Basic Needs

We need more truth in this world.
More truth. Real truth.
Truth that doesn’t hide behind
The spin we have to mind.

We need more love in this world.
More love. Real love.
Love that doesn’t pretend it’s real,
Amid the foghorn’s peal.

We need more trees in this world.
More trees. Real trees.
Trees that don’t get chopped down
For all the paper crowns.

We need to let go of God.
Each God. Real God.
God that doesn’t need our fist
As reason to exist.

We need more life in this world.
Just life. Truly life.
Life that doesn’t imagine death
As means to keep our breadth.


A tissue box of ugly roses sitting askew atop DVDs.
Their broken player’s four short green lines a disturbing lie.

My guide holds children in a painting of orange, black and yellow.
Stevie Ray and Jimmie, a rare photo, on a shelf marred with grime.

A dirty plate where a sandwich is but a memory of homemade bread
And salmon with fennel dust and arugula.

Bieres de la Meuse, the old tile of an art project not yet begun
The gift from my son. Poetry on the mother’s bearing.

A photo of the woman who saved my life, Saint Ann of Santa Monica,
And me, dressed for Halloween.

My mother, in a frame I need to change.
Photos of my two loves, Johnathan and Seane, as children.

The Lord of the Rings Extended Edition Box set,
Unplayable, in Irish format.

Stacks of music, CDs, DVDs, relics of near history.
Musical stone coasters.

The palm I ignored, still thriving on the patio.
Boxes. And the mess I’ve ignored for months.

My red sweater, dry on the arm of the couch.
Green sweater, taupe sweater, scarves.

The ugliest wall hanging ever. It was a gift from a friend.
A screwdriver, and some pliers.

Open drawers in the kitchen. Dishes that need to be put away.
Pine boughs gently swaying in the cloudy breeze.

Candles, half burned. Cameras, undeveloped.
A couch unkempt.

Dusty ceiling fan. Beams and screens.
Gift baskets and wine.

All mine. Too much. Mine.

Peasantry Beyond the Wall

She stared at the stone arch for hours after he left.
At the field beyond, and the tree.

The single tree where he first stole her kiss,
Her heart, and her sainthood.

The single, innocent tree
About to be murdered by her husband.

“I shall burn it until the flames light the dungeons of hell!”
He screamed.

Her husband. Her old, worn out husband,
With the breath of a dragon and the heart of a wasp.

Her husband. The one who paid for her in gold, five stones,
Before she got too old.

Her husband. Who could no more give her a child than could
A cuke left too long in the sun.

“He’s not coming back, wench.” he screamed. “he’s on to the next
Ripe fruit, to lay bare and pluck.

She stood, barely listening to his feeble rage. His voice,
Hardly a whisper of the bellowing old goat he once was,
Rattled like a bat in a cage.

There was a child in her womb. Not her husbands, but his.
She stared at the distant gate, beyond which lay her peace
In a welcome grave of peasantry.

He said he would meet her there. She had to believe.

The Lady Bartholomew

I am the Lady Bartholomew!
Not some poet’s muse!
How dare he write of me
In lust! Yet gracefully…

That he doth dare to think
I may, in some dark corner,
Spread my blessed wings,
Or entreat his push of things.

“Long and thick,” the maidens say
Chattering I dare not hear.
How dare he come so close, so near!

His scent entices me, like woods and sweat.
His voice, rustic and deep, witnesses the thrill
He simply shall not know. Not now. Not Ever!

My husband would not care for
My curiosity of this theatrical bard.
Is he really, truly as hard
As they say?

If I may, for a moment,
Lie in wait here, nearest his gate
As I prune these roses
For the dinner plate.

I shall not look too long
At what lies beneath his kilt
When I bend to fetch the fallen blossom.

Perhaps I shall trip, and land
Gracefully upon my back
Here in the grass, where none shall see.

But him, and me.
In the shade of the abbey.

He comes!
And I dare not look.
I am his Lady Bartholomew.

Johnathan’s Harmonica

Deep in the Woods of Vladimir it lies
In wait ten thousand years amid the cries
From up above where music had been lost.

The wicked beast no seraphim can kill
Had cast away the harp to make us still.
We danced too much! The harp was gold embossed.

Ten thousand years it lay in wait until
One day it caught the eye of little Will,
A boy so young of heart and old of soul.

“What’s that,” he said, “there in the stream below!”
“Beneath the boulder, speckled gold! What glow,
It has! Like wizards used in days of ol’.”

He picked it up and put it to his lips.
And she appeared in sparkling mystic whips
Of flame. “Don’t blow!” she cried. “Don’t call it forth.”

“Call what?” asked Will. “The dragon!” she replied.
“A dragon from beyond the veil denied
Us all its music. Banished from the north,

It used to be the light o’er all our lands,
Until it came and took it from my hands!
Ten thousand years I’ve searched for what you’ve found.

Please give it back,” the fairy queen implored.
“But finders, keepers; and besides I’m bored.”
Will blew the harp. “It doesn’t make a sound!”

“Not one that you can hear,” she cried. “I fear
The worst is yet to come! He’s coming here!”
The Fairy Queen was gone. The deed was done.

Feathered Flies




The water smells of rubber soles.
Downstream they know
And hide.




A strange insect
Of feathered wings
Lands, then jumps.

There it is again!
Perhaps a swarm
Of feathered food!




Stupid insects!
How they dance
With rhythmic respect.

Here we go!
Dance, oh thou
Feathered wings aglow.




Echos from the wiggling space.


Tastes of unfamiliar ions
And birds.
Gills filled with air,
I am caught.

Beware the fisherman, they said in school.
Beware the fisherman who makes a fool
Of even the wisest of trout.

He fishes down at the water’s edge.
We know him, they said.
They told me so.

You know him by the fins he wears
Nothing in the water bears
Such stench or undertow.
They block the flow,
You know.

I scream and fight
And warn my hundred brothers
Hundred others
Who survived the journey here.

Beware the fisher…
They do not hear.




Good Morning? Seriously?

Not a good morning was this one –
Just to be honest.

A late night at my treasure island of a job
Had me staring through miles of brake lights
In the soft moonlight of
After hours freeway construction.

And then…

And then!
After filling two tanks,
Both mine and the car’s,

Three hours later,
Yes, THREE, two in the
Soft moonlight of construction,

Nearly home, within minutes, of my front door,
Driving through a welcome mist
Called rain here in the drought,

Flashing lights.
Caution cones.

Police cars in the soft mist of hallelujah
Water from the sky!
No moonlight.

DUI checkpoint ahead.
No one’s dead.


“Good morning, Ma’am.”
Oh, yea…. I did leave the office at ten.
It’s nearly one in the moonless misty morning.

“Any alcohol tonight?”

By now, don’t I wish!
Slowed by providence another ten minutes,
To ensure a triple commute.

Thou shalt not save time
Playing hooky
Just to clean the house!

Teens at the curb
Wear smirking smiles
Of mischief
Waiting for Daddy
In pajamas.

Could have been worse.

I’m home!

Sound Bytes

Waves push past tentacles

Quivering in clear blue

Waves thick with life.

Circular flow



Undulating gazpacho

De mer la vive.

Silence not silent.

Not silent.

Loud clattering



City of ancient life

In a silent sea.

Saturday, the Sixth

The night fades in

From the day

Slept away.

Head pounding.

Stomach as full as the kitchen sink.

Whispers of him on the screen

Who kissed my lips at the promenade

Long since gone.

Good Sunday Morning!

I both love and hate Sunday mornings.
Tomorrow, it’s back to work. Back to the
Computer and
If then
For each
Next x.
End sub. Sigh…
I both love and hate my work.

Yesterday was Saturday,
And I’m old now,
So, I slept.
Drank first.
Two stiff gin and tonics.
Ate first. Pasta.
Lots of PASTA.
All because my head felt funny all morning.
Not my usual crunchy fare.
I both love and hate my body.

I feel better today.
Cleared of the Do Until
Loop boggled mind.
Maybe I’ll clean the kitchen today.
I hope.
It’s been a mess for weeks.
Along with this tiny little country cottage.
I both love and hate my house.

Yesterday, I thought too much of my enemies,
And watched too much TV,
And lingered too long on Facebook
With trivial arguments
Over the credibility of Bush
And my acting skills.
I won. I’m a natural they say.
I wish I were rich.
I both love and hate my enemies.

I phoned my daughter.
She wasn’t there.
Well, she was, but not with her phone.
No, she probably had her phone,
But it was on silent.
She gets too many calls.
She’s popular,
And smart,
And beautiful,
And talented,
And creative,
And works too hard.
Chip off the old block.

I thought of my son.
He doesn’t speak to me,
And I don’t know why.
I’m weird, perhaps.
And a witch,
And an actress,
And a poet,
And not his grandfather’s child.
Kidnapped – but he doesn’t believe it.
In Vegas they asked if I was his girlfriend
Gambling for his 21st birthday.
His mother looks too young.
Damned skin care regimen!!

My son is the apple of my eye.
My daughter, the sweetest peach of my heart.

I both love and adore my children.
My children.
My precious, beautiful, smart, perfect,
One of a kind children.

They are all I live for.
All I’ve ever wanted in life.

Except grandchildren….
And kisses
From little baby lips.
Sweet 25% me baby lips.

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