we are an amused
whisper of curled
consciousness,
the universe extended
out on a
boring day.

raspberry bramble life
                                           



7 days = 7 million years
time is relative.

iced cubes in homemade
     lemonade.

it is the quick shift
   made in the quiet
      time of waiting;

that makes all the difference.

if we can look into
the stars and see the
universe and the meaning
behind the meaning.
behind the millennial twinkle.

we would face the destruction
with determination

          - it is a good day to die -

and he leaves a quiet poem behind,

hidden in the reeds.

and i burn my wedding dresses.

the mint is sweet and wild,
i can see its smoky soul.

don't let the world break you,


home is the place where we
hold each other.

the mansion has tumbled,
oh my love, we were just little birds.

i have always been floating,
then i felt you grow in my throat.

you taught me to speak.
you taught me how to whisper.






there is the pluck, pluck

42.5

11.11 x 16


.a playlist for the age.


and in the beginning there were corn fields, and wide days ~ empty and waiting to be filled with imagination and dreaming ~

thistles in the valley ~
honey bee throne and my voice is
trapped in the sweetness.

point me, directions are impossible
to discern, maps printed on whispers,
jotted on my sweaty palm,
wrapped in a windy day.

you are my double,
                                double rainbow.

i am the meme, that makes no sense.

the butterfly has been cut out of my throat.

i lost it,

i lost it because,
until the very end,

i was too afraid to use it.

so now,

i am
               butterfly ghost.

i am the cocoon dreaming.

full moon behind the black cloud night.

dancing with spiders on the back porch,
the screen torn by cat claw.
hushed, back-bend in the crescendo of
piano note and off-rhyme.

it will be a long time before the next
new song.

there are too many old tunes that cry out
to be remembered.

remember.

the day is hot, burning my hair to a color
beyond blond, beyond white.
the grass, a sea of emerald,
sheltering toads, red clover,
broken glass and prickly pears.

a brown, potato river.
runs beneath the scene.
scenting the air with earth
creating
my non-stop, off-beat sensibility.

bare feet, skipping and dancing,
slipping into the long-ago time.

she comes out, a goddess,
brown braids, growing down
and down again.

only she can turn the rusty, red spigot.
only she can make the rain fall on a blue
sky day.  laughing, throwing tan arms
into the air, we circle round and round.

we are thankful for the real, pretend rain.

we open our mouths and drink in the dream.

My daughter is at play rehearsal.  My husband is out running errands with his daughter - cracked phones surrendered and clean, clear replacements being sought.  My friends have just left and Sonos is still strumming quietly just beneath the surface of the quiet, still air.  Wachi is digging in one of the closets, running to hide when he knocks this thing or that to the floor.  The granite is covered with china plates strewn with cutie peels and grape stems, small ceramic bowls brimming with fresh cut lemons and gold-rimmed glasses, half-full but mostly empty.  The daffodils purchased over the frigid weekend, are blooming and filling the air with the musky, sex-soaked promise of the spring that is coming.

My list for planning out the 'happiness year' lays still and quiet on the dinner table (aka the art table).  My friends are shaping it with me, our wildest dreams, our deepest yearnings spilling out in typed print and jotted notes and sketchy doodles.  I draw the curtains closed so the passers by, on the road just down the hill, can't look in and see.

I take down a quote, I have copied and pasted ~ printed and carefully cut out ~ to my daughter's room and I lay it on her pillow.  I catch my breath.  Laying it on the pillow her grandma gave her two Christmases ago.  The pillow too expensive for a young girl, the silk pillow-cover swallowed in black night sky, stellar nurseries, dark matter, nebulas, ancient stars, black holes ~ I catch my breath.

"I have been absolutely terrified, every moment of my life ~ and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do."
                                                                                                                                - Georgia O'Keeffe


And last year was the year of the embrace and the release.

This is the year of the re-imagined life.  5 generations, distilled into 2.

It is named and it is unfolding.





Dedicated with love to my daughter, who in all things is my teacher.  To my husband, who is in all things is my supporter.  To my friends, who in all things are my laughter.

my hair smells like raspberries and blackberries
and rosemary wine.

so many wrecks, the moon has gone of her track.

i am spell-bound, i want to say, "STOP".

but i just watch the backlash,
the very last crash.
it was a smash book poem.
it was the last mangled word.

she forgot, she couldn't remember . . .
she forgot, she couldn't walk.

she forgot, but now she can look back,

and she knows.

she fell before she flew away.

and where have they gone?

i gave birth to the ocean,
so take me back to her.
take me back to her.

i don't know,
but i am the liquid movement.

there are shadows on the shelf.

grandma spider will clean them away,

whisper them away as she wraps them in webs.

the sage wind blows, caught in crescent moon.
she is veiled, she is quiet in the candle light.

my husband stokes the fire and turns my
face towards the sunlight sparkling on the waves.

be warm in your heart, be young in your hope.
we are mortal and we are happy,

so be it and so it is.

and goodbye 2015, my sweet and sad year

all loss, leading up to you
has been but a whisper

sometimes we mourn, and it is okay.

you can be afraid.

i can be afraid.

we have been loved.

we have been loved and it is enough to for a life time.

breathe.