Poem’s Witness

I don’t have much to say,
But will listen if you want to talk.

Not one to make grand speeches,
But I could write a verse or two,
Recite some Frost.

By the ocean,
I’m looking toward the horizon,
Where the sky dives into the water.

I wait, soft and seeing, for the arrival of a poem,
Those perfect moments of peaceful wonder,
When the sun, setting down in its own orangeness,
Drapes the world in dazzles.

The clouds and water, sky and ocean,
Two organic mirrors,
And we, you and I, get to live between
This vast and silent infinity.

This moving, living, breathing poem:
Those moments
I don’t have to say any words
Because the world says them for me.


Moon Cycle

New Moon

I feel my boundaries, but discover
I have none

No frame of light can stop me so I bend
To listen, for I know no better grace than pressing
An ear to the earth, cradled inward,

Like a dream, where others walk and have walked,
Their footsteps, a crowd of drums.
I know their ways and weights gathering
Into the soft spaces, sinking.

And as a woman I stand at your opening,
New Moon, bleeding, because I too am full
To the brim with mystery and strength

Whispering secrets
Gained from marching across
The river to the Underworld–
That Other Night.


The neighbor builds something in his garage and
I’m propped in my bed like a patient
Who has checked herself into the hospital

I gave myself permission this morning
To see people clinging to leaves
To hear monsters crawling under the house

To be weird and far out there, after all, I’ve earned it,
Working in an office–sit down, do the work
No complaints, no acknowledgment of sacrifice.

Then I moved to the forests in Sonoma
That’s where I lost my arms…they fell off from takeoff.

Flew high on divine power…still yearn for it
Then crashed…Made myself quit the hits
And then had two years of spiritual sobriety

most boring fucking time of my life

I want it back so badly
the bliss of knowing unknown…of letting go to the other realms
But I lost myself in the name of “spirituality.”

I spent those three years
Asleep and under a spell.

It’s different now.

I want to let go and be myself
Not let go and lose myself

I am a warrior fighting to keep herself sane
It’s another adventure.

I think I’ll spend the day being my weird self…
And then the next day still being my odd self…
No one will know. Everyone is too busy
Thinking and worrying about things
They don’t need to be thinking and worrying about.


The mango trees and bamboo shoots
Grow thick with jungle light,
And yellow-blue birds flash their wings,
Cascading into night.

The stars that glitter deep above
Surround a dark-skied moon
And glow like silver instruments,
Humming light into tunes.

Sitting next to silk-tangled plants
the two immortal gods
Man Adam and the woman Eve
Passed days in sleepy nods.

Crowned in vines on green-gilded thrones,
The gods drank mango juice
While naming every animal
And giving each a use.

But one day Eve went for a walk.
With curiosity,
She pushed away the jasmine and found
A simple apple tree.

Its branches softly limped with fruit
That glistened with the wind.
Its little leaves floated whispers
Of light with every bend.

Behind the gate and summer leaves
Where life is short and harsh,
The first real human-being was Eve
To lead them through the dark.

A Dandelion’s Metanoia

Spring is born. The exhaling of winter
Into the thick grace of flowers and weeds,
Who grow from memory: silent splinter
Of inheritance, exulted crowds of seeds
One by one leaping from their old mothers
As unique and universal as Mars
And as broken and complete as lovers
Abandoned to the winter full of stars—
Their darkness-filled history like torches
In corridors with muted, longing flames—
Half-beaten, half-holy with scorches,
Forgetting all glory in frosted chains,
That breathed them in and smothered them in cold
To try and break them or make them be bold.