•January 10, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Dear dove, the raven she
Was written out of history
Dried the land
For fauna free
She bore both light and mystery


Artwork: Undercover by JL Gribble on

Winter Sun

•January 6, 2017 • Leave a Comment

The winter sun
She smirks this day
Shrouded by cloud
Her edges blur
To spite her burn
She bares
A sultry silhouette
And wears with quirk
The gloom of moon



Artwork by Chrissiecool

I Remain

•January 4, 2017 • 4 Comments

These days I stay
Not so far from
All knots and gnawing
I keep myself
No chewing just
All hips and ribs
Thick skin nonnexistent
Only backbone
No clean plate
But slating
So all I taste is drive to be
And waiting
Until my next real meal
These days I will, I will


Painting by Leila Ataya

My Hands

•December 5, 2016 • Leave a Comment

My hands pressed flat and steady
Willfully still and splayed
Against the cool hard surface
Of my wooden waiting desk
I see an outline forming
From my steam and body heat
A lingering impression
Of unflinching fingertips
I choose this crime of ration
An offering of monument
I wait arrest or inspiration
My palms and prints as evidence



Photography: I’m Fine, by Corah Louise


•November 21, 2016 • Leave a Comment

After peace burns
Water on fire
Blue sky’d storm clouds
Rooted tree filed
To spires
Unceasing peak
Plus land sliding
Aflame and rumbling
Piercing and tumbling
Stillness makes space
For strange nature
All kinds


Painting: Treesong, artist unknown

I’ll go on…

•November 17, 2016 • 3 Comments

I have been absent, mostly absent, from my writing and from engagement in my previous passions. I’ve always worked in fits and starts, but this time the fit of pausing has thrown me. I don’t know why I share the following musings here or now, except that I feel the need to write it down, and send it out, into the ether…

So I am sober, have been for over a year, and what has it done for me? It has made my body and brain healthier, connected the two, which holds great value for someone like me. But…it has also revealed a mess, a mess that I can now actually see and feel. When I was drinking, I was indeed also a mess, but I was numb enough to think I had the answers, or at least some answers. The problem with sobriety is that now I cannot turn away, or numb myself, from the glaring truth that I actually have NO answers. And, it has stopped me in my tracks. I have been stuck. How in the world can I be an activist, a thinker, a speaker, a creator, a lover, a liver (pun)….with no answers? I have felt helpless in the face of my own smallness, my own humanity, and the bigness of human searching and the world’s problems. This election has in no small way made this immobility worse. It has been a year of big changes, upheavals, disruptions, and hunkering down. But it has also been a year of grit, of connection, of tenacity, of learning to feel, love, and trust. Maybe now it is time to reexamine my small plot of land. Where do I now stand? Perhaps it is time to look down, and around, so I can know where to step…so I can know from where to leap, to begin my next “witch’s flight.”

I’ve always asked lots of questions, but I was comforted (comfortably numb) by thinking I had some answers to those questions. Now it seems clear to me that I do not have any answers, and may not ever. But, perhaps there is a space in this life for one who asks questions, a contrarian thinker, an embodied seeker, a dark and aberrant but curious creator. Maybe I start there, and just maybe there is value in that: knowing I am a human mess with no answers, but one with countless ways to ask hard questions…and one who is brave enough to know she may find no answers, but she still lives embodied each day, moving forward, asking and seeking anyway.

I defer to Samuel Beckett:

You must go on.

I can’t go on.

You must go on.

I’ll go on. You must say words, as long as there are any – until they find me, until they say me. (Strange pain, strange sin!) You must go on. Perhaps it’s done already. Perhaps they have said me already. Perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story. (That would surprise me, if it opens.)

It will be I? It will be the silence, where I am? I don’t know, I’ll never know: in the silence you don’t know.

You must go on.

I can’t go on.

I’ll go on.

…and so I will…

…and I’ll  keep asking…


Image from the play Not I, by Samuel Beckett

Am I

•November 17, 2016 • 5 Comments

Born 41 years
Ago tomorrow Am I
Born once more today



Painting by Vladimir Kush

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