My story is told;

so go now you,

be vivacious in waking,

be courageous in dreaming,

all the monster’s

mimeographed madness

to you is but harmless cottonwood

drifting on the breeze.


Dumpster diving at midnight


Builders will continue to build, and
White folk dumpster dive

In the winter anyway,

In red,
And blue overalls, scavenge –

Some for profit, others fun, and I

Cannot be a predator, I
Cannot carry luggage, I

Am dying, and

Perhaps giving things away, a
book or something will relive the pain, lord

Knows I just need some pain relief and, I
Just cannot afford to hoard now, how

I wish I had done this earlier like,
Forgiven my lover, myself –

I’ll do it in dungarees, I am dying and I

Do not need to carry baggage, cannot take it with me, I’ll
Give out yellow popsicles instead.

photo – Holy Week, Guatemala♦



Midnight Gardener


I hear God in cushion prints,
Leopard pants,

We Forget;

What if it took place at midnight, would you

Stack hay and win,
Chicago with the broad shoulders,

Hunt mosquitos,
Midnight lover, the

Ebullient wrestler in a,
Pink Venetian mask,

Would you,
Be a brute,

Pretending the contender was not God,
Brisk breeze,

Be the one who,
Proof read the script,

Then promptly forgot,

And Jung?

Anger never works,

Photo – Jacob and Esau

-short evocative poetry-

Outward Course

_Your mouth is so black inside.


We’re looking hand-to-hand;

So much closer now.


Like the darkness before this decompression,




Your mouth curving a smile,

Puckering and parting,


Conceiving color from particle momentum,






Your teeth, showing full-color spectrum white, against the blackness inside our outward direction.


Expansion is not one sided,


It’s an opening of the Never Closed.











Always Forward

Time keeps moving forward,
Always forward, measuring change.
Moving energy and matter through space.
Artificially divided into intervals,
We call by different names.
Seasons and seconds.
Hours and eras.
We order our linear lives in this way.
For we too are matter and energy,
Constantly being moved forward by time.
Our form is sentient, observant,
Aware that it’s being moved.
Fearing the moment when awareness ends.
Naming that moment, death.
Matter is neither created, nor destroyed.
So we won’t be literally be gone,
When we’re dead.
We’ll no longer be in the same sentient form,
But we’ll still be here.
Our matter, our energy,
Still being pulled along,
Always forward, by time.

Life – as it is

I yelled and kicked and fought with all my might.Yet morning screamed through the heavy drapes as I had no say about the progression of time.

Except for the dawn that claws at the eastern horizon, today feels no different than yesterday. It’s a sad state, really. I’ve been told that a world of promise sits on my doorstep yet when I look, the doorstep is scattered with leaves. What is life without false promises? I suppose that might be called contentment.

I would wager that you expected a different answer. I believe that happiness can be (and usually is) both fabricated and overblown. Contentment is my goal. I don’t think that is beyond hope.

Hello, Beth. How’s life? Well, this year really sucks, thank you. Two of my sisters died this year. As an odd twist of fate, I am now the oldest female in my family at age 38. Is it right that I wake each morning and thank the stars that I breathed through another night? The mega-Christians would say Hallelujah. I am only at the wtf stage.

My pets are doing well. My parrot, Sunny, is going through a peek-a-boo phase. Even in the middle of the night, when I get up to pee as most humans do, he huddles in his cage and mutters peek-a-boo. Dear Rosco, my dog, is slowing down. He sleeps most of the day and snuggles close whenever he can

Tell me about your autumn. I kind of missed mine since I couldn’t go back to Ohio a third time. The first two were for my sisters’ funeral. I think it would have been fun to attend the festival and laugh. My accountant vetoed the idea.

There isn’t anything poetic here. I’m just trying to write and reach out. 

What scares me the most is that a dear friend once wrote about the nightmarish blank page. I think I’m living it.

Even if you don’t make a habit of praying, I ask you to take a moment and offer strength to my father. He has buried two daughters within 3 months of each other. He is precious to me.

Love you, Daddy

The smell of new curtains


It came from the right side like God, or a deer, a

Migraine warning;
Chemotherapy strikes at any time.

Where am I going wrong?

Under community skies and red roofed buildings, immaculate
And unfinished,

Holding on for next week’s rent,
Even if you were alive,

I’d not have listened,

Missing a father to say what’s wrong
In his opinion,

Old enough how,
To hear sterner words in music,

To understand that the clinic serves Japanese-Americans and Kenyans alike,
On the dusty Main Street of the farming village,

The dusty, ochre-coloured Main Street covered,
With maize drying, and

Women slipping from bus-stop to bus-stop with children in their hair, that was

Paid for,
By a man with a plan – the clinic,

And mum’s words,
Soft and gentle and supportive,

And different from yours;

I can take it now daddy,
Where did I go wrong?

I can make things right now,
The deer came from the left.

And whilst hindsight works in accidents we do not see coming,
At least Cancer gives us time.


♦Photo♦ –

-short evocative poetry-