i walk ~ my feet feel quaked earth
i talk ~ my words resound
i look ~ my eyes blessed to see
many miracles i witness around me

i want to go slow ~ savor the time
feel as my soul feels sublime
erase all the have to’s with want to’s & fun
slow the pace savor the race see thru the chase

to be able to look & able to see
miracles metamorphosing amidst such majesty
hear the trees breathe and children deeply giggle
even watch miss caterpillar perfect her bossa nova wiggle

aaahh to sing and dance in a little purple tutu
draw pictures with chalk on the sidewalk for you
go out for a cup ~ sit in a café for hours
doodling, journaling, conjuring all my creative powers

swear off technology for just one day
listen to my body beats and what they have to say
write a good old-fashioned letter to a dear friend far away
recount the way i used to play when pray was part of my day

i breathe and say, “i’m thankful” for all Milagros given me
to play a piano duet in Central Park ~ bring smiles so easily
a Filipino healer’s hand removed a worrisome lump
Ho’o’pono’pono’s forgiveness chant erased a painful slump

freeway steals soul’s pace to absorb a sacred view
breathe in ~ breathe out ~ each breath ~ an oxygenated renew
no handheld device demanding possession of our soul
go slow ~ breathe in ~ breathe out ~ this our sacred goal

An interesting
idea, massages on wheels —
Does he have candy?

Inspired by my friend, Austin B.

It’s a gambit to get to know people.
We roll, we wait, we see, and think
Will you like me? Will we get along,
pair planted in stardust, platonic soulmates
in a desolate land enclosed between the ribcage
and constant beating to find
a friend.

Funny little word that, friend. It implies it,
the end, as if knowing is always dangerous.
It all eventually leads to heartbreak.
Either death, or worse, disconnection and disassociation
because we rolled and landed on snake eyes
difference can be the killer and creator
of the dividing line.

And yet, when I see in me what I see in you,
and kindred souls align in a matter of chance,
oh, what a life it is worth living, having known
and been known by someone with different eyes than you.
They see what you are blind to
and fill your cup with all their knowings,
the ichor of their passion, making you feel
alive again.

Passerby on the street. Eyes stop behind shop’s stained glass.
An object of loving obsession sits plainly in the daylight’s gleam.
Bell chime, bought and asked to be wrapped with care.
“Is this a gift?” No hesitation to affirm. “That’s nice of you.”
A chuckle because there’s irony there,
what knows and loves, knows and loves.
Fond smile reaches lips,
“I’m just lucky to have friends to know.”

(714)               childhood area code unknown to me
                        that first call home   
                        on my dorm room landline
                        a guessing game

682-                 sole hometownprefix
                        no guessing needed

3273                comforting pattern
                        2 brothers, 2 sisters
                        3 girls total
                        7 member nuclear family 

(602), (480)    new state, new life
                        exploding population,
                        new area code

941-                 odd and even,
                        up and down,
                        navigating marriage,
                        motherhood, career change 

2876               counting down
                        to two college grads
                        to empty nest
                        to enjoying our adults, our grandchildren, our sons in law

2802               can’t escape the 28
                        school district employee ID
                        my 20-year companion

85281,            35 years of increasing urban density
85288              mandates a new zip code
                        another change,
                        another adaptation,

                        life.

The iconic scene from Twister,
the cow getting blown around,
missing our protagonists and 
landing, well we never find
out where. Can bet there are 
some broken bovine bones involved.

They say you can fluctuate two pounds
during a day, depending on when
you’ve eaten, what your activity
level is. I have tested this theory
with our bathroom scale, going between
whether it hates me or it really hates me.

There’s nothing pinning me to the ground
except gravity. I like a wide open sky
and rolling hills, have even went driving
in the mountains of Colorado to be
that much closer. I have a fear of heights 
if I look down, but not up and out.

I wonder if I lose weight, if I’m 
more likely to be taken by tornadoes.
I might want those extra two pounds
then, or maybe, if I’m sucked up,
I can appreciate the view more than a cow
until my weight comes back, the sky

no longer accepting me.

Late summer, and, although it’s night
and the farmhouse is empty of children,

it’s not quiet and the air grows hotter
with all the windows I shut to muffle

the bellowing of cows to their calves
who are calling to their mamas

now separated by fences for weaning
but close enough to sense in adjacent fields.

I know not all make good mothers,
sometimes a cow will birth a calf

and walk away
or forget one in a great field

and go grazing with her slow-moving herd,
but these will not sleep, nor will I,

until this unnatural season ends.
If I opened a window,

opened my mouth, I could
join their mourning

out of empathy or instinct,
or both, I don’t know.

As I sit down

with my journal

a cream-colored notebook

with tiny strawberries

all over it

I feel

that same peculiar feeling

creeping in

when I pick up

my pen

and my journal.

I open

the worn pages

to a blank space

while that peculiar feeling

rises

from my stomach

to my throat.

Yet

I am silent.

All you can hear

in the house

is the sound

of my pen

scratching the paper

as I write.

It’s warm.

It’s exciting

to see what words

pour out of me.

I never know.

It’s a mystery.

The pressure

boiling inside

releases smoke

as I write.

I quiet

my inner critic

and trust

my creative voice.

I read

the stranger

who lives

inside me.

Each word

heals a part of me

that I can’t see.

I was born a poet,

and a poet

is what

I will be.

Technically, it is hotter within me
than in this air that wraps my sweating skin,
but the margin is slight,
and the sun assails every attempt
at homeostasis.

A body is a meat sack filled
with thermostats, or so I’m told.
All day, my flesh measures
heat, hunger, need,
toggles this or that
toward some hoped for
equilibrium.

Scientists say it might be
this uncertainty, the very volatility
of our world, the need
for some safe return to zero, the fact
that we never stay at zero—

It might be this
that gives rise to feelings,
sentience,
the conscious mind.

I think,
but first I feel,
I thirst,
I overheat.
It is so fucking hot today,
therefore I am.

I haven’t decided which scares me more, 
Cars or men. 
So many vehicles on the roads these days are so tall, 
I call them pedestrian killers. 
Not all cars, but you know the type
The hood comes up to my shoulder, 
Which is saying something, because I am six feet tall. 
You’re more likely to die thanks to those guys
Because you won’t roll over the top like you might a sedan.
Cars, though, are predictable. 
Every day I can pick out who will run the red, 
Who will slip right on through when I have the right of way, 
Who will be aggressive with me. 
Men too are predictable, but volatile. 
When I leave my house for work I know there will be cars, 
After all, the city is built for them. 
The city too is built for men, but their access knows no bounds. 
I cross eastward on my way home
And a car almost runs me down.
My crosswalk theatrics ensue and a window rolls down, 
Exposing a man who calls, “I’m sorry, baby.” 
I stomp past, flip him off and wait to see if this act will cost me.
“Fuck you too then you big ass bitch.”
Relief rushes as I realize I got away with it,
I get to walk away this time.
So, I guess, if I had to say which is worse,
Being a woman or a pedestrian, let’s just say
I’d choose the car every time.

Silence blankets
the 19th Century homes
on this gentrified street
that once hovered
on the brink of decay.
Summer’s dusk falls
and the city’s heart settles
into evening’s routine:
the preprandial drink,
child’s report of school,
six o’clock news, dinner
from the Aga, microwave
or nearest deli. 

An older woman walks
a wolfhound in the park,
pauses for a deposit,
picks up the excrement,
while three pugs frolic
through their nightly outing
and a passing Mercedes
tootles a greeting.

No gangs run in this area,
no graffiti adorn the walls.
The stench of garbage
or urine does not offend,
but a darkness emerges
when babies sleep
and screens flicker:
a drunken stumble,
cry, thud; hands grope
for satisfaction that is taboo;
a belt becomes a whip or noose;
a fist flies, perhaps a bullet,
and blood splatters.