Lost In It

I rise from dreams of power,
a list of next steps scrawled

in my non-dominant hand
the ink fading in air.

Six feet from my head, a thrum
of hummingbird as she dares

to sip nectar. Here be monsters:
the great blue heron stalking

so close I could reach out
and scare her into that lumbering

prehistoric launch into sky.
Alone in my tiny quarters, I breathe

and take up more space

than I could

yesterday. I practice my firm
no before I am absorbed–once more

–into the tapestry of togetherness,
all the spirits and guides atwitter,

fluttering subtle and quick
messages too ephemeral for translation.

I learn through immersion
the precise entrypoint into now.

Written for the weekend writing prompt: Translation –in 115 words, and ephemeral.


The Horses Beggars Ride

These wishes for my children, I propose:

a calm lake ringed by ancient trees, 

mornings to unfold slow as a 

spectacular rose.  Clean air and 

the chance to inhale that sweetness

like a prayer or a song,

deliberate and strong.  Saying

a firm no when required to

sacrifice, demanding a delay

when urged to choose.

Moving from the heart’s

clear intention free-

way despite the mindless chatter.

Knowing the matter

from the space, the light

leading from dark places

—the ones to explore

weathering seasons to approach 

each exquisite opened door.

Inspired by:  Delay, Rose, Inhale and Sacrifice.

Beyond Our Ken

What do we toss aside as interesting but largely meaningless incongruities? ~ David McGowan

How do we stay awake, moments
and days choked by the woven

pattern which tempts us
to dream? We ignore strong

clues–coincidental anomalies–
for that comfortable snooze.

When I told my doctor that
I healed my fatal illness,

he never asked me how.
He called me noncompliant,

told me never to return.
I bounced past the ashen

patients in his waiting room.
Magic pills destroying them

(I tossed mine away and my
data left the mainstream so busy

counting cadavers.) Yesterday
my grandson stopped midplay,

running to cling to my legs.
Ghosts had claimed the room,

he needed me to sort it out
with my eclectic skills. I praise

the ancestors, investigate the
shadows. Openings at every step

if only we dare to be
present in this uncanny world.

Inspired by: Tempt, Dream and Eclectic.

Lining Up

All of these discordant waves

of sound, strangers’ eyes, from here

appear cacophony, an amorphous

random gathering.  A curious child

stares into mirrored sunglasses and a

blank face.  He backs away.

It’s ludicrous, pacing through

the labyrinth (active people

complain less, keep them moving

in the chase after the illusive

gate.  Guarded by the ones

with hands of blue.  Pour water

out here, refill over there.)

We feel gullible and shamed with it,

paddling through this narrative

of removing shoes to fight

terrorism.  When I emerge

to sit, there is no quiet.

All of these hearts having been pried

open, wander disconsolate

into shops to buy some comfort.

For a while, I let each line

of code appear, flashing behind

my eyes in this instant understanding.

It’s too much; I drape my neck

with amethyst and my wrists with

jade and tachyon, plug into monks

chanting om.  Unknowing as we forge

new relationships, the precursor to our

hive mind we’ll form, arranging

yet again, a queue to enter this

new thrumming space, the field

newly visible as we find our seats

and prepare to launch into sky.

Inspired by: Amorphous, Ludicrous, Chase and Paddle.

Saving Grace

The foliage is so dense a view
is difficult and anyway, the contest

for my attention is purely aural.
Back home, my studies honed

my filters to identify species,
delight layered with names

and habitat, the native songbirds
winning the gold, while the usurpers

–European house swallows, brutal
colonizers–earn my contempt,

the losers. And here, even the
flitting feathered cousins I know

sing in a different symphony, new
secret woodwinds and persistent percussion.

I give up. Higher, entering space. At last
my spendthrift tricks unriddled–

I’ve wasted all my currency
filing the world into categories

and kingdoms. The past poverty
clinging insensible. And still

today, the prodigal returns
to her roots: the curious child thirsty

for joy. No need now to classify
this frightening place with the hope

of gaining some control. (Out of time,
tired, cluttered space, depleted)

shed today like a snakeskin.
I’m sitting with my banks brimming

wide open as the world
comes twittering in,

the opening salvo accepted,
the big brass band bursting behind.

The invitation clear, my instrument finally
in tune, I become song, sure

my part is necessary, and
I belong in this mystery,

the music running through, cascading
round the spiral helix in this newly

revealed field. Look and listen, but
mostly harmonize: we’re all in

this together, whatever
it might be, it’s happening now.

Today’s Prompts:  Spendthrift, View, Contest, Difficult

My Old Friend

I end each day in silence
clearing the path of ripples

from every stone that smashed
my surface, on my way down

sitting in a sacred space.
Finding the way through the

drama and unexperienced emotions
to this place, deep and wide

and dark, pulsing, magnetic.
And there I dwell into

clarity before I sleep.
At daybreak, silent once again,

as if my dreams had opened
long thoughts, to be respectfully

regarded, fading fast but
sometimes lingering or pulling

me into a poem’s magic.
And though I warn the people

that I live with, they can’t help
but think me rude,

eyes glazed at a hint of
chatter, running out into

the morning, into upon
a secluded chair, settling

quietly to the morning serenade
children squealing, birds

on every branch, traffic humming
into the background. And when I

open my eyes, I am regarded
by a lizard, stone pose

until we scamper into the day.

Written for the Stream of Consciousness-Saturday prompt of silent/silence  (must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.)  The no-planning part is easy, but I love this particular prompt because it highlights for me just how many picky little edits I do to even my spontaneous morning poems.  Not for this prompt, though, scout’s honor.

Psychic Stenographer

Now, there are seventeen different things a guy can do when he lies to give him away. A guy has seventeen pantomimes. A woman’s got twenty, but a guy’s got seventeen. And if you know ’em like ya know your own face, they beat lie detectors to hell. ~ Vicenzo Coccoti in True Romance (written by Quentin Tarrantino)


Picture me writing verbatim questions
and answers, tuned into the flow, music

moving over the keys converting sound
to notes on the screen, puns flashing for me–

wordplay invisible to others bent
to their tasks, different from my own. No one

takes the opportunity to applaud
my acutely sensitive ears and hands

though my genius is obvious to me.
Time and space constraints erased to meet the

gauntlet of a deadline. Unsung hero
and most people never know my psychic

powers. I can tell a lie precisely.
A pantomime could confirm what I know:

truth flows, so easy, so sweet, and even
the greatest pathos and anguish emerge

veritably clear. A lie is rough and
heavy. Its jagged edges catch. It crawls

awkward. It stops the music abruptly.


One day a serial liar—later
identified thrice convicted, the crime

perjury—meets my eyes and says, I do!
I place him under oath in sacred space—

our two raised palms activating the field
vibrant, aware, the two of us now bound.

Every answer trips, a taradiddle,
but my fingers are moving through mud, dark

agony to reach keys so often stroked
with abandoned precision. And after

when the attorney asks me, Do you think
he was telling the truth
, I laugh until

the tears come, weak after connecting to
that corrupt being. Every word but “the”

is suspect, I pronounce, even his name
feels false.
(I’m not bashful, I don’t boast but

I’ll answer precise questions.) Truthsayer
trees outside tickled by an honest breeze

bring me back to the space birds celebrate:
I plug into the song that sustains me.


The pain, the weight, the disconnect, life as
a con, what early nurture went missing?

What twisted models, iron fists molded
his tongue, lie to survive, each heavy step

fraught in the fabricated web, he’s bound.
Each breath blocked just for an instant in the

labyrinth built specifically to hide
the truth, only to face our sacred space—

he glances at me only once, knowledge he
sees in my eyes (in any other game,

I’d call Bullshit!) warns him to avoid my
gaze from now on, yet another burden

in his painstaking painting, perfected
by decades of forgery, his bold strokes,

each careful obfuscation now revealed
illuminated agony in sight.

Written for these Prompts:  Verbatim, Bashful and Applaud.