In this version of me,
                                                                                              I’ve planted and tend a garden 
                                                                                                   in neat rows clear of weeds.
                                                                                                  Leaning into a tomato plant,
                                                                                            I pluck a cherry one and pop it,
                                                                                                     sun-warm, into my mouth.
                                                                                          My hand smells aromatic, green.
                                                                                                                          In this version, 
                                                                                                  my daughter isn’t telling me
                                                                                                     that while she was outside
                                                                                                    she watered my tomatoes–
                                                                                                           the ones the actual me
                                                                                           keeps saying she wants to plant
                                                                                                  even though it’s nearly July.
                                                                                                   But, my daughter must see
                                                                                                                      the whole of me.  
                                                                                                   She conjures my daydream
                                                                                                      from my 5-gallon buckets
                                                                                            of cucumber and squash vines,
                                                                                      waters my wishes with her surety.

she reached for the cord
fingers coursing with lightning
as she pulled the plug

Escape: a machine built with desperate hands to runaway through time, location, and space. Where shall you go? To which time shall you flee? The oppression of your current dimension weighs heavy like a blue whale falling after the water suddenly disappears. The splat something of that you’ve never heard. Where, oh where, shall you land? Which era shall you choose? That miniscule period of history where women were treated as equals? That time where war didn’t exist? Or the time where humans worshipped the Earth and acted solely as stewards in her interest? Gods with money slice off your fingernails then proclaim it a miracle when they sell you the cure. Taxes spend our youth. Where exactly is it that you wish to rush off to like a couple of teenagers eloping? That one time, location, and space where billionaires couldn’t buy and stock an island with children…

Force your flowers to fuck by proxy,
secure a prolific harvest for my reaping,
plentiful zucchini, straight neck squash.
I break my morals by playing god,
I play god by becoming an animal.
I am a honey bee on your wilting lip, 
petals yield and enter. I’m Cupid, detached.
I fake my place in the natural cycle, favoring
my benefit alone. You fruit for my taking.

Accepting, allowing
Flowing down river
Listening from within

Life experience, always changing
Flowing, down river
What to pick up along the way
What to let go

We have lived the past
Through rapids, calm waters
Torrents and tranquil streams
Flowing down river

Climb out, stand free, shake it off
Stop and look back
Look forward to what may be
Lessons from immersion
Teach a deeper knowing
Flowing down the river 

I took the lamp & walked ~ Teilhard de Chardin my accompaniment
& assuming an incredible lightness of being my human burdens transferred to Spirit

Leaving zones of everyday occupations & relationships I embarked upon
one of my darkest walks

The deep abyss whence my power of action emanates fueled a serious decision . . . whether or not to remove Mom’s feeding tube & bring her home
or have the hospital provide morphine euthanasia

this poem is both

a wave and a particle
seen and heard
virtual and IRL
analog and digital

according to the circumstances

Words are often used,
sometimes incorrectly,
stripped of their use,
purpose, and weight

There are words that I use
I like to think I’m right
Despite their integrity in my use
Quantity often piles,
lightening their impact

Fantastic!
I say as I complete
a mundane task

Beautiful!
I declare in the face
of something plain

Throw that anywhere!
I joke as I drop
an innocent object

I make myself laugh
and that is the entire point
but I do at times wish
that my words still carried
some sense of novelty or wit

even through rain 
birds continue 
to sing

The morning mist still hugged the pines,
Like old ghosts dressed in silver lines.
The whippoorwill had just gone still,
As dawn climbed slow above the hill.

I turned the key, the engine spoke,
Its thunder stirred the sleeping oak.
The gravel danced beneath each tire—
A mountain horse made out of fire.

Up old coal roads long left behind,
Where moss has claimed what men once mined,
Through rhododendron thick and green,
Past places few have ever seen.

The creeks laughed hard beneath the wheels,
Splashing boots with mountain zeal.
Each muddy hole, each rocky grade,
A challenge that the ridges made.

The wind would steal my very breath,
Yet carried scents of pine and death—
Old chestnut logs, wild laurel bloom,
And stories whispered through the gloom.

A hawk wheeled high above the ridge,
While deer slipped quiet through the sedge.
A fox looked up with amber eyes,
Then vanished like Appalachian lies.

The trail grew narrow, steep, and wild,
Untouched since I was but a child.
Its ruts were carved by storms and years,
By coal trucks, hunters, hope, and tears.

Atop the mountain I cut the motor.
Silence came a little slower.
No traffic hummed, no sirens cried—
Just heaven spread from side to side.

The valleys folded soft below,
Their rivers winding deep and slow.
Church steeples pierced the morning haze,
Smoke curled through hollers old with age.

I thought about the ones before,
Who walked these ridges, poor but sure.
With axes sharp and faith held tight,
They carved their days from mountain light.

Though engines now replace the mule,
The mountain keeps its ancient rule:
Respect the trail, respect the land,
And leave no scar from human hand.

So when the setting sun burns red
And paints the clouds like embers spread,
I’ll ride once more where wild things stay,
Until the mountains call one day.

For every trail’s another hymn,
Where earth and sky meet at the rim.
And every mile my tires have known
Has made these ancient hills my home.