Each morning I’m prompted

to warp time and space

and breathe in peculiar

rhyme with no warning of

what I represent, rep-

rehensible base

a disgrace I expose.

Digging up bones from those

unmarked graves hidden

in this bucolic space.  I can’t

leave, faced with ferocious

resistance — how dare I

disturb what is seething

— malcontent label, dis-

trusted clear seeing.  Now

this thread of secret sorrow

linking yesterdays’

tomorrows brings me here,

my heart bared to receive

your arrows.  Aim and fly.

I yield.  My song unsealed

what we grieve.  A few more

tears and sighs before I

reach rage’s primal dance,

claim my inheritance,

singing, this tune is mine.

Inspired by Bucolic, Warp, Represent and Peculiar.


Leap Out (of the box)

The nos are the stepping stones that get you there ~ Andrea Waltz

If I modify the picture
I recall based on these two

(a throbbing innovator poised
on the ledge and my crotchety

father’s why can’t he mind?)
I discover I have never been

naughty. Arriving here
with a hero’s heart

—dressed in pink lace (torn)
with tight shiny shoes (flung)—

bright eyes and the evidence
so clear my oldest brother

needed glasses from hearing so
many nos. I’m leaping forward

then to go back now
circling into myself

and the most powerful version
of us. (Standing up and away

from those little desks and the prattled
history lies, reciting the facts

blocking the intuitive
deep knowing.) A grandmother might

open the door (but she’s pacing
forgetful, safe in a place

that reeks of urine and bleach.)
Schoolmates pushed in competition

separation, everyone desperate
for unconditional regard.

Today I belong, ready for this
daring feat together, right

beside him embracing
non-linear time.

Inspired by Recall, Picture, Modify and Naughty.

On which everything’s riding

Silent wonder while the others
pontificate and promise
vengeance, wrath of their god
of military might and terrible

My childhood flower opening
perspicacious unpuzzling
each hushed telling behind closed
places dank with must

A fine art so sometimes
I forget my strength, surrounded
by these boxes of toxins
ancient taint familiar, a scent like

Just now, an eagle
lopes the overcast sky,
the high view and miles
spinning into patterns I’ll miss

Stilling every song,
we are all watchful in
the forest stretched here
along the water. I track

as a granddaughter, respect
symptoms like the yoke
of winter lifting still poised
on this threshold lake like a

A morning muse inspired by Pontificate, Perspicacious, Flower, Vengeance, Water and Ian Anderson’s The Secret Language of Birds.

Grace Note

Fearless, or so I thought,
I cast off the chains

in my fever, not like the daredevil
toddler shooing me away

to hang from the ropes unspotted.
Death rides at my right

the missing earlobe where cancer
once rooted, this blocked duct

my lopsided jaw brands of my father’s
early-demise-tragedy lineage

the web inescapable so I make
my peace, shedding possessions

that come creeping back in gifts
my prescient gut declines.

At night my breath sobs toxins
draining through unsettled dreams.

What I miss most is joy entering
the forest calm, leaning against the greatest

bark, grateful for the grandmothers.
Now the shrinking spaces every mourning

the crowded-molecule places,
sing in this minor key the dread

overwhelm the fury race
my species rabid descant of greed

this is mine, I belong you
are we giving in tune

melodies haunting and pure
I search the notes with your eyes

our cacophony rising up
no ears to hear

what I miss most
the joy

Inspired by: Prescient, Cast off, and Daredevil.


The last day of March is bright

snow-laden limbs and fields,

a tiny new pond iced

right outside my window.

Fast-moving clouds are notes

in the red-winged blackbird’s trill.

I sit for a spell,

beset by night’s intimations.

Far back in my lineage

a knock at the darkened door

by a woman, hooded, desperate

with a jinx requiring mumbo jumbo.

We don’t talk about those times,

marking an X on the family tree

(here be dragons)

dressing carefully for Sunday

service to a different god

who raped a virgin and called

her whore, wresting even the holy

spirit from her feminine wiles.

God, the almighty male tri-

age for the women lying bleeding

in the snow.  I sort through

seed packets from a retro

selection, non-Gmo, heirlooms

my ancestors prized.  The branches

above me glisten sun-

kissed as I choose

the pickle my great grandmother learned

to ferment for home brews.

We pass along knowledge

marked as recipes,

sharing the soil’s secret

ingredients for the good life.


Inspired by Dragon, Retro, Pickle and Jinx.

All My Relations

In the quiet space alone, I fall

into my representation of you,

my love, but outside

I can’t even get along with geese,

noisy with prodigious poop,

aiming to nest exactly

where I walk barefoot.

I’m blind, hands outstretched

questing for what I know

as concept, tripping over

the object of my desire

in my delirious cling

to a separate identity.

I seek to integrate Divine

Masculine and Divine Feminine,

nonplussed when my grandson approaches

my oaken altar, touches the male figure

with his long braid,

“Is this you, Bibi?”  I splutter

my denial while he laughs,

“This is YOU, Bibi.”  I ask

and I’m given

confused and disoriented

until I can sit

the tracery of my lineage

emerging with every drop

of respect I yield.

My love, you are inside me

exquisite joining,

my bones throb in a way

no forensic pathologist anticipates,

sawing through the shell

in search of stardust’s drumbeat.

I wipe the wood

with care, aware

my ancestors have come calling

a fine layer

a vast assemblage

to answer

my deepest prayers.

Inspired by Assemblage, Delirious, Tracery and Identity.

What’s At Stake

The practical mathematics we explore

look suspiciously like witchcraft.

Silver-locked grandmothers dancing

around the family tree

measuring with diametric

precision while praising

the infinite always get a

bad rap from the likes of Big

Pharma.  Unmedicated, noncompliant

so he can learn the burning

love triangle, child and parents,

the long chains of ancestors

as visible as smoke

I teach him to see.

We both devour these moments

fully present in the is-ness


to be seen and celebrated

in the fullness we give each

other in these flames.

Inspired by:  Chain, Diametric, Infinite and Devour.