Friday, April 9, 2010


Suddenly, there she was,
frothed and furious, broken
lines that beat upon shore,
cold angry chevrons of grey.
Darker sea, she reaches for
white waves, curling, streaming
screaming wind pulls in night,
blue slate, except for blue-white.
Scrub pine, vines and driftwood
dragons; shadows grey on
tattered broken waves.
Take this from me!
Take this rage that rattles
my bones! Blow out my brains
you bastard! Shouts swallowed
in the screaming storm, rage taken
and thumped in each pounding curl,
each furious fist of an ocean
shaken, not stirred--a woman
wild as her natural world,
pulling lunatic fringe of the Great
Mama's shawl to wrap a fury,
a pain so deep, only wild
raging storms can reach.

Just Beyond My Reach

She stares around the room,
wrinkled and featherless
like a baby bird searching
the air for something--anything
to appear and give sustenance.
Black and white magpie thief
stole her shiny memories to hide
in darkened nest of her own mind.
She who held me--lost,
she who was the goddess
tossed upon his airs, now
disconnected voice and thought.
She stares with opaque liquid eyes,
fledgling spirit held from flight,
held in an ever-darkening night.
She stares somewhere
just beyond my reach,
just beyond my reach.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Man In The Moon

There, the curl of
his back in the west,
legs fold forgetfully,
one over the other.
See, he bends his head
to silver flute and
her golden face?
Oh yes,
the man in the moon
was easily led upon dreams
to serve La Bella Luna;
love and madness
in liquid night
bound both round,
thirteen times.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Sunflower Shaman

Line upon line upon line
her pen drawn to
aging sunflower,
Shaman whispering
from page to pen.

Line upon line upon line,
inky mandala flows from her pen,
Fall sunflower letting go...
but is it so? When you look again,
pen dances to Shaman's tune
while dreams are given room,
bloom with each vision.

First a kneeling boy with feathers
then faces tumble, ancient measures;
she pulls harvest from her pen
then, line upon line upon line,
her pen it pulls you in...
Shamanic experience,
there and then back again.

Sunflower bends and sends
seeds of our need to dream.

"Sunflower Shaman"
Pen and ink by Tweed Meyer

Monday, February 22, 2010


If I acquiesce to
a pleaded silence,
there's cobwebs sewn
across my lips,

for my loyalty
knows only you,
not her lover.

If I speak to the pain
of thee and she,
it roils between.

If I speak to her fear
she fights us both.

I would not be false but,
I would not be unkind nor
have my words between.

I pick up the cobwebs,
threads of light, of love.
With each sticky stitch,
I sew the death of secrets
between my lips.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Music is Moonlight and Memories

Auntie Moon she sings
to her a lace shawl,
silver and indigo
lit from within,
like intimacy.
Her songs call my tides,
rising to her,
remembering a night
in the mountains
and forgotten
cowboy songs
with an old Indian
in his pickup,
indigo and chrome
lit from within,
like intimacy.

Don't You Wish

Don't you wish
some folk still wrote
with chisel on stone,
thereby forcing them
to carry the full weight
of their own words
in that big ol' back-pocket
of humble experience.

A Prayer With Brother Joseph

I wrote this for our fellow "In Your Neighborhood" blogger, Joseph, who is a Catholic priest of open heart and mind.

A million grains
of painted sand
could just flow
through our hands,
forgotten and unseen,
life shifting within
a drifting dream.
Let the Spirit
walk with us,
forgiveness in our face
given over to trust.
Our face in others too,
something blessed
shining through.
To work together
grains of sand,
Spirit called to action
through a human.
Let each of us practice
our gratitude this day,
let each of us be
grain of sand that way

For My Father: WWII Bomber Pilot

There's a Quonset hut in Heaven
where all bomber pilots go.
It sits on the edge of the tarmac
in the pre-dawn indigo.

Inside the doors the chairs are filled
with each re-united crew,
the bonnie lads who saved the world
and gave the devil his due.

The men all spring to attention
when the brass comes through the door.
Not one sound was made,
they were needed once more.

These were the lads who gave their best,
and they'd do it all again,
for love of King and country,
for love of flying a plane.

Group Captain welcomes the men,
Wing Commander then takes over.
He steps up to the shrouded map
and deftly removes the cover.

The world spreads out before them
but no streamers mark their way.
No routed destination,
no bombs to drop today.

No enemy planes will be in the sky,
No ack-ack fire below.
The Wing Commander smiles and says
He doesn't care where you go.

Today the flight is just for you,
the world is yours as well.
You've earned it boys, Group Captain says,
for all your flights into hell.

Today the sky belongs to your crew,
the flight plan yours to make.
Fly till you touch the face of God,
today's mission's a "piece of cake."*

These were the lads who gave their best,
and they'd do it all again,
for love of King and country,
for love of flying a plane.

* "Piece of cake," was a term the lads used for any destination that wasn't Berlin.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Jungle '57 R.A.F. 911

Danger is silent in the Malay jungle,
blends with both sunlight and dark
stripes of moving shadows,
eyes of fire and predation, waiting.
Kiwi soldier never heard her
till she growled like a lover on his neck,
and pulled back half his scalp.
In searing, frightening pain,
deep in the Malay jungle
danger had him.

He flew a Sycamore lighter than he ever made love,
low over the dense canopy of emerald jungle.
Left family back at the pool when his call came,
now miles away, hovering to load a half-dead Kiwi,
pulled from deadly tiger's embrace to safety, perhaps,
but danger clings like tropic jungle mist, as he keeps her low
and steady....low.....low....eyes now on the fuel gauge.
Stone-faced he radioed base, sitting deeper in the saddle;
from landmark to landmark, watching the needle's fall.
She came down on fumes but damn she landed like a lady,
delivering Kiwi to help and a new life far away from danger
of light and shadow, from silence in the Malay jungle.


Left Hanging

They left Mayme-san hanging nearly
seventy years for a college diploma,
World War Two interrupting as it did
and all fates hanging.

From college to internment camp
she wore the mask of an enemy,
faced fear in her own country
but was left enough time to fall in love.

Mayme hung her dreams on the taste of his
imprisoned lips, his struggles and passions.
Both fought for a taste
of the American Dream.

He could not hang on to see the day
Mayme received her diploma, after nearly
seventy years and a life fully lived,
while left hanging for the respect due her.

Growing Passion

Dedicated to Jan Buday

She had a passion to begin,
details sometimes lost in the rush
to start again another flame.
So it is, when fire is young,
sparks fly and burn, too quickly done.

Now she knows her passion runs,
years grow into life poured
through emotion and her Art
into the details and justice,
nailing finishing touches.

Should You Need Someone

Should you need someone to tilt
at windmills by your side,
I would don rusty pitted armour,
your ribbons tied to my sleeve.

Should you need someone to untie
you from the railroad tracks,
I would do Dudley and save you Nell,
your flaxen hair in ribbons.

Should you need someone with stories
at night to tuck you in,
I would pull rocker to your bedside
and then spin in ribbon dreams.

Should you need someone to pull you
inside and hold love tight,
I would fly to you on beating wings,
arms wide ribbons to wrap you in.

Should you need someone....

Please Would You Build

I'd like you to build
a few new me's,
Lawd-amercy but with
just left brains please!
Make 'em with good
strong hands and back,
organisational skills to
keep me's on track.
This will take more than
hammer and nail,
find me's bionic parts
guaranteed not to fail,
re-cycled hearts that
know they were broken,
kewpie-doll lips with
no harsh words spoken.
Speed up the motors so
we's get more things done,
all of the made me's
with legs that can run.
Do not make them right brained
and able to dream,
or I'll lose me's on
every passing sunbeam!
Make me's with
all angles right.
Make me's that re-charge
meself every night.
Construct me's to be
there's no need to make
me's soft-touchable.
Please would you build
a few new me's--
and leave me to build
my dreams as I please.

Lines In Black & Red

Lines in black and red,
lines of nacre buttons moving
and the world was in them.
Tlingit Elders lined in dress across
hall of stone and straight timber
to their children's children's children.
Ravens are the thinkers, he says,
while Eagle Clan knows power,
and in line from the Ancients
coupled in balance of both
lines shape-shifting in dance.
Knowledge of land, spirit,
and All Our Relations
let's them hand it down the lines,
now a soaring eagle,
now the awkward head-bobbing
of a shoreline bird;
my hands felt the lines of beading
on the Medicine pouch I wear,
gift from a dying old grey wolf.
Grandmother grey and frail
straightened to the line,
cupped hands for the stars
to rain upon my head a blessing,
those hands that felt like papered
leaves veined with the journey itself.
Lines almost broken and ended,
languages left unspoken and yet,
still they come to give and dance
their lines in black and red.