The Poet's Hart

Wolf and Krazy Crow On the Run

2011-06-11T12:37:00.000-07:00

My shift as passenger came at night
this particular run from east to west,
Krazy Crow going to Blackfoot,

Wolf Woman to the old Grey's den.
We'd eaten miles from Manatoulin,
made it through Thunder Bay
before raging clay floods

closed the roads behind, miles

we’d ride from clouds with fire
in their bellies and tears
enough to drown towns.
Then came endless prairie,
lamp-lit straight ribbon highway
under spilling bowl of stars,
Aurora Borealis Thunderbird

flying with us, freedom

to follow my gaze, folding

legs under, upon the seat,
unable to sleep before my turn
behind the wheel, come Alberta
and the sun's rising

in the rear view mirror.

Woman Medicine

2011-06-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

Women eat

crises
for breakfast,

eat our

hurts

like snake its skin,

desire

at trembling

thighs meeting.
Women eat monsters
for munchies,

fear

like tiny popping

orange roe
oh,

we eat crow and
our own knowing.

Women make places
movable,

our dance unseen

in sweet dark
imagining.
Life set ark in

motion,
circle to straight line,
yin to yang and
Great Mystery

hangs in its

balance.
Women sing
our own existence.

Women gather

Medicine
for living,

gather our
answers
like seeds

their promise,
hope

in the cold and dark.

Women gather

at tide-lines,

high and low,
gather seaweed

and moon's
glow
oh,

we gather threads
for our own weaving.

Into the Gibbon's Moonlight

2011-06-11T11:57:00.000-07:00

Where are you taking me,
she whispered to monkey
as if the trees had ears,
and stars might tell moon she
had wandered far from bed.

Monkeys don't talk to little girls
now follow me,
said he,
running on all fours ahead.

In bella bella luna light,
night-blooming jasmine glowed,
and when her shift brushed by,
shiny pollen wove with cotton,
a Celtic design on yoke and hem.

Come on girl,
said monkey,
tut-tut now, you keep up.

Nightingale sang to the moonlight,
dogstar sang light years away,
she ran in bare feet over
bright green moss, catching up
with monkey at edge of a glade.
Sir Monkey,
she said with tiny gasps,
thank you for making me come so fast,
eyes filled to wide and liquid brim
she leaned into him and stared.

There was a pond,
like melted silver in the moonlight,
flora and fauna of every kind,
truly a most beautiful sight.

Come,
said monkey and took her hand,
led her to rocks and reeds,
lifted slate and pulled back weeds,

monkey freed a water-spout,
monkey pulled his tin cup out.
Children who drink at the hidden spring
open themselves to the Muse.
Monkey held full cup out.
To drink or not, you must choose.

Faeries on her shoulders,
animals whispering in her ears
she reached forward, took the cup.

Thank you Monkey...Cheers!

Playing with form:

2011-06-11T11:55:00.000-07:00

Home

O
we
can
spin
upon
string,
ellipse
planets
in space
about sun
but what is
home to us?
What is need
for our seed to
dream of return?
Tiny dancer spins
blue an' green bead,
it may be ripe garden
but is it home? Breath
held within this pressure
swirls lacy clouds around,
wind o’er water and ground.
Can we make this earth move
for us? Am I home if fire spills
down my thighs? Tiny spinning
blue-green bead, jade and lazuli
desires reach for new beginning
through never-ending, inky sky.
Home is where our naked wet
pounding hearts lie, outside
our bodies, where Milky
Way pours its light

in afterglow.

New Moon

2011-06-11T11:49:00.000-07:00

Deep knowing,

held sweetly in

textured dark,

promises in

maiden moon’s

chaste turn

from light.

Poets,

dip your pens

in inky shadow

of earthen desire;

write words that pull

maiden moon

to ripen,

to show her first

sexy

silver

curve.

"I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul..." Yusuf Islam

2011-06-11T11:44:00.000-07:00

Everyone has a place,
that place is always
moving
to become
another place.
We become another
yet retain each other
in a chain of places,
spaces, or races
we have run~
even won

~well~
some.

But here we are,
traveling slippery

on a slide
of celluloid,
frame
by
clicking,
ticking in
the dark,
frame.

Everyone has a place,
that place is always,
all ways,
moving.

Scott Heffernan 5/21/2011....painting by Tweed Meyer.

2011-06-11T11:28:00.000-07:00

Scott is a wonderful writer, at the same time as being full-time caregiver for his parents. His father has passed and now his mother is in her difficult, final chapter. Scott writes with acute truth...but, in his gentle way, he always gives relief in humour and fantasy at some of the hardest moments. As he gives himself some breathing room, his readers may pace themselves too.

I first met Scott at Jerry and Pam Libstaff's Words & Music, House Concert Series, last year when he read, and I was so very impressed with him. We now sit in the same writers group and I count Mr. Heffernan as friend. Look for his soon-to-be-published book, "Chasing the Last Banana."

Here follows a piece I wrote on Scott's reading in May, for Words & Music 2011.

Scott Heffernan

Audience tunes up

in familiar dissonance,

solo trumpet of laughter

drops descending notes

on cool silver night,

sunlight plops in big

golden spot upon

monochromatic

scored water,

drops

from burnished

cup in curling,

cumulus

sky.

Met him

inside

a seashell

she didn’t sell,

one that had

cracked down

to its interesting

parts,

edges

softened by sand

and pounding sea.

Heard him

reading to

driftwood damsels,

defining

high-tide line

with roar of his

laughter,

hear him

whispering

still,

inside

a seashell,

long after tide

has been pulled

to other side

of the world.

I breathe with him,

breath and timing

familiar to me now,

yes,

presses

two fingers to

pulse in his neck

racing,

breath,

now pacing himself,

champion of Elders

and other

fading causes,

he pauses

between hat

changes,

rearranges

older pieces

to read us.

Oh, what would

Scott do

but leave us

chasing

that last

banana,

not wanting

to waste

that last

banana,

would he care

if we had no

spoon?

Poetry Book Published

2011-06-11T11:16:00.000-07:00

I've been away from this blog for a while now, life often derailing my train of thought! Last September I was fortunate enough to have a book of my poetry published by Watermark Writers. My thanks to my publisher, Jerry Libstaff.

If you are interested in purchasing a copy, please go to www.watermarkwriters.com

Now...onward.

LaPush

2010-04-09T08:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-09T08:25:00.000-07:00

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.

Man In The Moon

2010-03-19T14:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Sunflower Shaman

2010-02-23T14:10:00.000-08:00

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

Cobwebs

2010-02-22T21:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Music is Moonlight and Memories

2010-02-19T21:18:00.000-08:00

Auntie Moon she sings
to her a lace shawl,
shimmering
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,
shimmering
indigo and chrome
lit from within,
like intimacy.

Don't You Wish

2010-02-19T21:10:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-19T20:56:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-19T19:59:00.000-08:00

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.

Jungle '57 R.A.F. 911

2010-01-21T07:37:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-21T07:28:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-21T07:20:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-21T07:16:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-21T07:13:00.000-08:00

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
indestructible,
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

2010-01-21T06:29:00.000-08:00

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.

Moonsnails. Painting by Reni Moriarity

2009-12-02T16:29:00.000-08:00

Moonsnails

Moonsnails curl
in on themselves
like women sleeping,
soft rounded shapes
in grey-blue night.
Moondrops fallen
upon quicksilver sand,
bared by La Bella Luna
and low, curving tide.

The Seer's Bowl...a sestina form

2009-10-31T15:01:00.000-07:00

Lifting silver ewer, arms pale and bare,

she stands at the Seer's Bowl
to pour clear singing liquid,
her back bending,
cool and steady gaze
in her face's reflection.

Another day for temple reflection,
seekers who come to bare
souls within her gaze,
pray to wash them clean at her bowl,
heads quietly bending
to rippling liquid.

Thoughts become liquid
given time for reflection,
perception willingly bending;
beauty in the bare
frosted glass bowl
that cools and soothes the gaze.

Whose eyes in the gaze
multiplied by waves of liquid
in her tidal bowl?
Known for more than reflection;
a future laid bare,
light and time bending.

She whispers the question bending
to meet each pilgrim's gaze.
Will you strip bare
and fall liquid
through your future reflection,
forever in this bowl?

Some dive into the bowl,
all future will bending
to one moment's reflection,
hypnotized gaze
in near-frozen liquid;
life blue and mystery bare.

I would bare my intent unbound in a bowl.
I wish the future liquid and choices bending,
the gaze of fate in hindsight reflection.

Never Call Yourself A Poet

2009-10-31T14:59:00.000-07:00

Never call yourself a poet
just write like you believe
and keep it to yourself---
the knowin'...not the poem.

Never call yourself a Godly man
just understand and lead with
quiet, kind example. Hold close your
counsel when you've not been asked.

Never call yourself righteous
just find True-North on that
carried-within compass and be prepared
to take the high road, the long way.

Never call yourself your
religion as a trump-card play
just judge less and let
forgiveness set everyone free.

Never call yourself humble
just disappear all but ears
and love for one another.

Never call yourself a poet
just write like you believe.

Numerology Explained

2009-10-31T13:34:00.000-07:00

One for the one
stepping forward,
two for who you meet
upon the road,
three to see a balance
of heart mind and spirit,
four for even
cornerstones to load.

Five's alive in every
different direction,
six are heels that click
one back to home,
seven questions beckon
one to ask within,
eight is what it takes
to flesh the bone.

Nine as a line defines
our understanding,
nine's the sign
this cycle is complete,
ten is zen,
it's one and it's nothing,
ten and then
it's gather, rinse, repeat.

Wind Singing in the Cedars

2009-10-31T13:31:00.000-07:00

Wind singing

in the cedars

tosses a cloud

up the Sound,

bluer than baby

skies swept clean,

space hidden

behind light.

Wind singing

in the cedars,

time keeps

my pulse.

I spy Buddha

in the bushes,

breathe deep

and become,

wind singing

in the cedars.

My Mouth Is Not My Voice

2009-10-31T13:25:00.000-07:00

My mouth is not my voice
but it's the flower of my song
fast being stomped to hell,
made into poison.

Broken teeth like promises,
like dark ragged rocks
waiting to make a wreck of me,
a ghost-ship and Sirens echo.

My mouth is not my voice
but it speaks of my abuse,
my fears of monsters
in the midnight
and monsters behind
dragon light and drill,
waiting to make a wreck of me,
a wraith of tone and crumbling bone.

Twice as many nerves make
my instrument what it is.
Twice.

Mouth small, yes,
deformed, yes,
and beaten in time like
Willie Nelson's sweet
Martin guitar.

It's not how you look,
it's how you play.
I've played almost 54 years
They don't understand,

I'm not ready to stop.
I'm not ready to stop.

My mouth is not my voice
but shredded flower of my song,
roots and bone rotten---
traitors or tortured or
tailored in genes---
all the same, I guess.

I want them gone---
Out damn teeth!
Out damn poison
slowly killing me!

My mouth is not my voice.
My mouth is not my voice.

Days Too Tough

2009-10-31T13:21:00.000-07:00

On days too tough
to be human,
I find my inner-feline
and a patch of sunlight,
gold and warm
to curl in.

On days too tough
to be human,
my mind seeks the deep
dark and still waters
for this mermaid
to swim in.

On days too tough
to be human,
I give myself wings
and dream a new sky,
paint a few clouds
while I’m flying.

On days too tough
to be human,
I remember that I’m
nine-tenths divine and forget
the one-tenth, living---
just the days too tough
to be human.

Blue Nude by Picasso

November and the Phoenix

2009-10-31T13:03:00.000-07:00

Autumn stretches
me down
in
the
deep
deep dark,
makes me fight
reaching
for
light
to write
in ashes,
to
rise
new,
phoenix from
mother night,
to
flame
again,
ever on.

Bohemian Rebirth Rhapsody

2009-10-31T12:55:00.000-07:00

I wonder what they'd do
if Christ reappeared without a beard,
without robes and sandals too.
What if he came in a satin flame
and high-heeled shiny shoes?
What if he kissed men, dressed as a femme,
I wonder what they'd do.

I wonder what they'd do
if Christ showed up filling a C-cup
and had a uterus too!
Could Christ have sex or would that vex
the misogynistic crew?
What if she was a whore who was sold at four,
I wonder what they'd do.

I wonder what they'd do
if Christ came back all coloured black,
had tea with Muslims too;
walked with Buddha, talked to Khuda,
Pagans, B'Hai and Jew.
If every kind came walking behind
I wonder what they'd do.

I wonder what they'd do
if Christ ripped pages from Bible rages
and told them that wasn't true,
that those words were said by old men who fed
on the fear of anything new.
Would they stick to The Book, or give Christ a look,
I wonder what they'd do.

What would they do
if Christ was reborn far from the norm,
like a god painted another hue.
Christ might lift a pipe like eighteen million wiped
for the red, the white and the blue.

If Christ's rebirth needed a worthy earth,
what would the rabid pious do,
stuck here with me and you, under an ancient pulling moon,
dancing our Bohemian Rebirth Rhapsody's tune.

Looking For A King

2009-10-29T08:14:00.000-07:00

I'm looking for a King,
a Kennedy, a Rosa Parks
walking the halls of learning;
I'm looking for those
with an honourable stride,
their heart's compass steering.

I'm calling you~come
to your destiny and our aid,
your country needs you;
I'm calling you~come
in the twilight of the day,
light the lantern anew.

Light the lantern anew,
feed the hope and the hungry;
the few that dare to dream
must ignite the country.
Light the lantern anew,
hold it up against the night,
for the few that dare to dream
must ignite the country.

I'm looking for a Lincoln,
Ladies Liberty and Justice
on the sidewalks of smalltown;
I'm looking for those who
could be a nation's pride
in a graduation gown.

I'm calling you~come
to your destiny and our aid,
your country needs you;
I'm calling you~come
in the twilight of the day,
light the lantern anew.

Light the lantern anew,
feed the hope and the hungry,
the few that dare to dream
must ignite the country;
light the lantern anew,
hold it up against the night,
for the few that dare to dream
must ignite the country,
the few that dare to dream
must ignite the country.

Looking for a King to
light the lantern anew.

Six Wolves Lay

2009-10-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

I wrote this after an ER visit with my daughter who suffers from chronic Lyme disease and co-infections.

Six Wolves Lay

We’re letting her sleep, said the nurse,
head bobbing in her own agreement
until I wrestled her eyes still,
until I made her understand this was
how my daughter’s seizures presented.

Snarling, someone better move their ass,
I wrapped leather around her fingers,
Grampa’s pouch in her hand there,
resting upon her chest.

Six wolves lay round my bed,
she said when finally the meds
let her come back to me.
Six wolves lay in protective
spread watching, she said.

She smiled with hand to chest,
Here, she whispered, here’s
where Grampa lay watching me;
I could feel the weight of his
great grey head and five others
on the bed, she said to me.

Harts of Lyme

2009-10-28T11:43:00.001-07:00

My adult daughter has been fighting Lyme disease for eleven years now. Sometimes I need the emotional release that poetry and my pen provide.

Ranting Lyme-Take On Love-Hate

I love my daughter
with the dark eyes,
she draws you in.

I hate the chronic Lyme
within her blood and
bones and brain and....

I love this young woman
who grew beneath my heart;
set herself apart as she walks
beside me leaning sometimes,
sometimes leading me.

I hate those ticks.
Any Buddhist thoughts flew
out the window with that bite.
I dream of a fair fight, gloves on,
me and a giant ick tick---
Goin' down, clown!

I love her ancient gaze,
amazing grace at twenty-eight,
to embrace the snake laced
through her veins,
treatment in hard bites.

I hate the Bb bacteria,
corkscrew alien invader
jumps in a little cyst-ship
that has stealth settings
and an All-Access Pass.

I love the giving nature of my girl;
her world taken and shrunk
to a room, to a bed.
Instead of retreat, she reached;
never turned-down another
seeking help--reaching for a life-line,
thrown bed-to-bed through cyberspace.

I hate the Lyme-Fog Monster eating
her words and mine sometimes,
like the grown-ups in a Peanuts cartoon.
Oh, how I hate the wait for her to come
back to me; hate the decade spent in
hamster wheels with revolving doctors and
the company line that chronic Lyme was
all in the mind.
The truth is still our mantra.

I love my daughter.
This disease be good goddamned;
you can't have her!
Love and truth will win;
this is my daughter!

Ever On, Ever On

2009-10-28T11:36:00.001-07:00

I was born a part of every road,
my spine the white lines
leading to undefined horizon;
four legs running and the stars' design,
constant change by the roadside.

Black ribbon that ties the world,
moves the dust in devils,
moves clouds and mountains,
moves my journey ever on, ever on.

Winding lanes there and back again,
hedgerows and chalk horses on hills,
standing stones mark movement still;
four legs running and a red-maned Queen
riding her lion by the roadside.

Jungle vines and sindur lines,
jasmine, joss sticks and jeweled
elephants still stream through dreams;
four legs running and Quan Yin
on striped tiger by the roadside.

Using and leaving the road to rest
upon the Mama's belly and breast,
cleft of a red rock canyon;
four legs running and Grandmother
calling for a ride by the roadside.

The road to your side and our goodbye,
a circle begins where a circle ends
friends destined to meet again;
four legs running and the old Grey
matching stride for stride by the roadside.

Black ribbon that ties the world,
moves the dust in devils,
moves clouds and mountains,
moves my journey ever on, ever on.

War Is Hell

2009-10-28T09:37:00.000-07:00

Some of us were born
in the trenches,
secrets were
the barbed spirals red,
honour and blood.
If you could make it through,
there was a minefield
waiting beyond.

There in the stench you watched
as comrades disappeared, dead
or deep within their wounds,
and you decided to survive
by the grace of gods or
your own gonads.

In the mud of memories
you crawled,
asking to be suckled,
oh Mother, oh Mother,
help me to live,
love me, please.

There you saw her,
there on your belly
tasting blood, she gave you
the tiniest of wildflowers,
uncrushed by battling boots,
uncrushed and content
in its being,
in its being.

You can slake your thirst,
even in Hell and a battlefield,
after all is said and done,
is still a meadow passed-through.
Some of us found a path
made by tiny wildflowers
between buried mines and
that which was our enemy
welcomed us home.

Of Balance & Sweet Mystery

2009-10-28T07:59:00.000-07:00

Grandmother Grandmother, my heart is your drum
in seasons that have passed and in seasons to come.
Grandmother Grandmother, unbraid my hair,
bathe me in sweetgrass, be with me in prayer.
Grandmother Grandmother, wash me in light,
wrap me in mystery's indigo night.
Grandmother Grandmother, hold me to you breast,
feed me your wisdom and comfort my quest.

Grandaughter Grandaughter, your heart is my drum
in past times of being and times yet to come.
Grandaughter Grandaughter, let me comb your hair,
light up the sage, let me wrap you in prayer,
sweet mystery there,
the depth a woman shares.

Grandfather Grandfather, my hands are your fire,
trusting and dancing are all that's required.
Grandfather Grandfather, I braid back my hair
and set to the work we humans all share.
Grandfather Grandfather, help me today
among my relations I touch on the way.
Grandfather Grandfather, walk by my side
in rhythm with my heart and the ocean's tide.

Grandaughter Grandaughter, your hands are my fire,
open and ready to do what's required.
Grandaughter Grandaughter, walk here by me,
we'll share the stories, the ones yet to be,
sweet mystery,
the distance a man can see.

In the distant depths of my chemical sea,
Grandmother, Grandfather,
the God that made me.
When I need counsel,
the balance I see,
is to walk beside Him and
sit next to She.
When I need counsel,
the balance I see,
is to walk beside Him and
sit next to She.

Artwork by Charles Frizzel

When Christ and Mohammed Meet

2009-10-28T07:45:00.000-07:00

When Christ and
Mohammed meet,
they greet one another
like loving brothers,
why can't we do the same;
must it be Crusades
in their name for
more accursed gain?

They both speak of love
and what we're made of,
choices, voices
and reason,
rejoicing and fasting
in season,
intent and service
and freedom.

The both shed tears
over follies and fears,
Man's inhumanity
to Man,
human calamity
to land,
buried oil in a sea
of sand.

When Christ and
Mohammed meet,
they take their seats
as prophets of peace
and greet one another
as loving brothers,
why can't we do the same;
end the Crusades
in their name for
some accursed gain?

Then we will meet
and greet one another
as sisters and brothers
in Christ and
Mohammed's name,
and so cleanse
the bloody stain,
from the cross,
from crescent moon;
dragonflies land on
a soldier's tomb,
its shadow lifting
from a maiden's womb.

The Summer of Sisters

2009-10-26T13:03:00.000-07:00

The form of this poem was based on Sherman Alexie's brilliant piece called "Summer of Black Widows"

The Summer of Sisters

The Sisters appeared suddenly
after that early summer sandstorm.

Some would say the Sisters came within a furious wind,
others would swear they broke from the very rocks,
ground for generations into sand.

Grandmothers knew the Sisters carried
stories deep in their grain;
the grandmothers knew and looked away.

Husbands wore their boots through the fields
of stories fallen, only poppies weeping.
Sons gritted stories in their teeth. Stories swirled
red and forbidden against unforgiving sun.
Little girls tied scarves and stories round their curls.

Taliban men tried to shake the stories clinging
to the ends of their fingers, woven through their lines.
Stories pulled upon their twisted beards.

Stories in caves--
Stories stoned--
Stories in courtyards--
Stories whispered between burkas--
Stories shared through the cloistered tiles.

The Sisters would not leave with the summer and grain would cling to grain.
They had come with stories carried in their bellies to pass around and hold,
to stand in the sand, shifting and shaping the rock of women, of Afghanistan.

Tropical Haikus

2009-10-26T12:18:00.000-07:00

One day I decided to explore the pictures in my memory, pictures of growing up in Southeast Asia. Haiku seemed like a nice form to use for them.

The writer begins
with the watcher in a world
not of their making

*******

Searing sun so pale
everything else is colour
in defiant joy

*******

Emerald jungle
water just sits on the air
I hear my breathing

*******

Falling drumming rain
a wall of liquid rhythms
monsoon horizon

*******

Baby jellyfish
my hands stinging in wet sand
Indian Ocean

*******

Layered horizons
in river and bay and sea
wavering with heat

*******

Sweet and surprising
hidden beneath thick spiked skin
pearly rambutan

*******

Growing through the fence
iridescent in moonlight
white spider lily

*******

Sustenance and peace
patterned reflection of light
rice paddies sunrise

*******

Wind caressing palms
palms caressing sky and sand
sea caressing shore

*******

Deep end of the pool
chlorine blue this solitude
mermaid and captive

*******

Moonlight makes shadows
so moonbeams can tell stories
through open windows

*******

Teasing scorpions
long sticks and quickly curled tails
jump and run laughing

*******

There were tigers then
the jungle reached for the roads.
Tiger-eating Man!

*******

Muezzin's dawn prayer
each brand new day takes a breath
before it begins

*******

Joss sticks' smoke curling
musky pungent aroma
rises in morning

*******

Stray dogs and children
in spiced and dusty alleys
forbidden to me

*******

Butter in silver
yellow frozen curls served by
dark sweating waiters

*******

On the Tuan's lawn
hypnotic circular dance
of gardener's blade

*******

Everywhere was wild
they told me not to go there
there I had to go

*******

Rubber trees in rows
milky white droplets hanging
solid from their spouts

*******

Little boy lama
shaved shy smile in saffron robes
beads and wooden bowl

*******

Cigarette smoke thick
laughter slamming mah-jong tiles
milky lucky jade

*******

Orange papayas
clustered black pearl slimy seeds
my face in heaven

*******

Water buffalos
small naked brown boys swimming
while my skin just burns

*******

Photo by Gregory Colbert

On The Wind

2009-10-26T12:05:00.000-07:00

I am no cultivated flower,
no product or progeny
of home soil,
no homecoming queen,
nor conquering hero
defined by lines
made in sand,
nations of the moment.

My seed was born wild and
carried on the wind,
sprouted crossing seas and
storms of intimate darkness,
roots reaching somewhere
just beyond the moment,
just between the atoms.

I will touch lightly
the lands I light upon,
rest sweetly a moment
on the Mother's breast,
seeking all my days her
secret and sacred places,

to birth myself again and again,
until my robes shred and fly
on the wind,
like the fading coloured
prayer flags
on a distant, high plateau.

A Friend Waits

2009-10-26T11:54:00.000-07:00

You are the friend
who waits for me,
steadfast on a rock
at the crossroads
of serendipity,
the journey between,
mine alone,
thy journey thine,
each and all
through time.

You are the friend
who waits for me,
steadfast by a fire
in the twilight
of what was to be,
we measure between
spark and flame,
this lighted line,
each and all
through time.

You are the friend
who waits for me,
steadfast on the banks
of a singing river
that flows to the sea,
let sorrows between
rest here while
old rivers wind,
each and all
through time.

You are the friend
who waits for me,
steadfast in the cool
of new morning
that stirs a breeze,
the th0ughts between
know and trust
our journeys' twine,
each and all
through time.

photo by Gregory Colbert