It’s All Improv

The whole cosmos is a constant alteration of one being. ~ Diogenes (paraphrased.)

It is difficult to see

what I condone 

tacitly doing my laundry

in private, by chance hearing

my mother say, Mick Jagger

is so ugly — even now, 

she’s called a great

beauty.  Instantly I feel

the collar tighten a notch

in a flurry of beliefs

rising like a murder

of crows, black and noisy

above the roof

of my consciousness.  I’m critical

of her criticism, desperate

to belong with this long

and narrow face, an unattainable

ideal cutting off my

breath, dragging me into

subservience.  The fractals

of the tales of separation, cascading

down into a canyon.

Only one way out, and so you




yourself into the frigid water

just between the wicked

cliffs, beyond the jagged

stumps hidden 

in the roiling.

Sometimes I eat what I know

will cause me agony.

Sometimes I dream the keys

to all the secret passages.

Sometimes I wake just

in time

to shout yes and

to my no.

Inspired by: Collar, Plenty, Flurry, CondoneLaundry, and the dverse prompt Cascade (I’m late for dverse, but this video really inspired me.)

Hidden Depths

Venus, Mercury and Jupiter are bright

in the predawn sky

but for these clouds.

I’m asking to perceive

what is hidden 

although this requires a strong

heart and committed receptivity.

I am cultivating the view

from the balcony, investing

in the panoramic even as

I squat in a yoga pose

with my grandson.

It isn’t until after he leaves,

viewing short videos that I hear

his low-voiced comments

and whispered lisps,

turning up the volume so that

next visit, I can reflect back

to him the power of being

heard.  And it becomes obvious,

playing solitaire, how many chances

I skip in my hurry

to turn over the next new

cards.  The winning hand

is easy when I pause,

ignoring the imperious timer

demanding I capitulate

by leaving the present

unopened, rushing to some future

triumph, dragging the detritus

of the past.  He’s scribbling,

and brings me his pencil,

“Not that one,” insistent

on bold ink to etch

his powerful spells in the language

only he can speak 


in the moment 

of pen to paper.

Inspired by:  Imperious, Pencil, Capitulate, Squat

Rising Concord

Listen to the lines of sorrow

composed in tweet

hymns, overwhelmed

by grim information in such sharp


to the million-year-old symphony

composed by woodlands.

We stumble in the fog

of our own sentience,


in the moment, we create

everything, the quantum entanglements

of whatever we observe

coming into full focus:

the shared terror of

this collective nightmare

or rising gently

like the sap of our tree

allies to the next level

awakening suddenly

to a blossoming reality

each unique voice


as we create

the new global being.

Inspired by: Hymn,  UnawareInformation, Contrast

Beyond The Poem

I parted with that dubious

Doll with the eye

Tracking me 

From the sky

— bearded, vindictive

white male.


by patriarchal greed

work more

for less

while the ones reaping

the glory play golf.

I petitioned for respect.

The sacred planet

obviously female

giving, birthing, creating

deserving glory.

I found the shop

selling Gaia statues

and I rejoiced

because deep in resistance

you support what you fight;

your battles are on their terms.

Now this daily

And nightly

Immersion into a 


Transcending time

Revealing space

as the Construct

necessary for this Conversation.

What is


Interwoven through bones

Sparking through genes.

Recycled Dinosaurs

All of us


In recognition.

What is truly sacred

So far beyond deserving

And worth,

Singing into the realm

Of belonging.

Are you here?

Then you do.

Resounding when I give

My most precious gift:

My authentic 


And all of the excluded pieces

Shamed, terrorized,

Crawl out cautiously

Or wave White Flags


until the First Notes

Signaling the Beginning

Of this orchestral suite


My complicated

Incredibly simple


Created in the space of WE.

Inspired by:  Dubious, Overwhelm, Shop, Melody.


I just reached 47,000 words on my #nanowrimo writing.  So inspired!

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

We Choose Life Again

Sometimes I feel like shit about having such awful depression and lack of motivation and I wonder why I want to die all the time, and then I remember I’ve survived sexual assault from 5 different abusers. ~ @khomkhaawii

In the middle of the night

she wakes me, recalcitrant

and restlessly suicidal, and it’s such

a vulnerable time of drunken plunder

when my heart lost, I join in her vigil,

even though

I survived in the daylight

a gradual reach for

sunny, even jaunty, head held high.

It is only now, at sixty —

look, I didn’t break — a lithe

willow dancing through the tempest

to gather all the missing pieces

abandoned in pitched battles

of childhood, adolescence, young woman-

hood.  We choose life, little one,

although his dark presence

penetrates the web

cries and wails for justice,

supreme in his belief

that he is entitled to our silence

while we sing with shining voices

that light the terrible vision

of our sisters, still caged.

And we’re going back, dammit,

we’ll leave

no woman behind.

Rising like breath

after rough, stolen kisses,

the threat of death

is our home and even so,

the innovation of love powers

us, and we choose

to open our eyes at dawn

and drop the pretense

of sleep, crawling with painful

precision as we choose life today.



Inspired by: Heart, Innovation, Gradual, Lithe, Jaunty, Justice and pure heartbreak #MeToo


The spotlight frames the fiend

center stage and so true

to life we all adopt

fake smiles to mask horror.

He’s not my monster, we affirm

and form uneasy alliances,

refusing to glance behind us

at the shadows lurking.

And then this sonorous voice

reaches our eager ears,

a mischievous grin,

pink glasses, musical parody

masterpiece jabs

at the darkness too huge

to ignore or banish.  So we call

them out, laughing all the way,

singing satiric choruses

with glee, skewering with song-

flames, well-done, it’s all a play

on words, and we are

the poets, the rhymers,

pacing prompted daily

to wake up our friends,

our families, our slumbering

selves, quivering in the nightmare

that seems to smother our flames.

Wake up, wake up,

the fire’s burning now

it’s time to sing.


Inspired by: Sonorous, Alliance, Eager, True, Adopt

and by the recent work of Randy Stewart Rainbow, especially his remake of Camelot.

The Magnetism to Light

That tumultuous energy rises up

and naptime is over.

He’s wide awake and oh,

such passionate overwhelming

joy and utter despair.

His older brothers are exhausted

chasing the escapee

— he’s fast and committed,

there’s no hesitation to meet

this wild and wonderful world.

Inspired, I feel the tug

an invisible cable connecting

our resplendent hearts.

The enthralling blaze

burns away time,

surmounts the past

and flings us into the present.

And we’re running

with no care for the sudden

scraped contact with sidewalks,

the reddening flesh that surely

will bleed but now

we pick ourselves up

again and embrace

this vital force,

the life that wants to live

bursting through our cells

calling, come on, Bibi, let’s go!

And I’m here, my darling,

filled with gratitude and awe

by your two-year-old healing prowess.


 Inspired by Cable, Resplendent, Enthralling, Surmount


Dedicated to all the women in the darkness, their therapists, and the good men who’ve put all that behind them.

American women should be able to write off the first 30 hours of therapy this year. ~ Laurie Kilmartin

I have been peering at my

introversion this morning, seeing

it is an obstacle to my success.

At a break, I am crushed

by a photograph: my attacker

happily dining with loved ones.

Already this week, I’ve been

wading through a morass of

grief and worry, this shadowy

threat brought when a woman

decided she couldn’t keep

the secret any longer. And oh,

god, do I keep mine?

In this dark

chokehold, silenced

and weary, saddened

and hopeless because I did try

and released a hornet’s nest

of fury from everyone

who didn’t witness

what I experienced

and therefore it didn’t happen.

And the monster smiles his smug

victory — and who else has he

shaken, groped, penetrated?

I flounder in the muddied waters

cringing, submissive

after all these years,

I’ve perfected the obsequious show

to save my hide

but the cost is this

shadow that eclipses

my every step.

Inspired by: Obsequious, Dedicate

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