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.

Boundary Waters


You should know better

than to talk to me so early.

My eyes alone should warn you,

lost in a poem sprouting

deep in mind-soil.

I arise from morning waters

not in an instant

crossing the labyrinthine channels

irrigating my dreams.  Now

I must walk on earth

but though I warn you:

only glance at me,

look away,

you stand close and demand

my attention.  You are pulling out


my poem’s colors painting

you in shades you’ll declaim

later.  It looks like scorn,

feels like magnets attach

to the line you’ve cast

into my depths. This way

of healing is raw

so we’ll suffer through

the opening of old wounds.

I aim to release these family

anchors, to watch

my descendants soar like swallow-

tailed kites poised

rare in the summer


prey no more.

Inspired by: Labyrinthine, Instant, Scorn and Kite.