dancing bones

she might tell you otherwise
but, her hobby
is collecting broken people.
i've watched her
take a man
with severed family ties
and stitch him seamlessly
back into the folds
and creases of his obligations.
observed her patiently working the puzzle
of someones fractured spirit
beginning with the edges
until all pieces interlock
and there are no empty spaces.
she takes what has been discarded, forgotten
or shamed
and becomes their mirror
so when they look at her
all they see is love
reflecting.

memory

when i was six years old
we had plans to go to the ice capades
with the neighbor up the street and her three daughters.

for weeks i skated through the house in my socks,
sliding across the kitchen floor,
arms arced, face upturned toward imaginary glory.

shortly before the event, our friend's grandmother
fell ill, and was hospitalized.
instead of, "only nine more days until the ice capades"
the familiar refrain was, "we'll see, dana. we'll see."

i kept anxious watch on her progress,
pestering my mother daily for "the good news".
it didn't come.

in typical taurean fashion,
i snorted and stomped and raged
"i wish she would hurry up and die, then."

as soon as i let the words loose, i felt my heart
start to crumble.
i even shocked myself with my selfishness.

i am still ashamed.

safe passage

on this friday,
nothing
was ever the same.

it almost was something
then, wasn't.

nothing. anymore. for always.

next to godliness

so we decided to skip church
one sunday, my high school sweetheart and i,
and drink coffee and eat sweet rolls with butter
at the dog pound, instead.

i never went to mass with him, again.

the trouble with being childless
is all that love has to go somewhere
i've developed an unnatural attachment
to my cat
i've actually cried when leaving her
sun glittering in green green eyes
when she asks me with those eyes
to stay.

day~ly routine

practical methodical
i see myself, this way
early to bed early to rise
dawn the grace of each new day

the rooster crows
in first slivers of light
six cats emerge
from cloak of night

start the coffee
feed the pride
throw wide the door
and step outside

inhale deeply
give thanks and praise
blessed is she
of simple ways.

i went kayaking today down the nehalem river,
seduced by yesterday's premature warmth
and the company of two fine women.
we put in at aldervale, sunshine on our backs
as we scooted and hitched
down the boat ramp into high tide.
dip glide dip glide dip glide
i imagined we looked like a painting,
part of a pastoral scene dotted with bovine and daffodils
until the pungent, "dairy~air" we're famous for
hit my nostils.
"entering the cow canal" chirped lindy.
i laughed.
"seriously." she said.
"we wouldn't want to swim in this part of the river.
all things cow make their way into these waters!"
all things cow.
which got me thinking about india and the river ganges.
about purification. about faith.
about how millions of people have stood side by side in the filthy water and walked away feeling cleansed.

this is my river.
where all things cow all things sacred all things possible flow.

you've seen her, before.
That Woman.
heard the whispers, the small town gossip.
over decaf skinny lattes and almond biscotti
you sneak a glance her way, and try hard not to breathe. dirty socks hang limp around swollen ankles, is she wearing two skirts? and what is she doing in here?
her smell is mossy and damp, like deep forest. there are
generations of dirt under her fingernails, untold stories behind cloudy eyes.

you just know she knows something you don't.
and as hard as you try to pity her lack.
you know you're the one who's missing.

mirage

the arch cape tunnel on highway 101 in oregon
heralds your entrance into the tiny, coastal community of the same name
but, my mother and i have found it is only there on days
when conversation between us is lagging.

Love Lies Bleating
(thank you, reginald dwight)

when i was a child, i wore shoes on my hands and crawled around the floor on all fours.
clip clop clip clop.
goaty was the name, saving lives was the game.
saint frances of the neverworld,
my purpose was search and rescue.
find the lost
protect the weak
love the ugly.
clippity clop! clippity clop!
throw in a head toss and a snort for good measure.
strange embodiment for a little girl,
a cloven hooved masculine energy;
i like to think i was channeling pan--
genus capra,
or faunus, as the romans would say.
stubborn goaty,
loving in your unruly, goatish fashion,
how could anything as sure-footed as a goat be as clumsy as you?

invitation only

when i was sixteen i worked at The Grand Union
as a cashier after school and weekends.
double time on holidays.
one of the first "gourmet" groceries of the area
it catered to a specialized crowd.
People Who Gave Dinner Parties. soap opera actresses. retired vaudvillians.
artists who didn't starve.
i stood there in red and white polyester
and weighed and bagged and toted.
i rang up exotic fruits from islands i'd never been, gnarled roots with the dust of africa still clinging,
slivers of portugese saffron in delicate, glass jars.
i did my homework.
i studied the geography of produce, learned the best cuts of meat, discovered the alchemy between bittersweet chocolate and wine.
and when the customer left through the sliding glass doors home, to family dinner, i never felt more alone.

the smell of smoked cheese on sundays still makes me cry.

tuesday's child

i wanted to name you stormy, she told me
born into the first thunderstorm of spring on the cusp of something hotter. someone bolder. somewhere between.
while i lay hollowed out carving you from from dreams.

alice and the birds

she takes them in the dark

birds of a feather

black silk of fur wing and night

leaving them bedside

i fly in my dreams

she didn't like to think of herself that way. nakedly. exposed like moonlight. didn't like to put herself through the interrogation. under a naked bulb. backlit with moonbeams. preferred not to ask herself the hard questions. where words like intent momentum personal responsibility glared under a spotlight of moons questions like why hadn't she married? where were her children? what had she done with her life that mattered?

so now, she makes preparations. she has taught herself to eat. to hunt gather prepare serve. she eats, alone.


she didn't like to think about what might happen if she set the words free. let the words gush spout geyser regurgitate. she might drown in ugly.

she has forgotten. no longer her self she is lost in herself. too much need.
she starts to bleed.

I love thee in each of one thousand smiles I give to strangers
I love thee in fleeting moments of courage when I’m face to face with danger

I love thee in the split second before the set of the sun and moon on the rise
I love thee in silence where all that needs voice can be read in my eyes

I love thee in moments made rare by Gods’s grace
I love thee the proof can be found on my face

I love thee with every hello and another goodbye
I love thee with my life , I am the question, you are the why.


I love thee. Valerie. My history.

what of myself dare i offer you, lover
may i profess secrets i doth tell no other?
or is distance and mystery what you so desire
to fan the licks and flames of our hidden fire?

A friend of mine asked if I’d write someone else’s words of wisdom in my own hand and gift it to her for her birthday. The birthday came and went. It didn’t get done. I’m writing this instead.

Speak from the heart not from the head. That means breathe. Listen. Listen to your breath. Can you hear your heart? Mine tells me to give more take less. don’t take no for an answer. be the answer to my own prayers . Then answer someone else’s. my heart says no boundaries when it comes to compassion and strict borders when it comes to judgment. It reminds me to walk a mile in someone else’s moccasins , especially if they don’t fit. I hear my heart singing for truth and celebrating diversity.. I hear it quietly accepting my own limitations and those of others and forgiving us, all. My heart rejoices with the innocent and reveres the wisdom of my elders. It shouts encouragement and promises deliverance. It whispers yes. Make love. Give love. Be love. My heart reminds me to appreciate today, this moment, each beat a gift.

I hear it whisper yes. And sometimes I hear it breaking.

whole woman seeks whole man
to build me a driftwood four-poster bed

then tie me up to it and discover the pearl
hidden somewhere between my feet and my head

lick salt from my body taste tears mixed with sweat
we can tell people the ocean is the reason we met

whole woman seeks whole man
who is drawn to the sea
who can ride out the tides
of a lunatic like me