Sitting in the ashes

And what are those skills


unkempt, ignored, without mastery,

in the ashes

much as you’d like to abandon them there?

Only your gifts, the spells and support

needed, castable with no other’s voice or hands,

the workings for which you were born to suffer

and give.

Step, rich and slow, into your place.

A gyre of vultures, forty strong,

turns ’round at the base of the mountain

pushing remembrance of how small

you’ve been playing it, and

how large you now must be.


Grief so light

Grabbing at her skirts, reaching manly hands


toward a desired body-

not hers (the particular) but a-

flipped the switch, dramatically,

from her naive Oh I’m Wanted

to the real He Thinks He Can Take Whatever He Wants,

and she wheels around, out of his greedy, cruel grip

leaps out the window onto a roofline she knows like a cat

and stops doubting her worth, while learning

to doubt his,

and smiles with bare feet hugging the tile crest

of a building she’s perfectly willing to leave, bearing

a trail of grief so light it brings only

a rush of relief.

Born hungry

A princess in the tower,

at a distance looking down,


and kept.

How to get out? How to get away?

Desperate for rescue, a puddle of tears

and fury.

Why me? This terror and despair.

But, one sunrise, a light switches,

the kaleidoscope shifts,

her untapped power surges

along with the sight that she is on the inside.

An inside most would never know.

Following the sun

with fingertips searching slowly

the walls that keep her,

Somewhere, like the chink in the dragon’s scales,

a crack in stone

will bring the first ray of wisdom,

and freedom for which she was born


The whole warm night through

A frog in the front garden,

between snow storms,

has much to say:

First, forget the plans-

they were a ruse anyway.

Second, recall sunrise

and the songbirds’ melodious chittering.

Third, fourth, fifth,

forget the numbers,

holding on is holding back.

And then he busts into chorus

the whole warm night through

and a memory of what’s to come

sands a path deep into sleep,

wishing a good slumber

to one and to all~

Thirteen-step boogie

Having lost touch with the beauty of chaos

a fogged vision sewn of fear

and the iron-grip of hoped for control

eventually forces bursting rolls of laughter, or

sphincters tight enough to pop

(not so pretty- quick, turn toward the pansies planted to your left).

If remembrance of having a tail to shake breaks through,

that romp, leap, roar and thirteen-step boogie

will plunk soul back in wild order

and life’ll flow naturally once again.

Displaced, longing, spent

If displaced, longing, or spent

a gnawing twistiness of home


with an ugh, tug, a grrrrmph

and out tumbles a wish-

well, a need-

for a spot, covered nook, a nest or wee corner

stocked full of warmth, quiet, books

and visiting songbirds to the window ledge


an illusion of safety, the net many speak of

(what, again, is the fabric of that?),

mocks such steady states in a mind

abuzz with too much time

and hunting

for the next place to call one’s own.

Status quo

A conditioning of impotence,

reaching for the salt when another swipes it first,

mounting silence in heavy boots, step upon step,

crags of volcanic history ignored by all

but you.

Buttons pop in flights of frustration,

and the weight of carrying baggage,

generations of status quo,

threatens to break your back


the ludicrous heart-heaviness and surge

for a real place in family becomes visible

for the impossibility it is.

Pitching the straps off your shoulders,

searing sight of that graveyard of the forgotten

rising skyward

into memory, you shake your head

at the Sisyphean absurdity,

turn around

and walk away.


And when Fear comes knocking?

Or, more likely, bamblarkblasting its way in,

do you invite him to sit down,

notice her nebulous sucking barbed wire darkness,

and surrender yourself to the visit knowing

something important will be learned?

Come, come Fear, welcome,

enter and offer what brings you through town-

you might say

in honor and awe of,

out of respect for the guest with power

to leave you shivering, quivering

and yet more able to walk on

with starlight in your eyes-

have yourself a cup of tea,

You must be tired.

“About” page republished:

Once entitled Rooted In Grace {Rooted, embodied, bound, nourished, held.
Grace, the Infinite, great Mystery, artful movement, expression of silence}

Now entitled “Salt, Smoke, and Stone”-

Unavoidable chafe and Dance, delicious moment and precipitous drop, disappearing Scent and heavenly Body-


A gathering of the ephemeral and limitless, the bruise and Magic of experience.

A medicine of word.

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