Thursday, June 4, 2015


the foreign ghost of it
lingers in sound;
the clock of a cathedral
chiming its two syllables
in the afternoon,
the staccato of heels
turning along a street
metallic in rain-washed stone,
the tremble of leaves
after the collared dove
has flown the lilac bush,
the settling of  pine boards
where my luggage sat
nebulae'd in lace
(the Bohemian air
 of Vuitton)
as I  prepared to leave
and meet you in New York.
This poem is all about the sound connotations of "farewell". The word ,itself, is syllabicly lyrical, and what lingers behind once the initial "Farewell" is initiated is the echo, the ghost of it that disperses into familiar things associate with the place and activity of the person who left. In this case, a woman leaving behind an old European city and going back to New York to meet someone, we assume a boyfriend or lover. The essences of her linger in the resonance of how she left and what happened before, and now what haunts afterward

The Night The Lights Go Out In The High Desert

Late evening
and the power whines. The dead pan hum
of the house becomes unchorused.
We head outside
to see which homes still have light.
The street lamps have dimmed
into darkness claimed by the moon
flashing her own floodlight on the street.
Some  birds rustle in the leaves
restless from a disturbance
they can sense but not assimilate.
The chained terriers yelp madly
in their mangy fur. The neighbor's fence
has several  palings missing. Others stand
upright  as we pass, long shadows between
old  standin stones
searching with our torch
for the source of failure. For what
has stepped in to steal the force
that makes all things  plugged in
gospel. For what has come
to  let stars,  fire and storytelling
possess the next hours --
our lips a stoop
for words coming back
hesitant but remembered.


Thursday, May 28, 2015

Addressing The Character

If she wishes to write well she will have to become someone....

                                                                                                      Barry Lopez

I will open the story

through your eyes

when I understand  your soul.


When I have prayed

with your beads,

broken bread with your dreams

in the evening light,


taken shelter

under the roof of your silence

only to find

leaks and lesions,

the tarnished silver

of a moon looming through.

Maiden, mother , crone

woman, wife, mistress --


all of  them, of you

possessed by it -- the powerless 

phase of becoming


slipping through the ruin

of this mortal

condition -- perhaps unleashing

the shadow self.

And there, then -- I unlatch  

 the door, disrobe the notebook

of its immaculate leaf

and let you in,

soiled and shimmering.
Beautifully provocative art-work is by artist, Florian Nicolle.


Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Snakes Used To Have Ankles


have concurred
that ancient snakes
had small hands
ankles, toes.

amphorae storing

and those
for grasping.
I asked my husband
a scientist
as well.

The storm light
( he said)
through which you slid
into my life.

Your own grip
lineaged from
their sleight of limb

tempting me
to taste a poem.

A swan's egg
that hatched
Helen of Troy.

An onion
Sylvia peeled,
her thumb print
Those blue plums
ripe and cool
Carlos ate.

The infinitude
of salt

Pablo said
would sing
yes sing;

but I never heard
I sparkled some
on an artichoke

stripping it
scale by scale
and felt a voice
shed metaphor.

Low and languid,
girthed in subtlety,
those  green whorls
of lotus

 sang, My Love,
sang  as solely yours!

This poem was inspired by a news article on line with the same title. It showcased a comprehensive study that scientists have done on the movement, bone structure and body composition of Jurassic snakes. And yes, they concluded they had tiny limbs and evolved on land rather than water. So this idea expanded into the idea of a female poet who discusses this finding with her scientist husband. He is bemused and admits that she probably, as a seductress and writer, inherited her "grip" on him from those mysterious and almost mythical creatures; thus tempting him, even leading him to taste the splendor of a poem. Something that is  unscientific and at times defies logic and reason. The allusions here range from  Virgil (The Aeneid )  to Sylvia Plath to William Carlos Williams and Pablo Neruda.


Thursday, May 14, 2015


 Creativity should always be a form of prayer.
                                                             Ben Okri

The moment unhooks her corset of wind
and leaves its blue bells dangling
in still air. Her body becomes  light
stretching through the trees
and beneath  stream water absorbing
the story that  takes shape
from whatever shadow
enters the scene, whatever scent
breathes through the ribs
of bulrush or willow, whatever spirit
webs briar and broken rock.
Disrobed and radiant, the moment
settles into her subtle craft -- waiting
for a voice, a hand and quill
to turn the greenwood's flesh
into words. A prayer, a song --
an act of creation.


It's become a bowl of dirt

cracking into patterns

seen on Waterford crystal

but no fluidity --  only tumbleweed

blown across the lake

like a cage skirt

discarded yet belonging

to someone glimpsed beyond

the Palo Verde trees,

light shifting from a female shape

to breathless cloud. Some woman

who first  appeared -- retracing her steps

from older days, (the homesteader's plot)

and then gusts into parched silt.

The asthma of drought.
To me, the mystery of story telling is also what is revealed to us through the natural occurrence of things: dreams that spontaneously enter our subconscious or the landscape that enters us physically and spiritually with its wind, stillness, eerie light and smell, dust, water, and shadows; its overall feeling of loss and want. If we're open to the reception of these things, our imagination will ingest what comes and in some way, the story will be disclosed.

When I came to California, the high desert, I felt a certain kinship with the dry earth, the Joshua trees, the constant wind and  stark light. It infused me with its spirit; and now some of those elements appear again and again in my writing. The landscape's story keeps unfolding and beckoning. And though I have no known ancestral connection to this place, I feel a kinship with its unseen spirits and ancestors.

Even now when I look at a reservoir, completely dried up, but surrounded by Palo Verde trees and that "certain slant" of glare or ghostly light, I sense a presence, a story of someone who was there centuries before, someone who still haunts the place searching for something lost or seeking to relay some kind of message, especially during this historic drought. In the dust, there is still breath, something/someone that is both dead and vital someone that once was flesh but now spirit.


Wednesday, May 13, 2015


They had to go down deep into the seeds of time, into the dreams of their people, into the unconscious, into the uncharted fears, and bring shapes and moods back up into the light.
                                                                                        Ben Okri
I come back at dawn
blue and spiked in shadows.
My sister, the ancient  palm
giving her leaf -- in outline
to the duskened light.
I come back from stories
told by  bone and feather,
stars and lightning,
hand-sewn hides
bleached and beaded,
caw and moan
bellow and whisper
storm water and stillness.
I come back to you
from a tribal place, a cloud
that does not bear rain
but memory. A sea gull
glides within me. He's your heart
cast from a dream
wanting to bring home
this spirit of words,
this maiden tongue
of first things known,
of syllables grown
from seed into song.

Note -- The beautiful painting is by artist, Susan Seddons Boulet.