i miss the parts of me
that appear to have gone
missing
unnamed pieces agree
yet what i’ve lost i keep
forgetting
hollowed spaces dwell where
visions of vibrance danced
ignorantly
altered anatomy bears
muscle memory flex
indignantly
strength has grown where it must
bliss exchanged for wary
inclinations
articulation hushed
unnamed nastalgia now
beyond
recognition
Juneteenth is a National Holiday
It’s a great time to
Celebrate, learn, and have fun
Learn from the past
Celebrate the present
Improve the future
We stand on our forefathers
And future generations will stand on ours
Juneteenth is a National Holiday
Let’s have a great time
Celebrate, learn, and have fun
From my Utah porch—
dry wind sighing through sage and juniper—
I close my eyesand drift back to Sierra Vista,
to the summer storms of Fort Huachuca,
where I once thought I’d spend my days,
where I still walk, sometimes,
when sleep lets me wander.
The desert there is lush in memory—
palms shivering above emerald lawns,
monsoon clouds tumbling in
to wring the sun from the Mule Mountains,
softening every hard edge
with the promise of rain.
I remember mesquite
clinging to the canyons,
roots digging deep as longing,
sunlight filtering down
through cottonwood leaves—
all golden syllables and green undertones
in the half-light of memory.
If I am lucky in these dreams,
I return to Ramsey or Carr Canyon,
stand in the cool hush of shade
and watch hummingbirds—emerald, ruby-throated—
dart among the agave and lupine,
their wings whirring the air
into a prayer I never quite finish.
There are always the big bird spiders—
midnight black, slow as old regrets—
crossing the red earth
with all the shyness I know too well.
No poison, just presence,
just misunderstood gentleness
in a world too quick to judge.
But the sweetest part of my dreaming
is not the rain, nor the shimmer of hummingbird wings—
it is Nancy, my bright-eyed Nancy,
beside me in the shade,
her laughter rising above the chorus of cicadas,
our children—still small then—
racing ahead through the grass,
shouting at the first drops of rain,
gathering stones and memoriesby the handful.
For four beautiful years
the world was perfect—
just the four of us,
the hush of a canyon,
the promise of summer storms,
Nancy’s hand in mine
and the children’s laughter echoing off
mountains green with hope.
Now in Utah,
the world is dust and pale blue sky—
a far cry from those mountains
where rain fell like forgiveness,
where even the wind smelled green.
Yet some mornings,
when the clouds bunch over the Wasatch,
I taste that Arizona thunder on the air,
feel the weight of all I wanted—
lushness, wild mercy,
the gift of belonging
in a place, in a family,
in a moment that could not last.
Now Fort Huachuca lives
where longing lingers—
in the slow drift of clouds across Utah,
in the flash of a bird at the feeder,
in dreams that carry me
back to that mountain-framed promise
of green,of laughter,
of love still echoing
long after summer storms have gone.
after Emily Dickinson
Chassis:
A four-leaf clover,
a bluebird in flight
omens from realms
unseen by mortal sight.
A breath of light
when weariness weighs,
a hush of healing
in fevered days.
Threads of the divine
woven in silence
angelic pulses,
shifts in frequency,
the shimmer of feathers
left like breadcrumbs on the path.
A penny glints in dusted gold
did you feel the nudge?
Did the veil grow thin?
Have you found the message
etched in wind,
carried in dream,
resting at the water’s edge?
Faith
the quiet flame
that guides us through
the shadows and the stars.
Have you found yours?
Perhaps…
a feather by a creek
was the answer all along.
the voice
who spoke strange words
from my mouth
was the god of clicks
stops howls and hisses
still nest nearby
when I come back in a year
I will get to see their steep wing span
and bright white heads
joining me in my return
––a loose haiku, after “In Kyoto…” by Bashō
even in Lexington
glimpsing cemetery blossoms
i long for Lexington
foals wobble
amidst green pastures
spring beckons
chill in the air
frost settles under our skin
soon––rain, flowers, summer
to become myself
must I give myself away
pour myself into what I do
a poem, a painting, some strange brew
built to hold messages, sparks, or a notion
stamped upon a grain of sand or flooding all the ocean
It is said that in releasing blood of my veins,
and marrow from bones that this will make the losses gains
though making me vulnerable exposed as wet clay
I will to go uncharted — becoming no other way
