Life 101
i. see her there that wide open tree out my window the one with gray arm branches, no leaves, and peeling bark? holding divine moss in perfectly twisted hands? the one that all the flickers love? I am breaking, she says, just breaking. ii. Here in this valley between...
Refugees
Since the inauguration two weeks ago, I've been having nightmares. I was too freaked out to share them, until I read Sherman Alexie's new poem Autopsy about his dream that his passport was bleeding. Thank you, master poet. For sharing your pain. I woke up the other...
And I Rise
Here in our world, which is cold and dark at the moment, January just became Write a Poem for Friends Month. So all my posts this month will be poems I write for friends. This one is for my friend Danyale Thomas Ross. I considered her a friend for many months before I...
The Invitation
I love it when the wind strolls in and my meadow friends dance and bow. Love it when waves rush to crash across my ocean where the wide beach smiles up where the eagles rest silent on the wind above etch greetings sky to horizon down to me all the way home: carried...
The Apple Tree Who Brought Enough
Dancing in the breeze the tree is quiet and self-contained. Well, self-contained except for the sun the soil, the birds butterflies and bees rain and wind Daniel and me pruning away dead and crossing branches inviting more sun in to her center lending her our...
When Will I Trust Myself?
Every time. Every single time I doubt my intuition compromise what I need shove aside my body's warnings bow before convention elevate kindness too far above truth allow another's needs, or society's, to entirely drown my own the world goes sideways, fast I become...
The Sun at Your House
Warm sun pools and shines more brightly in your home Why is that? worn beckoning rugs and life-soft chairs a sentinel portrait rich green and red dirt-colored artifacts nestled within white walls of recent pain. Witness dancing dust across sunbeams upstairs, the bird...
Artist Statement
Poetry isn't what I was taught in middle school: rules and stilted contained lines written by long-dead rich old white dudes? Bleh. (I am not my friend Knox who makes old white guys so sexy.) Poetry is living your artist statement. Whether that means saying yes to the...
Security
Security /səˈkyo͝orədē/ noun Weapons, walls, blame, and technology are not security. For me security is an open space within. Security is the freedom to be a gentle sprite at rest and moving among ever-shifting hearts. Cross-generational laughter. Borrowing others’...
Turning the Wheel
for Lynne 1. There is a voice that says “You don’t belong here.” that says “Your voice is not welcome here.” that says “This is my home. Not yours. Get out.” 2. Here is another voice that calls “Bullshit” on the first voice that urges “Fight” urges “Protest”...
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