it was exhausting. 

overwhelming heat and crowds. 

would do it again. 

the river, not so blue yet comforting
seemed to call my name
I drove to investigate
curious as to what the Universe would share
or not divulge
maybe I simply needed the walk
   a grassy path, shared with butterflies
       bees
my mind, flustered due to an early morning
news I cannot control, the world and its quaking
I disdain my incessant need to research, explore the darkness
   what is beyond my control
listening
I settled upon a message
   a realization
what I most likely already knew
but similar to church, I had to go to receive

Now That the End Is Near

The once bare walls, now adorned with signs of my spirit,
Will be bare once again
Four years held here, and now the end is near.

Every laundry pile, every stack of books,
Each crystal placed with care
Will fall into silence.
Now the end is near.

Delicate altars built to honor and hold
Will dissolve,
Making room for a new season’s bloom.
Now the end is near.

The dim-lit living room,
Where Matt Maeson’s verses danced
And Taylor Swift’s voice filled the air, 
Where we twirled around to TV Girl
Will stiffen into stillness.
Now the end is near.

The bedroom, where we once worshipped each other,
Where life was created
Now folds inward
With each box packed full of memory.
A soul remembered,
A self once shattered.
But here I healed.
Here, I was reborn.
Now the end is near.

And yet
My new sunroom, a 70s fever dream,
Breathes the colors of beginning.
Here, gratitude floods in
For the space that once cradled me
When I could barely hold myself.

Now the beginning is here.

                                
                           s t i c k   a n d  s t o n e  p a i n t e d   o l i v e   l a v e n d e r  a n d 
                     e                                                                                                                             g
             n                                                                                                                                           o
      o                                                                                                                                                         l
 b                                                                                                                                                                  d

  outlasting horizon outliving all who gaze upon the bones of the earth from below or above

but you know this
and you smile anyways
sitting with feet touching cliff’s edge
a story, or is it a map?
held in your lap
as you press into clay
practised and firm lines
a design that unfolds
as the sun sets

Artwork: “Cliff painting”. Robert Arnold. Limited Edition Serigraph print 131/600. 

I worry
Yes, I worry
I worry

I lived through WWII
Safe in my backyard 
Safe in our Democracy 

Now must we begin 
Sewing our loves and hopes
Into our skirts and coats

Pack our suitcase 
With our heart’s work
To be rumaged through 

Can we find
that one thing
So valuable to buy time

What is money worth 
Does it buy freedom
Or greedom

How much is Democracy 
How much to buy back
Time?

Yes, I worry 

An octopus, shiny,
as if drenched in ocean brine–
looks at me from a vertical glass case,
once a fiery ball
formed into a giant bead of glass,
pulled and bent, constructed quickly
into 8 arms–lifting, dancing
silent.

Next to octopus, sea anemone–
floating, still, tiny periwinkle fingers, 
a crown, circling round,
caught in mid-sway.

So quiet, this room of glass–
jelly fish, sea slugs
iridescent orange blue pink
only sound waves of fluorescent light.

under

­a summary box for a horror series, and
fifteen links of
    DIY instructions,
    two rows of photos,
    plans,
    designs,
    supplies,
    guides,
    rentals,
    businesses with cozy names,

8 related search options,

    breweries with cool vibes,
    adventure park,
    nonprofit—

is the wikipedia link I seek:
what is a treehouse?

so quintessentially american,
so specific,
if you’re searching,
you surely already know what it means.

next time, try:
something specific

Shift into drive. North on 75:
the same asphalt throat
that swallowed your ancestor’s Ford
when the army coughed him out in ’42.

Back then, the rearview held
black lung and blackberry slopes;
now, it’s a dispensary billboard—
27 MILES—LEGAL RELIEF
glowing like a false moon.
You count exit signs like lotto numbers:
Toledo. Monroe.

Two parallel roads. One scar.

The state wants your bones cataloged
before it grants you anything.
Same as your ancestor’s:
crossing state lines to sell their hands
to another assembly line—

Show your papers, prove your need
while the old migration hums beneath your wheels.

At the counter, they swipe your ID—
Disabled? the budtender nods,
You get 10% off.
You almost laugh. And fill your cart.

Outside, crows heckle
from a power line.
They don’t know.
You grip the wheel.
Feel the old road
swallows your tires like swallowed
hope, this pilgrimage of fractures—

I’ve spent time searching for her,
this sprite of writing,
this lady of the lyric-lake,
this siren of synonyms and antonyms,
this paramour of the poets—
                                                    perhaps not for me,
a celibate of syllables and repartee.
She has her seductions:
the hint of light over the Sandias,
the layers of mesa-color,
the one bud that survives the heat of day.
I have met her in the cocktail-lounge
of our common laughter, the final rasps
of departing life, the revelation
of sacrifice (old Father Albert, cancer-
ravaged, admits his ignorance
of my troubles, but says, “I’m fasting
for you today,” and the muse winked.)
Will she visit again?                                 
                                    Perhaps I will see
her skirts flash around a dream-corner,
or her ghost around the edges of my eyes
before I rub away the narrative of the night.
Is the waiting worth it?  Will she deign
to call on me again as I sit with regrets
and resolutions?  Will she still want
to rest a hand on the hand that holds
this pen (or rather, taps this keyboard)
in the sliver of space                                  
                                    between life                                  
                                    and wonder?

How lovely you are, with yarn of each hue, size, texture, and origin.
How stunning, twisting and weaving into the fabric of stories told.
How bold, giving embroidered precision, arm-knit ambiguity. 
You are a tapestry: the ink, echo, word, meaning, identity.