Between Santa Fe and Albuquerque
dust and smoke litter the air
into brownness
soft yellow hues where sunlight is lost
distant fires prompted in wind
rush down weedy arroyos
half size tumbleweeds scurry over asphalt
singed leaves separated from branches
form wind cones in the parking lot
joined by cottonwood fluff
if the soft chaos had been after a pillow fight
there would have been ghosts of laughter
take a deep breath
the scents of spring do linger
for now
Yearning
This morning I dipped my fingers into the dirt
Twice I reached into the soil
Once it was crumbly, hard, and rough
my fingers scraped at the surface
moved little
rough rocks buried halfway stuck like dimes in concrete
Then, under a layer of fallen juniper berries and dried up leaf ends
dirt like sand
textured nearly as dust
dry as dunes
dirt I could move
dirt without the property of embracing itself
Where is the mycelium bound ground
musky dark soil
laced with decayed root structure
ah, to dip my fingers in fragrant loam
give the earth tiny seeds
where it will then weave mats upon the earth
leaves and flowers dense beside my path
Return, yes, to the roots
shady green places
of long ago
to call my own
last day of #NaPoWriMo
On the cusp of the third house
today there is an eclipse
for a moment the light is obscured
Astrological twilight at midday
stars come out
constellations declare themselves
Outside the window of words
are paths worn smooth under the feet of our progeny
here a patch of poison oak
there a drop down into thorny arroyo
In the Noh play
I watched the fierce mama lion
but I chose the way of the wildflowers
So I gesture at the lion
while wearing a crown of oak leaves
unable to catch my breath or run
where are my words
in the ruins at dusk at midday
All that is left here
a smooth rock to rest upon
as day returns
you watch with me
while the constellations vanish into the light

Laid out along the land raised out of the sea
the town is made for walking in the salty air
you sample its wares like a picnic of salads
telescopes line the windows of one shop
another has shoes you wear in the forest
here is a house that used to be on a murder mystery show
there are water towers like lighthouses without lights
my favorite house where I grew up
nearly a hundred fifty miles south
was one with a water tower
inside they had arranged lights into constellations high overhead
this is why my biggest dreams have always been about altering place like that
any space can be that canvas
even the edge of a city parking lot
#NaPoWriMo
Women were long the plant wisdom keepers
important herbs and spices
mushrooms that bring back life or take it away, to uncover secrets of mind
ways to extract or brew
passed woman to woman over centuries
Bark of willow
tea of pennyroyal
powdered turmeric root
gel of aloe Vera leaf
leaf of coleus and basil
Over time plant knowledge was bound into books
codified and credited to male lineage
women of herbal knowledge called witches
unlike men sworn to do no harm
healing herbs called poison
Here in the high desert
home to thorns and brilliant skies
medicine women and poets turn over the soil of place and circumstance
restore cycles of groundwater
take their names from the natural world
bind themselves to healing planet and soul
bring forward canopies of cool green leaves
elixirs of well-being
inoculation of the feminine
paths to acceptance
ways to peace
#NaPoWriMo
You might have seen one or more
the indoor ponds
tall Victorian style greenhouse room
trees flowers scent of still waters
feel of luxurious times gone by
It was a resort
this room of plants and pond deserted
probably it was one of those times tourists stayed away
as was often the case on our island
blame it on the volcano
This brings to mind things I will never understand
those so called bucket list wishes
to see a live volcano
to watch lava flow
except when it is happening
no not that
And the matter at hand
here on this indoor lake
a black swan
sets sights on me from the opposite shore
takes off across the water
straight for me
chases me right out of the room
These are the elements of desertion
my least favorite experiences
other than actual hostility
where I suspect it was my words
words that came out poorly
like a cake that sticks to the pan
or a plant given water that rots its roots
you find out too late
that you did it wrong
#NaPoWriMo
This good dog appreciates morning
nose to the air
I do as he does
each deep breath carries a new scent
bark and leaves
something like eucalyptus
warming dirt
car exhaust on Route 66
I don’t mind that the storied road
is there off to the left
nation’s travel artery
here like a promise of good things to come
our driveway was once an alley to a parking lot
right on Route 66 itself
now bricked up
we are as close as ever
without the world
the uprooted
having their way with us
Life has taught me about people
about highways and byways
about claiming space
pied a terre
sheltering space amidst the roar and hum
being grounded
what meaning there is in all the phrases
the phrases of place and roots
I am home
#NaPoWriMo
Once I took my little girls fishing.
It was because it was a life experience I thought they should have.
A life experience on the order of ocean swimming.
Not that I had ever fished my own self or even wanted to fish.
The thing was, fishing presented itself.
There was a place meant to bring children to fish.
It was a couple of big water filled holes with willow trees on the banks.
There were logs to sit on.
In the water there were fountains, a thing that detracted or distracted or seemed unnatural.
Like the velveeta cheese bait.
And yet here in this experience I discovered something.
When you fish, the world changes into a place of becoming.
I knew this as we squeezed the cheese rounds onto the hooks.
The little girls were dismayed at the process, the hooks, the idea of hurting the fish.
I was ready to talk right then about becoming vegetarian.
They were not interested in giving up eating animals, although I could see something deep within them squirm and sigh.
What happened then is I showed them about sitting with the world and being more like a tree.
I showed them about absorbing the light on the water until they were that light.
We sat with our rods and lines like Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer.
It all became as familiar as brushing teeth.
We each caught a trout.
To have that success with the velveeta and bamboo poles was satisfying as finding an opal in the dirt.
After that on a summer night at Faria Beach we ran out onto the sand at one in the morning.
The grunion were running.
We grabbed at them as they flung themselves onto the wet sand.
The beach was transformed into a sea of flashing silver.
This was not fishing like the other time.
These are my only two experiences catching fish to eat.
The hole in the ground, that was as if in another lifetime, fishing in mountain streams had been as natural a thing as walking to the library.
#NaPoWriMo
We have these fires and smoke in the air
consuming the wildflowers
the piñon the juniper the Douglas fir
the quaking aspen the bristlecone pine
hours north of the city
the fields of wonder in the land of enchantment
Once in the rain between volcanic eruptions
there was a woman and her cello
music winding through the air
from a picnic shelter
later we were together again
writing with the women of the island
Someone asked her about her notebook
that place where she kept her words
a flimsy drugstore pad you might use for your grocery list
I don’t want these things to be too precious
she said
Thinking of her cello just out of the rain
the fires eating up ancient trees and fresh spring flowers
elsewhere seeing tattered plastic tents
piles of stuff looking like your discards
there at open land by city intersections
“the office” where the dispossessed stand with cardboard signs
all that we cannot hold onto
what is clung to when there is nearly nothing left
#NaPoWriMo
Where did I come from?
I asked my mother
Sleeping under the stars
she said
under the canopy of night
at the base of granite precipices
amidst mountain dogwood
in the sorrel beneath a sequoia tree
I could see myself
threaded through the night sky
brought to earth
like landed butterfly
sprouted seed pod
without wings
waiting in the clover to be found
#NaPoWriMo
What is its story
this closed down place
where the pandemic pulled the life out
Where are its people
what are they doing
are they still here?
I’ve often wondered
at the forlorn places
there was one I loved much
once a hot springs resort
nirvana amongst the oaks
plagued by spirit blight
for decades now
empty of people
Therein resides the ghost of the one who first claimed it as his
screaming to his death in the madhouse
there have been floods
the person built entirety reduced to debris
a serial owner crushed under a falling tree
written in the bones of place
is a curse
there is no path to success here
This is that which rejects
business and profit
it demands to be free of charge and lien
for the intrepid who venture
into the hot water
not every tree rock and stream
are meant to be owned
Morning brings the birds of summer
harbingers of long dusty days
Like an old friend
hummingbird stopped by our window
peered into the room as if to see who might be setting out feeders
The aspens have announced a challenge
too long in pots
root systems inadequate for their plethora of leaves
the oak too
had roots long encased in a metal cage
now cannot push enough water all the way to the ends of branches
Incantations and worm casings
inoculation of truffle water
soft shells from cast off butterfly emergences
we will sing songs of survival
in its time the leaves of fall will nourish the trees companions
it will sigh into winter
deeper roots of spring and summer having brought life essence forward
We humans with our moving habits and city styles
barely adequate to the exhortations and exhalations of our earth
interrogate these other beings
in hope they answer with life abundant
#NaPoWriMo
#earthdayeveryday
Poetry is meant to be heard
words rolled in your mouth
like vintage spirits
phrases held to the light
as you would a transparent gem
Longfellow showed us how words prance
he parts the thicket to the shimmering world beyond

Plath gave us other worlds
conversations with her muses
tangled ropes of introspection
familiar as the warmth of our own beds
Harjo translates songs of sky and earth
circles us like eagles over the land
folk ballads place at our feet
even as we sit in some chair
in our quiet house
alone
Read poetry with your voice
let your whole being into the cadence
these are the songs drawn from the well
of all of us
#napowrimo
In the preparation of the yard
detritus of prior uses had accumulated
four truckloads now removed
we have uncovered a place for a secret garden
surrounded by walls
Today I build a trellis for grapes
Montmorency cherry will go in the ground
a small trailer will become the fourth side
shielding the secrets
maybe it will be yellow and white
made in the middle of the last century
like our house
I have been reading up on trees
the cherry and the oak need companions
oak will grow best in place from an acorn
who knew a seedling would surpass its massive cousin while we watch
The leaves of the oak consume my curiosity
from the window their colors look autumnal
several times a day I go out to study them
green as ferns in summer
tinged with red in their newness
as if like other sorts of living things
they have blood in their veins
wisps of flowers grow within
clusters of leaves
delicate as cat whiskers
while the grape flowers open
one one hundredth that size
exuding the fragrance of butterfly wings
calling in hummingbirds
announcing spring
#napowrimo
The Ghost Winds in the city
churn tree seeds into flurries
like snow
millions of flake seeds swirl
and gather in drifts
they ride the winds
litter lawns
stop in my hair
It is my first spring here
should red bud petals join in
like confetti
it will be a storm of seeds of flowers
attended by formal butterflies
white and black
red tuxedo clad finches
rainbow hued doves
flying ahead of summer
#napowrimo
It is a town of sorts
with a name
famous really
for a movie made there
It used to be
most summer days
where the foggy mists
wrapped cypress into obscurity
rather lonely
isolated down this or that narrow country road
There along the fabled coast highway
a tower of bells stands as a monument
an artist thought to honor a young life lost
a loss that gave back life
through pieces of living self
to other people
even to another child and her children
otherwise never to have been born
There is a sign
it mentions that highwaymen took that boy in Italy
song of the bells brings voice and melody to the transformative acts that followed upon tragedy
Here is proof
all was not lost
a sculptural telling
all we are eventually
is the sound of our once being
clanging of bells now heard
now silent
#NaPoWriMo
In this hard dried ground
in Eastern New Mexico
are footprints of long ago beings
dinosaurs have altogether left the earth
here they stepped
worm castings too remain
unintentional legacies
Our people have stories
of resurrection
bodies digging themselves out of the ground
wearing tattered flesh
once corpses leaving the embalming table
pets come back from the sematary
changed
Jurassic returns
most famously the risen crucified man
One Easter Sunday I sat on a lawn
in Honolulu
there in front of the hundred or so of us gathered
was a man dressed in white
his hands in the air
Ram Dass repeated a dozen times
He is risen
sunlight came and went
scattered raindrops dampened our clothes and skin
There with the author of
Be Here Now
there was only that present moment
scent of plumeria
we, almost one with the air
#NaPoWriMo
The peculiarity of people
the insistence we occupy the apex of all things
shows in how we now protect the world around us
from ourselves
to keep rivers from being turned into hydroelectric sources
we redesignate them as persons
to be safe from human folly
nature becomes human
in our eyes
people who live more harmoniously with the natural world
see within it our ancestors
the spirit world has always incorporated humans who are gone
but still present
The dove in the back yard
who flies to the wall when I come out
the trees who tell me secrets of being
when I pause to hear their story
even the new grape vines
lift their leaves in different ways
having their moodiness of being
My friend sees his people in the rocks
on the golf course a tree has grown a human like face near the ground
is it the walls or the plain open interior of this house
that contains the footsteps of those who came before
Have you seen the rewilded rivers
alive with spawning salmon
churning towards the sea again
set free?
#napowrimo
Once I was a small child
in my house there were two big people
they went off to work
then my own person came to be with me
Miss Carol knew to put my eggs back in the oven with a little butter
so there would be no slimy parts
When the weather turned warm
the big people stuffed me into going out clothes
drove across the Golden Gate Bridge
red sign 25¢
At Ocean Beach I got to take off my
shoes and socks
find sand dollars with a perfect leaf shape on top
pile the sand into little Mt Tamalpais
I fell into yearning
at the Japanese Tea Garden
it was the small little person sized maple trees
the entire garden of contours
I longed to climb all over them
sift through for seeds
to grow my own small garden
All this was more delicious
because of the intervals
space between adventures
big people out of my spheres
except Miss Carol
my own person
#NaPoWriMo
Here are the windmills at Zaanse Schans
where the wind turns granite into limestone powder
here is where paint gets colors
pigments known to us through the old masters
Cafe Terrace at Night
Cottages Before a Stormy Sky
these windmills older than when
my particular long ago ancestors
people from near here
were thrust aboard a ship for the new world
orphans in the streets
the homeless of that time
had life been gentler for them
where would I be?
Is this image one I love so
for the stirrings of ancestral memory
a familiar sight
to someone far far back in my line
a girl who learned to make paint
and perhaps set this scene to a board and hung it on her wall?
#NAPOWRIMO
It is the contours of the land
that describe home
mountain silhouette
shows off its iconic structure
breaking of day light extends
sky border through newest chartreuse leaves
rendering yellows translucent
geese not yet taking to the air
this is the time of day the world inhales
setting itself for what is to come
before the nameless winds curl their mighty force
before the people of mayhem gather their weapons
here apart from the smoldering wildfires of civilization
is the quiet earth breathing
beneath its lightening sky
#NAPOWRIMO
