get over the strangeness
of not putting an 'e' on the end.
And don't get me started about the
double u's.

Vacuum isn't alone.
I never get correspondence or
commitment right either.
Although I am rather good
at the physical act of both.

Colonel is another one,
thought I have no delusions of ever
getting this one down.
An 'l' makes an 'r' sound?!
Madness.

Still, I think I have a decent chance
with the other words.

In 6th grade, I was eliminated
from a spelling bee when I put
two m's in tomorrow.
I've spelled that one right
ever since.

- penned on March 18th, 2021

Freedom of the ride

I woke up my two-wheeled engined steed
from its long winter nap last weekend.

Juiced up its battery
checked the tires
tested the lights & signals,
all the things a good rider
is supposed to do.

You know you're a lover
of all things motorcycle
when the sound of your bike
sparks a joy unmatched in the
height of its swell.

When your eyes fix & follow
any bike passing by.

When you're willing to endure
the end of winter bite of wind

and the loose gravel conditions
as the asphalt reveals itself
from the lock of snow & ice

just to feel the freedom
of the ride.

- penned on March 17th, 2021

Armor Up, Just in case

I am a cis gender white girl
41-years-old
Trained & groomed by my western
culture to check out my ass in
every passing mirror & shiny window
and wonder each & every time about
whether it’s too big or looks good
in these pants

Somehow, I’ve avoided being
the 1 in 3 women globally
who has been subjected to physical or
sexual violence in their lifetime
(a stat from a WHO report that came out just this past week)

Still, any time I am walking
even shortish distances
anywhere alone, I am acutely
aware of needing to keep a watchful
eye on my surroundings and armor
up my demeanor just in case.

- penned on March 14th, 2021

Big Hard life stuff

Today, I penned a letter
to my friend in prison,
after struggling for a few days
about what to say in response
to the news about his stage 3 cancer.

When it comes to the big hard life stuff,
saying something is always better
than saying nothing.

Still, it was a challenge to find the words.
It always is.

Today, I read a few pages from
two different books and signed up
for a free webinar all themed around
the topic of anti-racism.

When it comes to the big hard life stuff,
doing something is always better
than doing nothing.

Still, it is a challenge to know what it looks like
to do my best.

- penned on March 14th, 2021

Residue

If, say, your car was one dark morning
the victim of a random string of arson,
burned down to its metal bones
right there in front of your house
(a true & personal story),
it wouldn't be a wonder why
you might become a front porch
light-leaver-onner after that.

Or, let's say, you once went in to
a well-known and trusted national
chain of oil changers and they accidentally
installed the wrong oil filter,
causing your engine to seize,
resulting in damage that cost
more to fix than the vehicle was worth
(another true & personal account).
Wouldn't it make sense if you became
a stalwart do-it-yourself oil changer
from then on out?

All it takes is one harrowing moment
to spark a change that lasts a lifetime.
Even if that one harrowing moment
is not at all likely to repeat itself again.

And, mind you,
I am only talking about leaving a little
light on at night and changing my own oil.
Regular things that regular people do.

Imagine what might linger as residue
in the wake of events
much
more
damaging.

- penned on March 11th, 2021

growing up

She said
I bet you were just amazed
by how fast she grew while
you were away. Isn't it crazy
how many words she has now?

It seems I am forever
looking for good ways to
respond to people.

I mean, she already has
me all figured out.

How do I reply in a
true-to-me fashion
without coming off
sounding like a jerk?

Well, no, actually,
I am not amazed at all
by her growing. That's
what 2-year-olds are
supposed to do.

Also, it's a no for me
on the crazy front regarding
her expanded vocabulary.
It's part of the whole deal
we all go through as humans,
isn't it? One that should
carry through with us into
adulthood, if you ask me.

As is so often the case,
she didn't need me or leave me
space to share my response.
So I smiled as she talked on.

One day, perhaps someone
will leave me enough room
to insert what I have to say
on whatever matter
they are trying to box me into
against my will.

I wish more people
were better at managing
the space between words.

- penned on March 5th, 2021

Not quite 5:30am

It's not quite 5:30am
on a Wednesday and already
I have been confronted with

a distressed man yelling
frightfully from the alleyway,
a friend's letter from prison

telling me he has stage 3 cancer,
recorded observations from a
female poet of the homeless

living in NYC's Bowery district,
in a new book I just acquired.
It's a good thing I feel as though

my heart's capacity grows
a little more in the night
when I am sleeping.

The elasticity of this pumping
muscle is what allows me to
pick up & carry more wounded

birds home.

- penned on March 3rd, 2021

saving the world

If you want to
save the world,
be a wellspring
of joy.

I know.

You don't think
it is enough.

Trouble is,
as long as the world
is "out there,"
it won't be.

Nothing will.

There is nothing
in need of fixing
or saving when true
joy is what fills
our sails.

If you want to
know ease in this one life,
build an inner palace
where you stand.


- penned on February 26th, 2021

4am infancy

If a day were the full life span
of a person who lived to be
85-years-old, I am right now

writing in my infancy.
By mid-day, I will stride
into my actual age of 41,

energy waning, ready to
take a nap and regard it
as the greatest luxury.

Aging at the rate of a decade
every couple of hours,
I am an older woman

by dinner time,
an old woman around 8 o'clock,
on my death bed an hour later.

Born around 4am,
the span of my life lit
like a runway in front of me,

I am dead at 9:30pm
later that same day.
Pity though, they will say -

and by they I mean those
who will miss me when I am gone -
her life it went by so quickly.

It seems like only yesterday
she was the sparkle in the eye
of her youth.

- penned on February 23rd, 2021

untitled

The last letter I sent him
bounced back.
He had gotten out on parole,
his address no longer valid.

It's 6-months later.
Another letter.
Return address:
Montana State Prison.

Our penned letters of exchange
are limited in conversational topics.

Me with little to no frame of
reference for his way of life,
he with little to none of mine.

Still, we find a way to make it work.

He writes to me about drugs,
the game, an entirely other slice
of humanity I have no familiarity with.

I write to him about birds,
the happenings of my life
that feel appropriate to share,

and once in a while: poetry.

It helps that I have no savior agenda,
no judgemental high horse I throne
myself upon. We are just two
very different people
writing letters back and forth.

He and I
we breathe
different
air.

Ours is a
strange reality.

On paper,
we are able
to meet each other
where the other one is at.

In person,
there would not be enough
between us to hold us
together.

Still we write.

It's been years now.

Still we keep on writing,
neither of us needing
the other one
to be anyone other
than who they are.

- penned on February 11th, 2021

Erosion

Hundreds of miles due west
waves are crashing on the shore
propelled by distant winds.

So too,
thoughts generated from
a sea of sources
pulse steady in my mind.

Every town perched beside the ocean
is crafted and eroding
by the breath of a salted water exchange
between sky and land.

My thoughts build monuments
where I house everything I cherish.

I know my foundation is made of sand.

Always shifting
sinking
drifting slowly
out to sea.

- penned on February 10th, 2021

Back home

In one epic crunch of miles,
trading off drivers every few hours,
we managed to go from sand to snow
in the span of one long day.

From ocean to mountains.
From traveling to arriving.

How odd it was to insert the metal key
into the metal knob that unlocked
this foreign place called home.
To rest my gaze which had known
only hundreds of miles of asphalt for days
and before that chaparral for months,
on the furniture of our dwelling place
now unfamiliar.

I went to put on my pajamas
and forgot where I kept them.
That's how long we've been gone.

Long enough to feel like an intruder
stepping through the front door,
coming to try on someone else's life.

- penned on February 8th, 2021

Loving you Unrehearsed

I am not interested in being the
fabled creature of a “perfect” practitioner.
I have no ambition geared towards
having zero attachments;
deriving zero enjoyment from sensual pleasures;
becoming so equanimous that warmth, feeling
and genuine expressions have become obsolete.

What I am interested in
is balance.

Part of my own balancing act
involves sometimes eating a whole bag
of Ruffles sour cream & onion potato chips,
while investing in staying close in touch with myself
so that I will know if and when “sometimes”
starts bridging over into the land of: too much.

My view on what it means
to be noble does not insist
on someone whose life
is filled with sacrifice,
seclusion, an ability to
seemingly never be affected
by outer conditions of turmoil.

I look up and to those
who do not hide,
who are invested in
doing their work,
who do not live a life
of make believe.

I will take real
over contrived
every time.

I will take
brokenness
flaws, mistakes,
addictions, deficits
of character over anyone
even mildly resembling someone
who is putting on airs.

Give me not the version
of yourself you think I want
you to be. I want to be confronted
with who you really are
and love you unrehearsed.

- penned on December 15th, 2020

Sorrow lit a match

He read out loud the text he’d gotten
and I whispered-cried Oh. no.
as I crumpled to the ground.

Straight down was the only place
I could think to go.

The only place solid enough
to hold the immediacy of my
sorrow.

Suicide.

He is the third 30-something
male friend of ours to take his life
in the past 4-years.

Is there anyone ever not
left behind who wishes they
could have saved their
sweet and aching friend,
impossible as it often is?

Is there anyone not left
in the wake of suicide
wanting desperately to understand
the gravity of pain
their cherished one endured?

In remembrance
and honoring
of the finality of death
I remind myself:

Tell people you love them.
Know that it matters what you say
and to express how you feel.
Know, too, dear one, that it
may not be enough to save them.

- penned December 12th, 2020

Beings winged & soaring

Yesterday, she delighted in the juicy mark
a crab apple left on the pavement,
after she used her tiny foot to stomp upon it.

Last week, it was her own wet footprints
that most intrigued her.
How her shoes made a pattern on hard earth
after tromping through morning grass
slick with dew.

Once, nothing was more satisfying
then climbing atop a red rocking horse.

Then there was the time we came upon
a dead bird in the park,
with hollow vacancies where once its eyes
scanned landscapes for food;
a resting place in which to sing its song from;
signs of seasonal shifting indicating preparations;
danger.

We picked up its bug riddled limp
little body and moved it to the edge of
nearby woods, away from the mele
of foot traffic and neighborhood dogs.

Then, we took our altered selves
to the playground and fancied the swings
and slides and other equipment that took our feet
off the ground.

On our walk home, even after all the playing,
she remembered the dead bird
and asked to go and see it one more time.
She inquired again about why I moved it to the woods.

When I said "rest in peace bird friend"
she repeated my words, as two-year-olds often do.

She had many questions,
good questions.
Important questions.

I tended to each one with care,
sure in the knowledge
that this shared moment
would linger quietly between us,
informing both of our hearts for eternity,
like our love for all beings
winged and soaring.

- penned on September 24th, 2020

We thrive or die together

I don't want to speak for all woman but I'm gonna.

A woman's weight fluctuates depending on the hour, day, and time of month, just like her mind on any given subject.

She is torn between her conditioning of societal messaging and her streak of wildness urging her to do more with her life than be subservient to powers other than of her own making.

With her worth measured by her looks and presence of children, those of us aging and/or without offspring are left to define ourselves through other means. She is seen as weakened by her insistence to love; diminished by her drive to caretake; reduced by her placing of compassion above such things as profit.

Her strength and ability to persevere are feared deeply and it is in her best interest to navigate a way forward that elevates her agenda without shaming those whose work it is to keep her down. And whether or not she succeeds on the course of freedom is what will dictate our collective survival.

- penned on September 11th, 2020

Bandying about in the weeds

The trouble is,
we think this life
is our own.

We regard our belongings
as a dragon coils around golden treasure,
armed and ready to defend and protect it.

When we eat,
we think we are eating
unaccompanied.

When a stranger dismisses us,
we take it personally.

When our spirit lags,
we think there must be something
wrong with us,
that we must be broken.

We have become so much
an individual
that our warrior's journey now
is to discover where we left our senses,
over the past course of thousands of miles,
when we were milling about in the weeds.

- penned on September 3rd, 2020

For the sake of grace

I do not want to have
compassion and understanding
for only those who I am in
alignment with.

I do not want to light up
like a flaming torch
as soon as my edges are touched
by those who don't share my views.

For the sake of grace,
is that not how we have landed here
in this place of national division?
Has othering ever been
what brings us together?

What terrible irony
must I be upholding
if I box my ears
in the presence of the same
group of people I am yelling at
to listen to me?

- penned on August 27th, 2020

I don’t like this ad

Scrolling through my Twitter feed,
I came upon an ad lodged between
posts from the political leaders
and Dharma teachers I follow.

An ad aimed at towing the line
of how women should look a certain way;
weigh a certain super thin weight.

"Take 1-minute quiz and start losing weight now!" it said.
"Crush your fitness goals with intermittent fasting plan!" it said.

I told Twitter I didn't like that ad.

Then, I flashed to a local article I read recently.
An article highlighting how eating disorder distress calls
are spiking in the wake of covid; how the eating disorder clinic in Great Falls is overrun with referrals and people struggling and relapsing.

I thought of my dear friend
who struggles immensely
with an eating disorder,
how it's been a terrible shadow she's carried
for well over half her life.

This is me,
wishing I could wrap up
all the women and men
and non-binary people
and protect them
from the shame of feeling as though
they are not enough
just as they are.

This is me,
wishing there was more I could do
than simply click on the Twitter option
that says: I don't like this ad.

- penned on August 18th, 2020

Diamonds on the page

As a shoe is meant
for sheltering a foot
with the means to send it off
into a world full of broken glass,
a poet's intent goes unfulfilled if,
after their words are placed
like diamonds on the page,
the reader is not better off
for having read them.

If after a poet leaves our living room
not having budged
even an inch to the side
the smallest of knick knacks adorning the mantle,
revealing an imprint of dust
now left in plain sight for us to tend to;
if we haven't been baffled by why
after reading their poem
we feel lighter or more powerful,
as though we might be able to fly
or conquer our own ills,
is it not accurate to say
that something has gone awry?

If nothing else,
a poet dreams of living up to the
worthiness and usefulness
of being held like a shoe in high esteem,
able to offer reprieve from
barbs and thorns,
taken along as necessary baggage
for the journey of traversing
the ground of being human.

- penned on August 9th, 2020

Royal high horse

I consider it a matter
of getting wiser,
as I wade into the waters
of my forties,
that I keep lessening
the amount of times I
shake my head in disapproval
of the things people do
that I would do differently.

That I stop trying to convince
anyone of anything.

That I let people be
(and practice to care for them)
just as they are,
knowing there are countless
lifetimes and causes and conditions
fueling their momentum.

What royal high horse
must I be throned upon
to think I know how
someone else should be?

What gross inflamation
of self must I suffer from
to think I know what
someone else should do?

- penned on August 6th, 2020

Hibakusha

This week marks 75 years
since bombs were dropped
on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

I read a recent article
in which a woman who survived
the blast said that she hates sunrises,
even now, all these decades later,
as the colors remind her of that day.

There's a word for survivors
of those two days;
those two nuclear devastations
in Japan at the end of WWII:
hibakusha.
One word tells the tale.

I have no frame of reference
for undergoing such horridity.
No footprint to layer over a hibakusha's
in what remained of their city in ashes,
strewn with tens of thousands of dead bodies,
once my homeland's jets abided
by their orders without imploring
their own conscience.

How strange that we are both a nation
of people who do what we're told
and also become enraged when we're
told what to do.

What must it be like to hate sunsets?
To have one word paint the picture
of how you managed not to die
that one day in 1945?

And what other choice
did the hibakusha have
but to start picking up the pieces
as soon as the dust started clearing?

What other call could they answer
but to carry on living
for all those who could not?

- penned on August 4th, 2020

Up Up Up

I look up a lot.
More than the avarage
two-legged anyway.

Tree tops
building tops
ceilings when I'm indoors.
Mountain tops too
though I reckon
most people do that.

Looking up reminds me
that I am not so important.

It's a good thing to be put
gently back into the universe
as a grain of sand.

- penned on July 31st, 2020

Berries & cherries

Five days ago,
I went off in the woods
in search of huckleberries.
Tiny red-purple treasures
that take a keen eye to find
and once spotted are seen everywhere,
nested in like holiday ornaments
in a sea of green.

Tomorrow, I will load up
my husband and drive north
to the big lake
to pick cherries.
Big plump red juicy treasures
strung like fat round bulbed
party lights brilliantly glowing
and dangling from well-kept
orchard trees, impossible to miss.

Summer speaks in a bounty
fit for a queen,
ripening as the sun flies
like a child’s kite overhead.

Perhaps a month is left
on summer’s reign
in the mountains.
Autumn steals in
earlier than most would like.

If one settles long enough
listens closely
inhales deeply
even winter can be seen
distant on the horizon,
clear as day.


- penned on July 26th, 2020

Turning 41-years-old

This body -
my body -
of flesh, bones, organs,
a forever pumping heart and breathing lungs,
turns 41-years-old today.

I wonder if my mom and my dad,
each in their own separate states,
will travel back in time today,
thinking back to the day I was born.
Will they will reflect on what it means
to be the parent of a 41-year-old woman,
self-possessed, dwelling in the mountains
so many hundreds of miles away
from the land of her raising?

This day is not in celebration of me,
as though I were self-created,
self-propelled, self-contained.
Today I want to elevate my heart
in celebration not of me but of my parents;
my grandparents; my ancestors, blood and land;
my tribe of people near and far, past and present;
the wealth of resources and privileges
I've been so richly and generously afforded.

Did I mention I am filled to over-flowing with gratitude?
Did I mention that I try my very best
not to take it all for granted?

Have I mentioned that each day
when I rise, I form a smile of love
on my lips for the sheer joy
that comes from waking?

- penned on July 3rd, 2020

Fish, Birds, fragrance, goodness

When I think of rivers,
I think soon after of fish.
And if someone were to ask me
what kind I'd say trout.

When I think of the sky,
I think first of sun
then of moon
then of clouds
then of birds.
And if someone were to ask me
what kind I'd say crows,
my most beloved and favorite.

When I think of trees,
I flash straight away
to a great assembly of them,
a great choir of them
spanning acres and acres of land
in their brown and green attire,
rich with fragrance and teachings.
And if someone were to ask me
what kind I'd say pine.

When I think of people -
us collectively as a tribe of humans -
I think first and foremost of goodness,
and how each of us are showing up
the best way we know how.

- penned on June 29th, 2020

Dear fellow poets,

Think again and better
of your poet words
before you cast them out
like seeds to scatter on the wind.

Sometimes what we pen,
while well-intentioned,
will take root as weeds.

I cannot imagine I am
the only one taking offense
at your co-mingling of covid
fatalities and the death of
George Floyd.

I cannot be the only one
deflated at your choosing
to string together
physical illness with racism,

as though one thread
of "I can't breathe" will save you
from the great discomfort of
writing two separate poems.

Give each subject the
honorable attention
they richly deserve.
Not leaning on one atrocity
to weaken the other.

Go on and send your poet voice
out into the ether about the
tragic number of people dying.
Pen a poem about George Floyd.

But for goodness sake,
fetch a fresh sheet of paper
in between.

- penned on June 2nd, 2020

Dissent

I have been here before,
deep in the folds of a silence
I thought was better than adding
an untrained voice into the equation

but was really a naive panacea for the discomfort
of not knowing what the heck else to do.

This is me
re-callibrating
my attention.

This is me
calculating what it means
to stay silent,
how it’s not always
the best course of action,
how words matter
even if they’re clumsy
and clunky and full
of dissent.

- penned on June 1st, 2020

Whisper Thunk to the ground

A big winged something
is bumping itself against the
outside of the window I sit beside
each morning in the rusty orange
swivel chair I will likely
never want to rid
from our dwelling place.

Perhaps the creature
with its destiny to fly
mistook the glass for sky,
or perhaps its girth
insisted it not venture far from the ground
and it bumps into anything
that will have it.

In any case,
it's gone now.
Off in search of a flight
far less obstructing
of its freedom perhaps.
Or maybe it has fallen with a
whisper thunk to the ground
below the sill,
bedraggled from beating
its soft skull against
my looking glass.


- penned on May 26th, 2020

Winter legs Emerging

My winter legs are starting to emerge
from layers of fitted fabric
and pillowy blankets,
as though like the sun
last I saw them
was mid-October.

Sure, they made appearances
now and then
but nothing lasting
or sustained.

Now, in their springtime resurfacing,
how strangely I regard them!

My legs as two pale-faced blood-ties
visiting from states away
come to settle for the summer,
who I love as the family they are
but struggle to like;
the sun as a dear and longtime friend
serving as a mirror
in delivery of the message:
I am not the same someone now
amid this thawing
as I was before the freeze.

- penned on May 15th, 2020

Eyes up, heart engaged

As an artist
a meditator
a musician
a writer
a poet

a woman
with something to say:

may I never avert my eyes
before the graces of beauty
or the devastation and heartbreak
of suffering.

- penned on May 13th, 2020

I spend my day in love

Yesterday morning,
I fell in love with
Sparkle Laundromat -
the way its decor
was a throwback
to decades past,
with cafe-style swivel stools
posted inside and rainbows
painted on the outside
and a nice guy working the counter.

Yesterday evening,
I fell in love
for the umpteenth time
with my tribe of friends,
the crew I share my life with,
their sweet faces
framed by square boxes on my
laptop screen.

In between,
I fell in love with:
a handsome stranger
when we exchanged a smile
in passing;
a scone hand-crafted
by a local bakery
(and my dear friend Aran,
I found out later on);
a terribly bright orange suit
hanging in the window of a tuxedo shop;
a branch of blooming white flowers
set against the backdrop
of a famously blue spring sky;
the feeling of returning home
with a basket of clean clothes;
the music of Takenobu;
the artwork of Brian Andreas;
the packages left on my doorstep
by my mail carrier
filled with tea and art;
the words of Wendell Berry:

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.

- penned on May 5th, 2020

When things break

When things break -
or change and feel broken -
I wonder how I will
recall them
years down the line.

My long-term memory
isn’t so hot.

I have a tendency
to think only of the
brokenness later on,

letting what came before
wash away
like chalk in the rain,

for all the splendor
that prepared my heart
for the possibility of
breaking
to mute itself
against the hurt.

I had two dear friends
up and quit on me,
who walked away
leaving our friendship behind.

Now, when I call them to mind,
I think only of their departure
and very little of the love
we grew and shared.

Such is the way
of things
sometimes.

- penned on May 2nd, 2020

I’m a delicate Flower when it comes to Morning

I've done it.
On my cushion this morning,
I discovered the missing piece
of the puzzle as to why I've been
so crunchy and restless and indolent
this past week.
My precious mornings
have been shortened.

With the returning of the light
comes the returning of the people!

My Q & S (quietude & solitude)
have been replaced by noise &
collective stirrings.

Now at 7am on a Monday
the town is in pulse,
replete with pounding and banging
on the new construction build by my house
and the harsh sounds of my neighbor
already mowing their lawn.

And I am terribly affronted
by all of this ruckus.
I do not like it one bit.

So here's how I have it worked out,
since I am such a delicate flower
about my prized and precious
mornings of Q & S:
I need to set my alarm
for 4am instead of 5.

- penned on April 27th, 2020

Looking for trouble

This poet at her morning
window perch
is doing as she always does:
preparing her heart
as best she can
to interact with care & kindness
in order to traverse the field
of another day
as she sets to carry her bones
from fence to fence.

Today, though, the poet struggles.

As the songbirds sing
she does not listen,
choosing instead to spin her own web
of sorrows, where she hopes to catch
more and more morsels of food
to satisfy her already full belly.

Today, the poet's lens is clouded
by an anger she is unwilling
to let go of.

Watch out world,
this poet is just looking
for trouble today.

- penned on April 24th, 2020

Thoroughly gladdened

My early morning routine
is changing
in the wake of returning light,
which is now becoming
more apparent,
though technically
it's been increasing
since December.

Now,
my darkened communion
with Q & S -
quietude & solitude -
is shortened.

Now,
as soon as the sky
starts alighting,
the inherited farmer in me
wants to get to work in the fields,
tend to the animals,
eat hearty enough
to last me through the day,
so I can make proper use
of springtime,
and come home at dusk
dirty
famished
and thoroughly gladdened.

- penned on April 18th, 2020

Ankle Catcher

In the animal darkness
of my body
a low moan guttural riot
slips from my belly
and out into the world,
looking for its assembly of intonations
to complete its choir.

This new off-shoot path
fraught with weeds
and over-grown invasive
ankle-catchers
and stones with the volition
of punching fists
may require a longer
slower traverse
than I anticipated.


- penned on April 17th, 2020

Winter storm in April

Do you think this winter storm
happening outside our Missoula window
is separate from or other than
springtime in the mountains?

Do you regard it as a shame
or proof that climate change is real
or a sign that points to something
you ought to do (or not do)?

What message is it
that you are hearing
on the chilling winds?
What song is singing
in your heart?

Tell me,
is it uplifting
or deflating?

Do you regard
your own thoughts
as something
outside of your
own sway?

- penned on April 11th, 2020

Death

I will die some day.

And I hope this isn't the
first time you're hearing this
and I'm not THAT girl
ruining the ending, but
you will too.

It may be sooner than we think.

It's important, I think,
that I live my life
in such a way
that I keep death close by
in easy reach.

Death reminds me better
how to live.

- penned on April 9th, 2020

Snake oil

Every morning,
once I’ve settled properly
into my nesting place

with tea in hand
and poetic masters
within reach,

I think to myself:
Surely you can’t keep going on like this,
putting pen to paper

writing always about
the loveliness of morning.

Surely there is only
so much to say
about candlelight
and the darkened sky
transitioning to daybreak.

Surely penning sonnets about the moon
must yield to some other more flavorful telling
at some point.

Surely your readers -
should your humble boat
of launched and drifting words
wash up on dry shore -
will grow weary in short order
of the same old same old.

But then,
I think again
and better.

I question this voice inside,
tossing it a fiery look of defiance
square in the eye,
which causes it to shutter
and seriously reconsider
its life’s work
of peddling snake oil
to the masses.


- penned on April 6th, 2020

Signal Fire

I’ve set up camp
in the open field of our shared
and human terrain of common-space,

my footprint dancing wide enough
to be seen from a distance,
so people looking for refuge
or company will know which way to head.

And I’m stockpiling supplies
to be well-prepared to greet them
as a proper host when (and if) they arrive.

Provisions in my commissary like:
patience, kindness, joy, love, and ease.

And I’m sending up smoke
from my signal fire -
can you see me?

I am calling to you,
calling to those of you
who are lost in the thick of trees,
the only way I know how.

- penned on April 1st, 2020

Inspired by “Miracle Fair” by Wislawa Szymborska

A commonplace miracle:
The chance to rise this morning after a night’s worth of slumber.

A usual miracle:
How crows adapt to our peopled landscape and call out to each other in the telling.

Several miracles in one:
This one bodily form, manifested by a long and storied blood-line, and everything we’ve ever encountered and done and said.

A run-of-the-mill miracle:
The first and tiny spring flower. That one right there by our feet.

A miracle in the first place:
This moment, right here and now, as eyes swim over and absorb these penned words.

Next but not least:
A comfortable luxurious shelter equipped with running water heat, power, and a cupboard chock-full of food.

A miracle minus the top hat and tails:
Animals that cause even one heart to swoon, which is to say: all of them; every single one.

A miracle (what else can you call it):
Poets and poetry, and the ability to convey communion through inserted pauses in the melody of verse.

A miracle that is lost on us:
The tree rooted and growing in our neighbor’s front yard.

A miracle, just take a look around:
Goodness surging in the people closest at hand; beauty spilling out of every touched surface.

An extra miracle, extra and ordinary:
How each of us have now been connected and forever changed by this remembering.

- penned on March 28th, 2020

Uncertainty

And so,
maybe we'll see food shortages
from panicked people with ample freezer storage
and money to spare
stockpiling supplies.

Maybe in two months or three,
my husband and I will have trouble paying the mortgage.

Maybe I will lose my disability benefits
amid my current re-evaluation.

Maybe my husband will be stuck in CA
for longer than we have planned.

Maybe this social distancing
and stay-at-home approach
is only in its infancy.

Maybe it will be months
before I can hug my friends again.

Maybe my current enjoyment
of solitude and quietude on the home front
will turn sour and hellish in another 2-weeks.

Maybe our country and global landscape
will never be the same.
In fact: it won't be. It never is.

Maybe this is what Rilke meant when he said:
you must change your life.*

Maybe this is the shaking up we need
to be shown what is most important.

- penned on March 24th, 2020; *I lifted this line from Mary Oliver’s poem Invitation

Close to home

Stay close to home.

Yes, your actual dwelling place,
where you lay head to pillow each night
but also your true home,
the place you carry with you
wherever you go.

Stay closer than you think
might be possible.

And when at long last
you reach that spot of communion,
linger here a while;
breathe from the depths
of your own Grand Canyon;
and with a gentle shutter,
draw closer in.

- penned on March 22nd, 2020

lone paddling Toward you

Imagine I were lone paddling
in a kayak towards you,
growing larger and larger
as I drew closer and closer.

Imagine, as you began to see my face
with more detail,
you could feel my great affection
for you;
see it in my naked, shining eyes.

Imagine I docked my humble craft
on the pebbled shores
where you stood;
joined you on the solid ground;
greeted you with a warm smile,
and wrapped my arms around you
and never let go.

- penned on March 17, 2020

Love poems to the moon

5am facing west,
socked feet on the wooden sill.
Full moon tugging on my breath
swirling just outside,
framed by my kitchen window.

Competing for my attention
sits the window, usually dark at this hour,
flooded with light on the house next door.

Inside my own dwelling place:
one lit candle by which I write
and an electric light set to dim above the stove.

She has no rivals in the black sea overhead;
no clouds to mute her song.
Her melody of light is what makes us all.

She gives birth and solace
without withholding her love
from anyone.

__________

Moonlight floods the valley as I ponder such things as:
how the mind is a story generator, forever crafting tales;
how quickly I can make an assessment of a person's character and fix firm on thinking I'm right;
how peculiar it is that the orb of rock above
should cast her pebbles of light
to dominate so gracefully the landscape
with her pageantry of beauty.

__________

So bright she shines
that it turns what would otherwise be
an all encompassing black cosmos sky
into a deep twilight of blue.

The shiver of cold she sails in
is no assailant to her might.
Her light would prevail
over the longest battles of gunfire;
the loudest cacophony of voices gathered,
wailing in sorrow;
all grievances ushered forth at once in sound.

As we fade - one by one -
setting our own light down when we part,
she picks up our light and adds it to her own
to carry on.

- penned on March 10th, 2020

Joining the coyotes

1.

4am.
Writing by candlelight,
with the full moon holding royal court
in the black tie and ball gown pageantry of the sky,
under which lovers unite
and coyotes howl their urgency
to be regarded as wild as they feel.

Perhaps one day I will join their pack,
when the moon is high and round
and a sight for sore and aching eyes.
I’ll wake early, like today,
unable to fall back asleep.
I’ll pad my socked feet over the wood floor,
discovering the dark living room flooded
in a chorus of light,
and I’ll turn the knob to leave
and never return.

2.

I understand now why I woke earlier than my regular early.
Why even though I fetched only 3-4 hours of rest,
my body saw fit to rise,
insisting sleep was not of the highest priority.

My body knew of its need for communion
with the naked soaring moon;
how it outweighed most everything else.

She was waiting -
no, not waiting -
she was pooling in light and shadow,
stretching her wiles in all directions
on the soft bend of time like lilac fragrance
or church bells, with wild abandon
and a whispered longing for me to come
to the window and keep her
in good company.

- penned on March 8th, 2020

Dance wide

Dance wide sweet people,
in the open field of your own heart’s insistence
to live this life and live it well.
It is possible to not only survive in monotone
but to thrive in full color.

Watch now, as the fog that shrouds the
sage-covered hills lifts to reveal
what we’ve seen 10,000 times before
and taken for granted.

Listen as the Earth
sighs in relief in response
to our communion.

A bird’s wings are twofold:
to enable it the gift of flight and
to serve as balance.
It is the same for us.
Without the wings of solidity and ease,
we have little hope of making it off the ground
to fly in pursuit of a greater voice,
calling us home.

- penned on Feb 18th, 2020

in his absence

His February absence has me wondering
how well I would do if left to my own devices,
for as far into the future as my breath would carry me.

Would the great pleasure I take in delighting
in my own company turn sour after a time,
curdling into the kind of alone-ness
that feels lonely and afraid?

If he were gone for good,
would I become pleasantly settled
into being my own true love
or would I look to pair with another?

There are other possibilities too.

It could be that I would want to find a new mate
but would be unable,
for a plethora of reasons.

Or it could be -
and perhaps this is most likely -
I would find solo contentment in my habitation
amid a forever broken heart.

- penned on Feb 29th, 2020

Calling of the sun

I have in me a world savior,
a champion of the down-trodden,
a protector of the people.

When I was younger
I wanted to save the Earth.
Now that I’m forty
I want to save the World.

I want to rescue people
from their own bad ideas;
to tell them they have more power
than they know.

I want to scoop them all up -
even the ones I don’t much like -
and place them gently as precious cargo
in my heart pocket.

Then, I’d dance them all to watch the sun rise
to make good on the promise to rest their weary bones.
I’d infuse them with an unshakeable faith
that it’s possible to be restored through grace.

Then, I’d open my heart pocket and set them loose,
free to scatter on the wind like buoyant seeds
and watch as they take root where they land,
growing with might towards the calling of the sun.

- penned on Feb. 28th, 2020

Steady on the course

Liquid gold is the beeswax candle
dancing with abandon
on my darkened sill.

It speaks a cousined language,
soft in tones,
as old as council fire.

As surely as I know the distant sea
is ever-present and pulsating with life,
even though I cannot see it from this
snow-covered mountainscape,
I take refuge in the shelter of fire's womb
as ancient as the night is long,
tangled in the thick braid of the cosmos.

And if there should come a time when such simple,
splendid moments fail to captivate my fullest attention -
if listening to a candle is not reason enough
to angle my form of walking bones
in the direction of gladness -
let me be reminded
as many times as it takes
to stay steady on the course
of freedom.

- penned on Feb. 27th, 2020

It’s not the what, it’s the why:

Some observations at the laundromat

It’s February and it’s cold outside. The kind of cold I reckon it should be this time of year in the mountains. The last couple of weeks, I left the house just fine sporting only a lined hoodie as a jacket and my neighbor’s yard glistened with green grass when the sun shone. Last month whispered tales of climate change.

Heart cut outs decorate the front south-facing window here at my laundromat, where next to me sits a pile plus a basket full of magazines a handwritten sign asks us not to take. One mag astray from the rest tickles my attention: a Safari mag, circa March/April 1978. According to the cover it’s the journal of big game hunting in Africa, Asia, and North America and cost $2.25.

Valentine’s Day is my least favorite holiday we celebrate as a collective in this western landscape. I resent the pressure it puts on those who aren’t romantically coupled. And I resent equally the pressure it puts especially on the men who are partnered up, as now they are expected to Prince Charming it up and goodness forbid they don’t.

Just when I thought $2 magazines were left behind in the 70’s, a Woman’s World mag caught my eye, protruding up from the basket. The November 25th, 2019 edition cost only $2.19. Gosh, if this mag isn’t holding my female gender and non-binary friends back, I don’t know what is. Article titles assuring me that I can power off 14-pounds in 7-days, obtain flawless skin in one week, flatten my belly to be party-ready, and double my energy all day long with the use of a certain kind of hand lotion volley for my attention on or just inside the cover. The mag isn’t all bad. Still, I’m pretty sure it’s not doing us female-folk any favors by trying to both elevate and nourish our well-being on the inside while simultaneously telling us we need to lose weight in order to be “party-ready” on the outside.

I mean, it’s one thing if we want to lose weight on our own accord for our own reason and a whole other thing to essentially be told we should lose weight to improve our self-worth or self-value. It’s not the what but the why that matters most. The question isn’t ‘to be or not to be’, the question is: why?

- penned on February 3rd, 2020

Showing cleavage

I remember her thinking it strange
that I should dress so modestly
yet delight in soaking naked in the woods.

It’s quite simple, really.

Showing cleavage is nothing more
than appeasing the false gods of vanity and lust,
whereas with the latter,
I am in sacred communion
with the earth.

- penned on Jan 24, 2020

A better memory

I often wish I had a better memory
but then
what would that afford me
but a pull tugging from the past,
begging me to stay put in a time
no longer alive and active?

The river of time meanders
along the same banks;
mirrors the same sky.
Still, the water is in motion.
The river I step into today
is not the same river
I stepped into yesterday.

So perhaps a strong recollection
of happenings years ago,
would serve only to trick me
into thinking nothing was in flux,
and that I had either not changed at all
or changed entirely into someone
altogether different,
both which are equally untrue.

- penned on Jan. 22, 2020

Diva; D.I.V.A; Deva

I've been called a diva at least twice in my life.

2-weeks ago, an MRI tech let me in on a piece of industry lingo and told me I'd be called a D.I.V.A in the field: difficult i.v access.

And a few years ago, a Buddhist monk kind-heartedly inquired to a group I was part of: who was the diva dancing the polka in the parking lot yesterday? It was then I who sheepishly raised my hand (shirking inwardly at both being called a diva and also at the mislabeling that my style of dance could be considered a polka).

It was only just recently I was suddenly struck with what he meant. He didn't mean diva as in diva with an 'i', as in a vain, self-serving, over-inflated drama queen. He meant deva with an 'e', as in a celestial being sometimes mentioned in Buddhist sutras.

So, I'm still waiting for someone to call me a diva in the sense I'm most familiar with. The pop star kind with a big personality and a chip on each shoulder; who's a real pain in the ass and also super talented. (Sigh.) (Insert sarcastic smile here.) A girl can hope.

- penned on Jan 15th, 2020

No easy answers

There are no easy answers.
No one size fits all way of doing
even the simplest of things.

Is it better to burn a petroleum candle
or a beeswax one?
Or is an oil lamp better?

Better for what
you might (and should) ask?

For the environmental footprint
it leaves behind in its producing.
For me as I inhale its burning, too.

You might counter:
don't buy & burn candles at all!
Problem solved!

But then,
you'd be missing the key component
of why it is I implore their light
each dark and lovely morning
when I rise.

For each single wick I set aflame,
I prepare well my heart to meet
the coming day with gladness.

- penned on Jan 11th, 2020

1997 and the birth of a young poet

We were allowed to pen our own caption to accompany our senior picture in my high school yearbook, back when I graduated in 1997. Perhaps it was their way of making up for the fact that we did not get to design our own photograph to include and instead were forced to wear the same thing under the same lighting, cropped by the same backdrop.

Not that I knew or saw it this way back then but I've always been slightly askew from the norm without trying. While my classmates gave shout-outs to parents and friends in their write-ups, or saw fit to include mentions of goals or recent achievements, I chose instead to write this:

"He awoke in a cold sweat and went for a walk in the rain. His naked feet shivered on the cobblestone street, as knowledge seeped out of his ears. Then he cried, longing to be free."

I remember writing it from a a place beyond intellect and reason. I remember penning it based on intuition and not thought. I remember not considering, even once, that I was a young poet in the making.

- penned on Jan 9th, 2020

Reverence for life

I got home and he was gone for the day, out working hard to earn us a living. And he left the bed in disarray, which is his pattern, so I made it, albeit with a little bit of frustration. And I had to clamor over his pile of dirty clothes at the foot of his side of the bed, which is also his way. So I tossed them to the door, closer to the basket he never uses, since laundromat day is tomorrow - and yes, I did it with a continued air of annoyance, but at least he wasn’t around to bare witness.

Then, kneeling on our wooden floor hallway, pulling out socks from socks and socks from pants and shirts from layers of shirts, begrudgingly, an insight flashed. Aloud to myself I uttered my newest motto: First thing’s first, I love my husband; it’s the most important part. I anchored myself to that and another insight was born: the very least I can do is help manage his clothes, as tender of house and husband, which is work I wholeheartedly do and enjoy, which is my way and pattern.

Everything I do is a choice. So I practice to enjoy what I do and do it well. This for me, is reverence for life. First thing’s first, I love my husband; it’s the most important part.

- penned on January 6th, 2020

Busy, Crazy, Evil

There are certain words I try my best not to use, like: busy, crazy, evil.

In my view, busy speaks to a powerlessness I find grossly inaccurate. Crazy speaks to a drama infused ignorance I find telling of our collective insistence to blame and avoid. And evil speaks to a dualistic drive to make proper nonsense of a world we don’t make enough of an effort to deeply connect with and truly understand.

- penned on January 4th, 2020

Winter of my youth

At 40, perhaps it can be said
that I am in the winter of my youth,
set to bud in the springtime of a new season
when the warmth tricks the chill away
peeling back the layers of snow and wool
revealing fresh growth underneath,
and fresh skin ripe and ready for sunning.

Perhaps it can be said
that my breath is a water tank
a holding place
a willing vessel,
for all that I instill value in
and hold as close to my chest
as a tree trunk when I wrap
my arms wide open around it.

- penned on December 15, 2019

Just Passing Through

I am a matrix of wooden bones,
weighted, water-logged,
content, asleep and dreaming.

I am a half-moon
in a full sky laden with darkness
and pricks of light,
casting a naked allure of seduction
on the salted earth.

I am wind whipping through tall grass
teaming with snakes and other ground dwellers
given a bad rap.

I am a shell in a pocket of ocean
anchored 60-feet deep.

I am a smokey cloud breaking apart
like your heart when it watches the sun set,
just passing through.

- penned on Dec. 5th, 2019

Early Morning

Bathed in dim lighting,

tea in hand,

I think to myself:

this is it.

This is all I will ever need.

- penned on Nov 26th, 2019

What i will remember

I will forget the words you said when we spoke next week or month or year - or tomorrow.

I will not remember what you were wearing or what was playing on the radio or a thousand other little details that may not even be so little.

I will remember the impression of kindness
you stamped on my molten heart.

I will remember how I feel when I see you
unexpectedly around town
or leading up to a planned encounter.

I will remember how you filled my bones
with gladness.

- penned on Nov 20th, 2019

Poet

You cannot tell me who I am.
You cannot teach me anything.
I must discover my place in the
family tangle of things on my own accord.

It's like how I used to shrug off
the label of poet when people
would try to pin it onto my sash.
To them it was clear I was writing poetry.

I wasn't writing poetry.

They could have tried spelling it out
to me in a thousand different ways
and it wouldn't have affected my stance.

Then one morning,
as I was reading Mary Oliver,
I understood things differently
and I joyfully declared myself a poet.

And it wasn't that all those people
were right for all those years
and I just didn't get it.
It was that I truly wasn't a poet
until I was.

- penned on October 21st, 2019

Narwhals, Rainbows, Snakes

There are narwhals in the arctic sea,
a relative of the dolphin.
The males sport a long and twisted
ivory tusk like a unicorn.
They seem mythical, fictitious
but they are as real as snakes.

There were rainbows coming and going
for much of the morning yesterday;
children of the coupling of
storm and sun.
They too seem mythical, fictitious,
the stuff of lore and legend.
They too are as real as snakes.

- penned on October 9th, 2019

Face to stone, heart to flames

All I said in response was:
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
And with that, he brandished the sword
of ancient male domination.
He unsheathed it from its hiding place
and held it to my neck and said:
I am the elder. This is what we’re doing.
This is not up for discussion.

His words thundered down from on high.
They were coarse and sterile
and befitting a great tyrant.
His eyes were wide as he spoke
and it was clear that I was not welcome
to proceed.

I’d like to say I defended myself.
That I picked up my own sword and
thrusted back.
But I didn’t.
Instead, my face turned to stone
and my heart turned to flames.
I said: Yep, got it, and walked away,
seething with a rage I didn’t know
I could feel.

I let him win.

I regret my inaction to speak up.

It won’t happen again.

- penned on October 1st, 2019

The cost of Flight

If the cost of flight is landing*,
I reckon the price we pay for loving other
two-leggeds is heartbreak.
It's the law of gravity really.
What goes up must come down.
And the inevitable fall is worth it.
It means a climb was had.

A jet plane rises from one spot,
cruises for a time,
then lands in another spot.
It switches states and time zones
and seasonal patterns and landscape;
attire, accent, flavors, and radio frequencies.

It's the same with love.

He was right.
The cost of flight is landing.
What wasn't implied
is that it's worth it to fly,
every time.

*from a line of poetry by Jim Harrison

- penned on September 16th, 2019