The Interconnection of Being

At three, he’s aware of no

division, calling up the

buffleheads on my computer

for a close-up of tiny ducks

far out on the lake.  Not just black

and white, their iridescent heads

like poems to color.

He greets them, frustrated

by my inability

to establish

a FaceTime connection

with these cousins.

He has no armor,

open, empty

here to enjoy

the ride and I bail

furious and surreptitious,

dipping and throwing

discolored clouds of

beliefs as fast as they

bubble up on our way.

In the dark, we trace

the dim light

of constellations

resonating to a calling

heart songs

carrying us through

this living water.

Inspired by Empty, Armor, Division and Bail.  Photo credit:


The Layers of Now

The knight-errant delates

the enchantress

to the medieval tribunal;

she’s tortured for heresy

and practices of power.

And even now we carry

that shadow impossible

to touch, its weight forcing

our pace.  We believe.

You’re too big for your britches,

my grandma warned. So let’s get

naked, converse with

dinosaurs like a three-year-old,

delighting in the tune

the ancient memory of our being.

Shall we dare the dark

to reach for stars

our own relations

pointing precise lines

of connection, winnowing

past the satellites thrown

like so many toddlers’ toys

in the messy skies?

Clean up, clean up, we sing

over the Wi-Fi pledge

one global chorus

injustice and rubbish

clear to our eyes.

Do you see that, too?

Validated finally

while on the world stage

greedy monsters’

unreined stampede toward certain


keeps us horrified

and static.

The cordless frequency of fear

corralling us

fenced in seeming separation.

We chafe and squabble,

point fingers and cry,


while under our feet

the only necessary step



until finally we tune in.

Inspired by: Wi-Fi, Knight, Delate and Pledge.

The Magic Eye

The rush-hour drive transformed, we approach

from the march that protects the magical

forest I inhabit.  Closer we creep

and the skyline’s a mystery.

I’ve never seen these fantastical

castles he counts, six, seven, eight!

Eight, shouting and there must

be dragons.  I’m driving; it’s cloudy,

but he can see these radiant beings

with the superpowers his great

grandmother sewed into his cape.

How to appease a sad boy

whose genuine entreaties are ignored?

Please come.  I offer a large crow

but suddenly the enchanted

creature is in the back seat.

His name is Jerry and he’s friendly

so the chances he’ll scorch us

are slim.  Turn this way, my storyteller

directs, but I’m in the wrong lane

and he’s on his way home.

We leave the skyscrapers

to their work opening up the realms

of newness reserved for the most brilliant

stars among us, here to remind

and include all things lovely

curious and highly improbable.

When I drive home later, alone

in this new landscape, my sight

changes, the noose of reality

loosens and I can’t stop grinning.


Inspired by: Radiant, March, Fantastical and Appease.

Thread and Thrum

We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

I’m ecstatic at his arrival

flinging wide the door

dancing as I peer into the car.

Released from the restraints

of his carseat, he is running

to leap into my arms — all 35 pounds of

sturdy love, a kiss, a fierce hug,

I missed you too, he sings.

It’s been two days

since he last flourished

under my watchful eyes.

Today we tuck a geode

into a secret pocket, a rock

in a heart pillow,

very much alive, receptive

to the waves of love

we conjure to bless

the ducks, the kissed trees,

the leaves swirling through

the celebrated breeze.

I guess later in his life

he might look back

and see how weird

his witchy grandmother can be,

but right now we are creating

a new world of mutuality

weaving these sacred

bonds alive together.


Inspired by: Ecstatic, Rock, Watchful and Guess.

I Ought To Be Committed

I hereby relinquish my claim

to someday, that nebulous

dream that keeps me in thrall.

I commit to the pleasure

of this morsel, closing my

eyes in ecstasy,

relish the finite bite

of now.  I’ve missed so much

nourishment, lost to pages

and shows, words and sounds

that false security

shielding me from the very real

dangers of this exquisite

moment.  Here now

I run like a three-year-old

to kiss a tree,

laughing at the branch

caught in my hat.

I spread myself out

as an offering to this ancient

dog to sniff, tail wagging,

saying, I love you, too,

hosting the planet

as I learn

to savor


Inspired by Commit, Finite, Security and Someday.

Connecting Threads

My grandson discovers the bin

of color, my mother’s stash

of baby quilts, ready to wrap

at the drop of an announcement.

He leads her by the hand to say,

please!  In three generations, never

has such a request been made.

Protective and anxious, still

she can’t deny his quest

to explore her treasury, to snuggle

enswathe and pretend to sleep.

He studies each square with such

focus that she demands to know

the exact location of his own gifted

blanket.  Alas, it’s stored out of reach,

too precious for the likes of sticky

toddlers and destructive dogs.

And so his great grandmother begins

sewing — as madly as an 84-year-old

can, accompanied by a soft song

of moans and groans, and breaks

to solve cozy mysteries — mainly murders.

At each visit, he inspects the blocks,

placed in strips just so, no two alike.

She’s had a hard time

choosing the binding.

The backing is a strange collage

of eyes,

perhaps spectacles

black and white on blue.

He seems relieved when she adds

thick batting to make it squeezable.

And now, he spies it folded

neatly, and seizes the finished product

with a glad cry, Bibi, hide!

He is running to cover us

and create a new dark

quiet world.  We look wide-eyed

into each other’s faces, whisper.

An audience is optional; we create

scary dragons out of the smallest

settling of the house, safe here

in the well-meaning stitches

placed in this brand new heirloom.

Inspired by Quest, Squeezable, Optional and Color.

Love Affair

I close my drapes against inky

skies although sometimes I’ll peep

on clear nights to see which stars

have come to linger

between her branches.

Predawn, her massive dark trunk

rises from the fog

that clever whitewash obscuring

whatever toxic

humans have carved

in the landscape.  I am in love

with her lines, the grace

of her seasons, the 200-year-old

carriage, mettlesome dance past

meddlesome people who devastated

the wild places of her ancestors.

Sometimes I sit by her roots

and lean against her bark, or circle

around with my grandson, in genuine

puzzlement with each disappearance.

She delights in concealing him,

subtle guidance to pause just here,

now change direction, his giggles

ricocheting love vibrations

to the very top.  Just now

every branch is a complex poem

praising the lightening sky,

our interwoven connection,

every hidden root

pulsing deep in our

celebration of being.


Inspired by:  Puzzlement at Mettlesome Spirits thriving despite Toxic Whitewash.