The mendacity of the Father

The mendacity of the Father,

the for-your-own-good, you’ll-


spank you on the ass ruler of the house,

might there not be another way?

Look the white shark in the eye and see

what he claims to be is none other

than the abuse he forgets

once brought him to his knees.

Question where you came from,

you may find there’s a curse

invisible, iron gripped,

you alone can shake off.

Pain, unaddressed, is only fed

to the next generation who cling,

cling to the same pedagogy

that poisoned your once Free spirit..

Now’s the time-

reclaim it.


The naked Emperor

To what cost,

this silence?

Protecting normal, the naked Emperor,

who rots your bones of its mineral support,

your heart of its song,

your pelvis of its dancing motion,

your mouth of its natural speech.

Stop pretending.

And, with it, generations of loss.

Open the vault.

You may find yourself alone.

But the outcome

will be possession of your own soul.

Constellations on the ground

Constellations on the ground,

stars underfoot,

snow falling in dark morning

on upturned face,

waiting hair, open palms.

Greeting a wide universe in winter-

its hush and hibernation beckoning on

hidden animals waiting


for a silent moment to show themselves

as weather weaves a way.

Second Street Cafe

Horse sits in the corner

noticing possum hasn’t touched her tea.

Possum, meanwhile,

wonders about her pedigree.

Tortoise dozes in his shell,

tipping awkwardly toward ostrich’s tail,

when zebra waltzes in swishing his stripes

sending peacock for the door in utmost fright.

Such is a day at Second Street Cafe

with elephant missing and

rat wandering proudly off to play.

Order a cup and join the crew,

there’s a little something for all of you.

Her own

At forty

she felt seventy.

Experience’s weight

had sunk posts deep into the landscape of her being.

Ache and limitation, an undertow of fatigue,

confusion at the seeming permanence

of the uninvited, the resisted,

lead this human to take possession, fully-

and for the first time-

of a life unwritten, free of guarantees,

and her own.

Entirely her own.

Her landscape now is a garden,

loved and wanted, with posts that may disappear.

Or not.

With their origins recognized, appreciated,

and their presence finally respected,

perhaps a hammock will be slung between them

in honor of spring’s arrival.

Soft arc of hmmm

A woman reading across the room,

and her soft arc of hmmm at words eliciting her song,

calls forth the bigger music of the library-

four blocks away, a sacred monolith of imagination.

“Libraries for All” declares a sign on the wall.

Yes, except for the drunks,

spoke a woman at the counter-

the police were just here.

I’m sure you see it all, I responded,

libraries are havens for the homeless.


Warm. Dry. Open, lit, and cushioned.

Rest your weary bones. Pick up a book,

a newspaper, an image-heavy magazine.

This roof shelters whoever enters.

With or without the fortune or choice

of a place called home,

just best not to betray how many pints

are helping get you through the grey day.

Read on…

Gnarls & knots

Gnarls and knots-

twistings of difficulty and experience

train the tree toward ancient mastery.

R i n g s

spread in stilled ripples-

water’s character in wood.

Toes wrap in dark, salted earth below,

fingers stretch through blue air above.

In storm, drought and calm

echo countless ancestral voices

from forests long ago gone.

In the saddle

At a beginning,

with the closest solitary prayer being

“I don’t know,”

my hips work to keep the rest of me in the saddle.

Movements in the sky-

valley fog, and clouds weaving high through the hills-

live their nature in waves, currents, and vanishings,

grand teachings of the cycles of continual change.

Sometimes, I wish I knew.

But, unintentionally, artfully, that greatest illusion

has been set on the shelf-

a furry trickster friend

who flashes me a smile, and snaps his tail

at the most wicked, and absurd times.

I don’t know becomes

a delicate, gritty daily worship.

Trying to get home

Through the night, and every inch of its darkness,

you keep trying to get home.

Missing buses, the next being the last

before a no service emptiness of midnight.

And the priest you met was no priest behind that supermarket,

but a desperate man wearing inside out shirt

with black short sleeves and shabby collar.

Waiting, waiting, wanting and anxious

with one goal in mind,

standing alone at the bench eager

to get to the end of the line when you can start walking

a long stretch of highway

in the wee hours

to a home that no longer exists

yet is the one place to which you know the way.

Border dancer

Are you a border dancer,

never wanting fully to be here and

forever a passionate sliver of now,

sipping the drops, and drinking the deluge,

wondering what place you actually occupy?

It’s a slippery stick

meant for the ripeness of the forest floor,

unintended for adolescent hands.

What feeds does not come from you-

one so easily confused, acting comically small and guilty.

Real nourishment soaks in with time and respect

from Beyond-

origin of nectar and mystery, the breast milk

of endowed life in service to the Gods.

Leave the stick to its mushroom duff

where growth and decay follow ancient rhythms.

Dance there,

the place unnameable, infinitely creative,

and belonging to no one.