I live on the threshold of water and sky

forest and plain.  Sometimes on the path

I scribble, racing the red

traffic lights on my way

to a civilized place

where my wild poem won’t fly.

My guitar always at hand for

my ballad-crooning folk singer.

And my pop diva has such

a snappy chorus.  I’m so freaking

grateful for my mess,

thank you, test.

I overwrite

to convey

like a cheerleader with a megaphone

what dwells in silence

deep inner space

dropping each beat

following breath

past the labyrinth

to the chagrin of my disappointed

mind watching as we slip by.

Slow for every speed bump

warning from my body.

Honor the hum

of om

embrace the silent song

and come up singing

at the chime.


Inspired by:  Hum, Overwrite and Megaphone.

The Healing Touch

Another one for Cristina

She made a path through the woods

and blazed her way to the starport

hub, opening up to places

far beyond mere galaxies.

And then she came back,

nimbly, on the tops of the trees

to light the signal fires,

summoning the others.

It’s a hard climb,

especially watching as she breezes

by, until I feel into the pull

of her updraft,

see the energetic trail

stirred by each flex of her muscles.

She’s teaching this technique

that opens the now

dissolving the obstacles

that used to block

the flow of energy.

This is pure healing.

And I follow, catching my

breath and gasping

at the view.  I’m committed

to this daily practice,

like breath: presence

and release, clearing

until this sudden change

today.  We’ve reached a critical

mass, as if constantly

following this path

has transformed it to a

celestial high

way, the trees shifting

their branches to lift us

into the skies.  The lightest

deliberate intention now shifts 

the planet,

delicate surgery

revealing the filters

that have shielded the multiverse

of possibilities here all

along hidden

by our sleep.

Inspired by: Possibilities and Sacred Embodiment Meditations

Same old Samhain

Rising from the endless depths

to see these

celebrants of bloodcurdling

horror and macabre death

appropriated from

the ancient Celts

and Indigenous present.

The weight of wisdom

inexplicably inciting

excited misguided

attempts to be other

but sexy,

trying on wicked outfits

ignoring the lurking

tropical storm just humming

in the perfect conditions off the coast.

The oceans get warmer and we

continue our blind imitations.

Samhain at sunrise

bonfires lit in darkness

the liminal time

to host our dead.

The gateways are open

and so our young don

their superhero capes

knocking on the doors

of our hearts, asking for sweet

mercy, and we fill their questing

hands with poison

the slow death of sugar

as we try to align ourselves

from the outside in,

and we find our costumes

just don’t fit.


Written for the #OctPoWriMo prompt Endless and inspired by: wicked, bloodcurdling, dead, weight and tropical.

The Connection

In my utter depths

a door flung wide

always merging

with the cosmic heart.

We pulse together

in silent space

so overwhelmingly large

so microscopically minuscule

I misplace

the way

up here

in the outer limits

where clouds or fog

or thick smoke obscures

my seeing


the cries of anguish

at the brink of the abyss

where the tide rolls in fists

of shells and rocks and timber

with unerring aim

a riptide

I’m resisting

panicked until I’m hurled

onto sand scraping

mad for air.  I catalogue

these injustices, swear

vengeance, give you


cut you out of my life

with cold insouciance.

Sensational separations

ebb and flow.

Fingers fight for dominance

in a hand that has declared

autonomy and names opponents

masterminding their gory demise.

Drama, drama, drama.

I return to the breath,

my heart opening leads me

out of the shallows

immersed now in our

continuous connection.

Written for the #OctPoWriMo Day 25 Prompt: The door opens both ways, and inspired by gory, and opponent

Tortured by Love

Love the great teacher
sweeps me into the river
and I must let go.

I sit in spacious
meditation poetry
silent finger count

Poor man imprisoned
Rich man suffers headline shame
Poverty’s the crime

Soul light illumines
darkest shadows cast off for
childhood survival.

He says, Bibi, sit
so I drop my to-do list
to learn about love.

Today’s OctPoWriMo prompt – Day 11 – is to write a senryu about tortured in love.   But the sweet torture that love offers me calls for five senryu to celebrate: the necessary surrender, the difficulty of sitting in meditation, social injustice, shadow work, and the teachings of my toddler grandson.

Not To Be Found

The words have an empty ring and they don’t really mean a thing without love…~ The Carpenters (remake of Love is Surrender)

I notice the water is choppy

in my inner lake this morning.

An hour that usually dives

into the place of pure

surrender, lying on a night-

beach in Atacames, ocean

black ceaseless stretching

under the piercing star-lit

colander of constellations



Even the dawn lacks glamour,

just a gradual lightening

of autumn-silenced morning.

I reach for the doorknob

just as a feathered body clunks

against the window. In the next

room, the light pours out

before my fingers touch

the switch.

I drag

my expectations as I examine

every gift: careful


of the betrayed child.

How to allow

the crashing


strange coincidences

the funhouse distortions

reflecting my quest

for perfection

that will finally grant

safe harbor?

This, too, I heed



as I yield

once more to now.

Inspired by #OctPoWriMo Day 1 Surrender

Joining The Chorus

…a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,   
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings! ~ Paul Laurence Dunbar

Tell me more about
fortuitous blessings that arrive
after my diligent practice.
The number-crunchers assert
the planet won’t bear my weighty
insistence on posh digs
with my kind, careless
poisoned carnival-goers
making merry
while the bodies writhe,
the bonfires blaze.
And so I sit.
Center inside
and still
I crave assurance
that the miracle can arise
like breath
or fog on the cool dawn lake.
The atrocities reverberate
down the generations
bomb-blasting our present
ears stunned by this tone-
deaf assault.  In our knee jerk
reflex, we stand, speak
to the smirks and sneers.
Listen, we beg, and try
to chop the slippery
truth into bite-sized pieces,
now frantic in their swift
sweep under the rug.
How do our voices hold
the whole notes with these
hands covering our mouths?
Locked in the dark room,
the air sirens silenced,
the blitzkrieg so relentless
warnings are no longer
needed.  We know.
Together, holding hands
with every wretched being,
the bleeding wounded and
the sword-wielding
in the darkness, our inner fire
holding this space,
and where, oh, god,
where is the grace?

Inspired by:  carnival, smirk, slippery, fortuitous, posh, number