Nature does this,
splendiferously exhibiting herself
in out of the way places,
just because.

There is no hidden agenda.

Had my feet traveled another path
at that moment –
were I not attuned to nuance –
I might
have missed it.

Would it matter to the orchid?

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Tread lightly, there are many underfoot.
Just because they appear invisible
does not invalidate their existence.

Speak carefully, never knowing the power
behind words, once spoken.
Gulfs of projections and assumptions
often exist between a speaker’s mouth
and the minds of others.


Truth …


Can only be discovered in stillness.
Stopping all motion to bathe in silence,
I discover no words, save those emanating
from my own unique perspective.

I am but a constellation of experience
as seen through the kaleidoscope of the mind,
which I subsequently and cavalierly dub reality.
But can any perception be consummately shared?

What is the arrow that strikes the core,
resonating between two like vibrato from the depths
of the cello’s richly toned strings,
but a commonly held notion tethered,
mind to mind,
linking us verbally, visually, sentimentally?

Thoughts are the first filter,
a lens through which we view the world.
Torched like dry leaves held to open flame,
words invariably follow, expressing comprehension
of that first expressive impulse
as they scatter and disintegrate
into ash upon a lilting breeze.

In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God,
and the Word was God;
though I still maintain
In the beginning was a vast, awestruck Silence,
and it is to this bountiful Emptiness
I shall one day return.

Cello Player by zhenya_o@deviantart.com
image: Cello Player by zhenya_o@deviantart.com


Fern Forest


Suddenly vibrancy flashes a face,
ducking low and into a forest of ferns
so high they dwarf humans.

Anciently inspiring ecosystem grants us life
through our very pores and we don’t even know it;
do not think in terms of consequences
as men on machines clear
to house more invasive species.

Corralled now in fragments, we visit and learn,
if we are wise, the secrets held there;
begin reclaiming knowledge known only
to our bones, crumbling now into fragments of their own,
breaking down, as all must, to rejoin the filtering soil.

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The glass is full, half-empty now,
you know we all complain
I copped a bye and grabbed the ring,
to sum up this refrain.

Or so I thought; came back with tears,
of deepest gratitude;
just down the road I sought relief
in midst of plenitude.

Will longing end, the journey cease?
With utter certainty;
the mind turns on and flips and spins
shades of insanity.

To find within what lies afield
has been the human quest;
while hearth and home, familiar bed,
is where I take my rest.


Why be conflicted with death?

It’s no new trend, fluorescent Nikes
in the wake of black and white.
This is not a game of thrones
over which we could prevail;
no defeat-able foe,
steroidal match of will or wits.

United in helplessness if nothing else,
our humanity stands stock still,
lights coming up on our soliloquy,
bathed only in the light
of this naked truth.




He never wore a ring, she said.
Though it might have been better
than mangling it on a lumber hook
two days after the wedding,
nearly cutting that digit free
at least.

Such things happen,
I know.

Symbols on display
do not indicate what harbors within.
Commitment, where it exists,
lies safe within a beating heart
and cannot be excised that easily.



I have never managed to save one, not that I haven’t tried. All my life I have discovered fledglings, either crowded out of the nest or cast out, or injured in the attempt to gain instant knowledge of flight. As a child it was neighborhood cats who preyed upon nestlings situated high above the ground, but with three dogs in our yard, cats don’t pose a problem here.

I found another yesterday, quite by accident. Remanding garden tools to their shed, I spotted movement in the grass under a rough-hewn wooden skid. Moving closer, a diminutive red-tinged crown appeared, rallying a hearty  twitter of distress. Fishing the little one gingerly from under the skid, I inspected it, only to discover a chafed, raw spot adjacent to a left wing. The appendage appeared possibly damaged as well, though the little creature clung mightily with tiny sharp toenails to an extended finger.

I know my track record in such matters, and gently placed the little bird back where I found it, praying for a miracle. Frankly by morning I had forgotten the animal, in a rush to get our big chocolate Lab to the vet for a fractured tooth extraction. Later upon my return to search for something in the tool shed, I spotted the wee one. Mouth gaping wide open, it again perched upon my flesh. Remembering a water bottle I had left in the shed the day before, I dropped a minuscule amount into the chick’s yawning mouth. Almost immediately, its spirit took flight. Eyes glazing over, it folded that precious newly-minted body into death.

I dug a hole in my garden, placing the tiny carcass between two large leaves. Murmuring a blessing, a few silent tears glided down my cheeks to soak into turf below. Many thoughts crossed my mind, among them the ease with which most creatures release their hold on life when it no longer seems tenable. That, and the fragility of existence, itself. Covering the makeshift grave with earth and mulch, I pressed the damp soil down firmly but gently with my foot, lest something attempt to dig it up in the night.



Every day around three or four, I get hungry. When I tap into my core, it’s not so much that I’m ravenous; rather it feels like there is a need I’m trying to fill, and food is most convenient.

Perhaps you share my sentiments.

If I harken back to childhood where too many things tend to crystallize into patterns we later become oblivious to, that time of day points to when I’d return home from school peckish, ready to zero in on homework. My mom wasn’t so much the motherly type. I was never presented with a freshly baked snack, for example, nor much of anything homemade or substantial at all that could be construed as brain food. I usually opened up the refrigerator and downed all the milk I could, straight from its gallon jug. City water was horrible, and though my parents could afford the bottled kind, my father was adamant that, if he found it drinkable, all nine of us should. Thus it was that I grew up without much fresh water at all, and ignored a lactose intolerance that would plague me into later life. Maybe I’d add a slice of Wonder bread smeared with Peter Pan and Smucker’s jelly, maybe some American cheese. I remember spooning peanut butter straight from the jar; eating dry sugared cereal from the box.

Later while studying Jungian Psychology in college, Marion Woodman’s work entranced me. A former anorexic, she spent an entire career focusing on the connection between women and bodies and food and mothering. In shorthand: food=matter=Mater=Mother Earth=food. I found it compelling, coming from a family rife with eating disorders. It opened some doors, leaving others to be discovered – still firmly sealed – later on in life.

Like Alice of the famed Wonderland, I feel as though I’ve been holding the key to that tiny door forever, pacing back and forth while deciding if I want to be larger or smaller; usually smaller, but then again, I appreciate the merits of size, in the converse logic that comprehends the bigger I am, the less likely I am to be noticed. And I’ve never sought the spotlight. Thus there is a peculiar protection embedded in portly. I’m a female in Western culture, after all.

Meanwhile I continue learning from this blessed body, and am determined to get to the bottom of this late afternoon craving for something indefinably satisfying. Perhaps I need more nurturing, or it might be something deeper. I arrived into this life with my family of origin for a reason. My parents were the best teachers for me at that time. Call it karma – I do – and it’s easy to understand that the baggage I carried into this life contains valuable material for waking up as fully as I am able.

And I sure as heck am willing.


Into White II

Last week I posted a short poem resulting from something I woke up with and wrote down in the middle of the night. This is an experiment in stretching it out:


Seeking silence, can I ever discover

a place as quiet as this?

Yet as intention and supplication draw it nearer,

I yearn for the flowering of solid

in the fields of uncertainty.


Is this the human condition;

are we meant to desire by design,

only to be disappointed upon materialization?


Perhaps this is creation’s essence;

why expansion and contraction exist.

If the gods will it into being,

are they likewise bereft at culmination,

precipitating perpetuity?


Finally, does this this exemplify the ultimate artistic temperament?

Create, suffer, create –

only to despair that what we envision

can never match, in execution, our fantastic illusion?