Dilating Time

For Cristina

Like the pupil of an eye,

elongated, dilating

just in the second of the solstice.

And in that perfect

clearing, all the locks unlatch,

doors open, gates melt.

We approach what had seemed

an impossible sliver, an idea, really,

an almond or a teardrop,

enlarging peripherally

to an opening

any old fool could slip through


leaf on the wind,

feather on a breeze,

carried like the lightest sailing craft

streaming through the liquid 

love light.  


the only task now:

relax into the support

of the universe.  

All of the old entanglements tease up,

one by one.  Watch

unravelling, all the knots

disentangling in the perfect

allowance of what is.


Resistance feeds friction

and disease and I’ve loved

the polished white-

wash of narrative.  Literature

constructs word-boats floating

on the stream being revealed,

festive, bedecked in lights

to shine

back through the black waters.

Poem-breadcrumbs cast

on a forest trail:

follow quickly before

they are consumed by hungry

searchers far too desperate

to look

up. It will appear

like an almond,

a teardrop, something small

and irrelevant, 

hidden power 

only accessible on the darkest night

with the clearest intent

to serve.

Give up the struggle.


This is clear sailing.

This is allowing.

The universe supports you

completely.  You don’t have to believe.

You might take a few moments

to close your eyes,

listen with heart-ears,

mind your gut.

But mostly, relax.

Relax into the support.

It’s here for you,

for us,

as we blossom into our glory.

Inspired by:  Compose, White, Literature, Festive, Bedeck

Getting The Present Of The Past

Peeling back the layers 

nestled into each other

like onion skin at first,

tearing easily until the solid

sweet flesh is exposed

and the tears begin.

Trauma is like this,

lurking in the present

under the veils of making do,

getting past, 



It persists.

Round and around I go,

each tiny step 

a healing movement

when I declare it so,

like a child running

scared, heart thumping

to finally jump, turn around

and declare, “safey safe,”

clutching a blanket on base,

mommy’s bed where no

monsters reach, at least,

in theory.  Gathering up these

twice-bitten, no-use-crying

children, the stellar creators

of body signals

to slow down,

change course.

I drag the weight of them

until the symptoms crash 

and I fall, devastated,

into hell.  I only see

finally in this calm place,

space to pry open 

the clam and release the pearl.

My greatest irritants

like an explicit wish

from all these tiny

tortured selves: get better, darling,

in the new cycle ahead.

Inspired by: PersistCycle, Wish,  Explicit

Spoiled Rotten

I am prompted this morning

to consider things putrescent.

Vultures are soaring to scan

the shore so I look with them.

A bloated white body of a grass-

fed carp rises from the depths

of the bay like a slow-mo eruption

to float

through the threshold

of sky and water.  Just out of reach,

so the huge birds land along the point.

And I’m floored by the fatuous

comments of the humans who are disgusted

by the “filthy birds” gathering in a precise

pecking order, watching the creep

of the current bring the body

to their care.  How can we not

praise these two species especially

dedicated to decontaminating

the planet, speeding along

decomposition?  How is this sacred

act scorned and abhorred?

I tune in to the willingness

to plunge in to the blood and gore.

Awaiting what makes us shudder in dread

with wide wingspread warnings

to stay in line, brother.

Integration is a precious gift.

Close to the shore, a fin breaks

the surface, a carp tugging weeds

from the lake bottom.

Above, replete,

the vortex of vultures play

catching updrafts, ascending only

to dive alarmingly in downspins,

and if I relax into

deep listening,

the strains of the symphony

orchestrating this dance

appear:  not sight or sound,

the vibrations of what moves us

in that space where we are one.


Inspired by:  Floor, Fatuous, Putrescent, Eruption and  Bay

If Only You Believe

I know love is the answer (Yes, it is)
Keeps holding this world together, yeah
Ain’t nothing better ~ Jefferson Starship

In this theater
of possibility, I uncover
barriers erected long ago,
snow forts defended by stalwart
three-year-olds, frozen
protectively over an infant.
We deliquesce onto the new
stage of miracles, ta-dah!

I hereby declare
my superpowers:

I give to you
because I can,
the queen sitting on a hill
of treasure, gladly handing out
necklaces of pearls and
intricately carved jade,
shining golden coins etched
with the profiles
of me in different ages.

I can feel through trees,
see with heart-eyes,
presence vibes.  I manifest
easily, dramatic energetic
transmutations every full moon.

I offer slices of reality
and laugh
because they are just wordplay.
I can stop mid-sentence
to abandon a belief.

I can enter deep pain
as a miner
with an archeologist’s heart.

Here is my friendship
and compassion. Come
just as you are, the only strings
dazzling constellations
inspiring us.

I share dark secrets:
right now I am afraid
to receive.
Even so,
life is more intelligent
than I can credit.

We dance
wide-eyed, quick
embraces and sweet

and the gift
all glorious holograms
lighting up the dark places
just as I offer
my heart to you.

Inspired by: Barrier, FriendshipTheater, Miracle, Inspiring

The mess is the message

I can replay the past

like a music video, 

scripted carefully

shot from angles

to present myself


victim, heroine,

the perfect blessing

to all her dependants.

And I have, believe me:

when you aren’t able to love yourself

as you are, to give what you have,

you invent elaborate versions —

what would people like?

what would make me worthy? —

distribute fantasy

a fairy godmother,

a generous lover who asks

for nothing in return,

a cook who feeds the crowd

lavishly, left eating crumbs

until the next paycheck.

Now I must stand here and say,

Look, the past didn’t work

well for me. 

I’m creating a new

song in all the keys

labeled discordant,

not to be played.

Crashing crescendoes

vehement anger,

sobbing wailing strings of grief,

fear in whispered minor chords

my truth

as I shed

the false harmonies

rising up

in a mess.

And you’ll surely look away

while I listen

for the whole notes

of me 

I’m finally reclaiming.

Inspired by:  Video, Past, Dependant, Tune 

Class Report

In the playground, my grandson answers

what’s your name?

in a wide-legged stance, open

arms to embrace,

head flung back,

face to the clouds.


He is seething with passionate

clarity, his unique voice

stunning the other children

to gapes of Os

before they return to the slides,

the swings, the ladders,

the mulch.  No wonder he calls out

every plane in advance

of sight or sound; his field is

tickled by their presence.

Thankful that I’m in his advanced

class, I realize

I have been calling my teacher

the wrong name,

my subtle finesse

used to delicately show him the way

of the world

dropping flat and sinking

into the vast sea

of his perception

as he commands, Follow me, Bibi,

sure that I’ll catch up.


Inspired by: Unique, Finesse, Advanced, Seethe, Voice

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.

Global Warming

The process of rewarming is extremely painful; the tissues will not hurt at all until they are rewarmed, but once they begin to thaw, the pain is intense. – Williams College Health Center on frostbite

I am in a state of shock
and I feel powerful.

I want to end this life
and I want to stay and heal.

I am disgusted by the rampant
dingy soiled sheets
aired and called clean
on the public streets.

I am frightened by the lies
like treacle, treacherous
and sticky, cloying
and repressing all decency.

The welfare of the planet
mocked and denigrated
the airwaves controlled
by greedy powerseekers

who blast this continual
filth, inspiring the basest
among us, the psychopaths,
to strike out

in their justified fear,
following the hateful prompts
ringing in their ears
24/7. The numbers don’t lie,

the hate permeates
the call to resist
promising more
to resist. I ignore the ephemeral

pull, relax into the ocean
of movement.
I’ve already discovered
the disconnect inherent

in the specialists’ diagnoses:
angry inflammation of cells
the condition in this moment
inexplicable, everlasting.

I call bullshit.

Colonialism creates an entire system
based on consumption
and it consumes us,
holy hell

our need inflamed
and the soothing sublime
solution, so long locked out,
is going to hurt

when we allow it back.
We listen and slowly
invite what is outside

what is frozen within us,
in this torment

hosting the thaw

screaming and allowing
because this change
reorders our chaotic lives

and it’s time
to leap
into the creative flow
all together now

our global hive mind
to change this moment

on this planet
we hold in our very cells.

Written in response to #OctPoWriMo Day 29 prompt: By the numbers, and inspired by: Repress, Dingy, Ephemeral, Sublime, and Welfare.

Color My World

Drench the world drab 

gray morning blankets 

lost in the resistance

and I’m shivering.

Echoes of harsh 

Mephistophelian snickers

judgmental and cruel

pervade the long corridors

of my stormy night.

My friends expect me

and I just can’t

open my eyes to please them.


I drift into a calm

love is calling

so it’s no coincidence

I’m here in the we-space,


until chaos tumbles

angry red, mindful blue,

passionate purple and

inspired yellow.  

My friend says I’m back

in that black-and-white space

my childhood created

— such a wise person,

look, we survive!

The pendulum swing from

an adorable

toddler celebrating rainbows

and this is good!

shifting when he leaves

to a fierce masquerade

of this constant

critical voice



or me

someone is at fault

someone is bad 

it’s me.

As I reflect

light into the past

I lug around 

seeking mastery, 

my next evolutionary step,

I determine it’s time

to stand on one leg

like a pink flamingo,

nodding to the bluebirds

gathered outside my door

as the first fall flames

flicker gold and orange

and light a different way.

Written for the #OctPoWriMo Day 27 prompt: What color is it? And inspired by: Adorable, Masquerade, Coincidence, Complete, Drench and Mephistophelian.

Sayonara, Cinderella

For years, I built the flag-

stones of my public persona

precisely aiming

for some enchanted evening

to entice a partnership

in the way of fairytales

the nebulous happily ever after

an unexamined spectre

— who does that?

Today my mother claims

I look like a witch

my silver hair curling

just to my waist.

I want to delve deeper

than appearances

to this new love

brimming, hopeful,

all the scorned and feared

fragments roiling up

for their share.

I am holding space

for the multitudes

of missed opportunities,

prying open the slammed

doors, mindful

each step a celebration

of the utter messiness

in these growth spirals.

Finally I feel

the despair, the longing,

the frustrated repressions

all here, in this moment

I see me.

Inspired by #OctPoWriMo Day 23 See Me, Enchant, Spectre, Partnership, Flag and Public