Hour Twenty-Four: Wish Against Wish

Vacant eyes, hollowed out,

beneath the pupils, nothing,

living in a war-torn city,

rebuilding too far-off-future,

then you see she’s gone.


I had a friend named Desiree,

desired, desirer, desire,

Sister to longing, daydreaming

the night-long of fame and song,

and wind-blown hair silhouettes.


A wish he once had, only to

love who he touched, touching

how he loved humanity, he loved

me, and hoped only for the best,

a pipe dream’s tuneful beckoning.


Without expectation, aspiration,

goals, and dreams, we trudge

the drudgery, life’s dull trails,

without hope beyond mere living;

Salvation’s well overflows with hope.

Hour Twenty-three: No return

Domes, unicycles, key rings, arenas,

only infinite perfection in this circular space,

no hard angles, sharp edges, jagged saws,

in the protected lands.


Soft voices and hands,

plump hens and heiresses,

rounding the hill tops to home,

a mounded cupola, an igloo, a yurt,

no plaits but curls.

waves, arches, crowns,

all year round,

roundabouts full of beetles,

scarab rings and necklaces

they wear with semi circle smiles.


Flight patterns and arguments,

discoid, rings and hoops,

u-turns atop u-turns,

the land of no return orbits

planets, looping stars and suns,

gas balls infernal, eternal, annular

and endlessly unfree.

Hour Twenty-two: The Witching Hour

Tragedy meets with it.

Taking the fifth, sealed lips, loose lips,

the ones that sink ships,

and mute zoom calls and disorders.

Soundless words,

wordless sounds,

Simon and Garfunkel sang them.


When the ringing of church bells cease,

the last vibration dies,

what’s left but the absence,

a gaping hole, cilia stiff and unperturbed.


The musical score’s rest,

the monk’s vow,

and the moment’s bowed head,

respecting the dead,

say it, without speaking, sighing, singing,

snoreless sleep,

a canine’s thoughts,

dreams and visions,

sound off,



Hour Twenty-One: Running

Running into an old friend at the local coffee house,

we exchanged updates, what the kids are doing,

the old man’s work and music, jobs, and housing.


“Do you run any more?”


Marathons, half marathons, 10-k’s, 5-k’s, mud runs, fun runs,

I used to do them all, just because I could.

My knees held out, but my ankles caved from soccer, and

then I turned to a low-impact lifestyle.


“No, I stopped running a while back. I teach yoga now.”


And we chatted about the studio, my writing, teaching, volunteering,

return to school–only 100 hours left for my practicum–and the dogs,

cat, travels, certifications, and businesses.


“Wow! You’re so busy.

Even back then, you coached soccer, volunteered at school,

headed the art program, managed two club teams, ran a law office and

two kids to soccer gamesĀ up and down the coast.

And then, didn’t you take your parents in?”


“I did. They lived with me for ten years before they died.”


And now, just the two of us, the cat, the dogs, and my ten jobs, in a two-bedroom

above my yoga studio, one of three businesses I run…


Busy-ness, so my therapists say, is a symptom of trauma.


I guess I’m still running.



Hour Twenty: Dinacharya

Mornings set the tone of the day, and patterns comfort the mind

that seeks rhythm, meter, color schemes, and conspiracies.


I rise and evacuate in the lavatory across the hall as I shed sleep.

Pulling out the copper wishbone, I rinse and scrape my tongue, then

place a half teaspoon of coconut oil between my lips and swish.

With ballooned cheeks and taut jaw, I prepare the kitchen table:

half lemon, hot water, coffee, gluten-free bread, half an avocado,

garlic salt, knife, multi vitamin, cranberry juice pill, and probiotics.


And while the bread toasts, I scoop a cup of kibble for eager Artemis

(the other one stays under the bed until a decent hour for rising), and

grab a little garlic salt to sprinkle atop the avocado on toast, squeeze

lemon in hot water, spit out the oil, brush my teeth, swallow my pills,

cream the avocado on toast, and sip my coffee to the crunching jaws

and wagging tail, slapping the cabinet doors, as I play word games on

my phone, read news, messages from the universe, and check my

morning emails before setting off downstairs to open the back door

for the awaiting kitty cat, then hit the bath, where I practice pranayama,

meditate, stretch, dress, and write the morning gratitude for the day.


Dinacharya, life rituals order my mornings, no matter how the

remaining hours unravel in the frayed edges of orderly chaos.


Hour Nineteen: A Chamber Full of Chaos

Brass bed, piled high with sheets, dogs, and dog chews,

a mostly-covered vent across to muffle the noise from the studio below,

Picasso’s woman and bird overhanging a cluttered desk,








and CBD bottles,

black out curtains draping a balcony slider,

two hard cased cellos in the corner by the window,

abutting the shrunken armoire that supports

a pile of books,

sound machine,


and journals,

behind the chair that faces

the music stand, Bach’s “Arioso” open, sitting atop a limp bow,

and to the right is the green whitewashed wooden dresser,



ceramic boxes my mother made for me as a child,


Paolo Santo,

a yogini tea light burner,

and essential oils,

atop and adjacent to the closet,

white panels, white walls, white Picasso,



and metal,

this is where I sleep, play, pray, and work.

Hour Eighteen: My Old Haunt

We all worked there–the entire family.

It would always happen when we were in the back,

with the cameras poised to capture store traffic.

Chopping strawberries or pineapple into bite size toppings,

I’d look up and see a figure enter the glass entrance door,

pull off my food safety plastic gloves,

wiping my hands on my apron as I entered the front–

to find no one.


All of us had the experience.

Not even counting the time I searched everywhere for the mochis,

nowhere to be found; I gave up and busied myself with stocking paper cups,

when SLAM, a package of mochis slapped the cement, seemingly from the roof.


A psychic said a meth addict died behind the store, a young man.

So, when I stood in my own home, facing the kitchen entryway,

the others with their backs to the door,

I asked, “Who’s that?”

When they turned, the long-haired, young man in the long trench coat was gone.

Hour Seventeen: The Pose

Start with your feet hip-width distance apart.

Begin to slow the breath, noticing your weight evenly distributed between both feet.

Find your drshti; balance is breath and focus, strength and faith.

One last slow breath…

Now shift your weight over to one leg, keeping the knee unlocked, accessing the quad.

Take a slow breath in and out.

Then place one foot atop the one bearing your weight now, gently, with little-to-no-weight, resting there.

Extend your arms out to a tee, one arm at a time.


Three more slow breaths.

Now slowly sweep your arms back behind you as you curve your spine forward over the bent knee.

Bow your head, redistribute your weight to the ball of your supporting foot.



Think pink.

Fluff of feathers,

Channel your inner flamingo.

Hour Sixteen: Dear John

Dear John,

You never said it, but I sense you want to–

After all, an apology is due.

Forgive me for upstaging you,

preempting your magnanimity,

with a sorry reveal: blue for I’m sorry, baby, please forgive me, and

**********************pink for I was wrong and accept the consequences of my poor choices.

Yet, the gender myth alone is reason for humility, a clinging rationale and homage to hormones.


Choice, you say, free will, black and white, vote with your feet, let the market decide, and God’s will.

One nation under God, ironically, the one you defend (Do Gods need defending?)

would punish my daughters for whom they choose to love.


No justifications necessary, you are what’s been poured into you.

It’s on me.

I chose.

Sorry, not sorry.







Hour Fifteen: A Listening Point of View

Shouting does not make me hear you better.

Your voice booms naturally, arguing, singing, storytelling…

The boys across the balcony can hear you revving up about the latest political absurdity.

That phrase you repeated to the kids, “indoor voice,” or

the husky-soft wisps that thread through the air vents when you guide meditation,

those voices I can hear, words so calm and clear a megaphone could not silence them.

You want to be heard.

Speak so I can listen.


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