Beautiful Boy

He strapped a noose around his neck,
in truth we heard it breaking;
his dress and mode in retrospect
reflected tender aching;

I wonder why they cannot see
or hear the cries and mourning,
before life turns on that thin dime
wherein the soul is yearning
to simply be accepted now
for who and what one is,
instead of fighting circumstance
to dampen down the fizz.

(RIP~ June 2017)



How can it be in this land of plenitude,
our fellows spilling out now
into city streets, smearing pristine glare
of glossy retail windows
with the crime of their insanity?

I walk and talk with open heart,
not from a place where vacant stares
meet hollow eyes;
hear his story, however true,
offer a meal he declines,
proud he is employed, no longer able
to dig holes, he says,
since someone crushed the back
of his skull with a rock.

Live long enough and it all seems plausible,
as we stroll along, talking unselfconsciously
in a throng of iPhone-toting trust fund youth,
oblivious to the suffering their lack of empathy
stamps securely on a world they inherit.



Gods and demons!
False idols imbued with qualities
we aspire to or thrust against;
Not realizing culpability,
admiring angels with blind eyes
inured to consequences.

Travel the whole world through
not discovering any unlike yourself;
and after the honeymoon’s over,
stand bereft, once again,
upon the shoals of self deception.



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.



What was important then

empties into bleakness as we relax now,

savoring moments inside skin;

dropping defenses if we are lucky,

losing the act if we are smart

so that others may access our heart.


What is it about the young,

pushing against, away –

only to discover those crowded to perimeters

are needed most in times of self loathing;

of grief and trembling and fear?

Culture to culture, we are the same –

running yellow under the surface where,

like animals, we strike out and retreat,

licking perceived wounds.


Clouds part and shift, planets repel and attract,

universes expand and implode

while the smallness of human drama continues

thrusting and parrying; hunching

into a sea of weakness inside bodies constructed

too frailly for posturing emotions.


Observations On the Train – Part Four

The young man’s smile is engaging, while his girlfriend sits placidly, brow furrowed with tension, locked in a computer embrace. They are from Chicago, and have taken the train to Davis, California to a friend’s wedding. He possesses a rather lovely SLR/digital camera, and spends most of his time gazing out the window and snapping frames of the countryside.

She looks up and smiles tightly, doe-like eyes magnified through the lenses of her glasses. Pale skin tells me it’s been a long time since she has basked in sunlight. Indeed she affirms a harried work schedule that, despite the sheer magnitude of her employer’s firm, is frankly enjoyable. If only the company were a bit smaller, while she rushes to erase any criticism with the kindness of coworkers; the leniency of a schedule with free weekends. She appears exhausted.

Her boyfriend overhears that I live in Hawai’i. He asks What city would you live in, if you could live anywhere in Hawai’i? I tell him that one is easy, for there is no city in the great, wide world I would ever choose to live in; that I am a straight-up country girl, craving clean air and soil and wide, open spaces. He insists. But IF you had to choose, where would it be? Presses me again with such eagerness and guile that I feel obligated to answer. Honolulu, I finally settle upon, sure he is going to inquire about job possibilities in his Internet Technology field. He seems delighted, sharing that he once applied for a job in Honolulu but was turned down. I encourage him to have another go, adding She, my head inclining toward his weary traveling companion, would be happy if you did! And am rewarded with that weak smile, that flawless porcelain skin furrowed at the brow.


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Blogging provides a virtual and sometimes therapeutic channel in which to pour one’s thoughts and feelings that, in turn, insinuate themselves into the collective like dye injected into a crystalline ocean. Slowly spreading, the new medium eventually becomes assimilated into the existing one, and a hybrid is born. We are changed and the world changes us.