12. Head Map

As I create reality

in definition and construct

Fear based thinking leaks

into   collusion

like a version of a

recurring nightmare.

Strength and love

and courage

A fortress to behold… Where I am my greatest enemy

a critic and a scold.

The intricacies woven, between my very eyes

Beguiles and enchants me with their subtle, weary lies.

Castles in the sand befall high tide and kicking feet

Memories enshrined in text, crumble to the sea.

Begone, Self Doubt!

You serve me not. I am and what is more

I am enough, as I am…  as I am.

Love, it  will endure.

11. The Jig

Dance a jig upon the ridge

with foaming surf below

to whisk and blend with sky and wind

and spirit, to and fro.


Quickly as the bow reveals

the tones and tunes array

the Celtic lines, do re-define

the balance, and the fray.


Fiddle quick and fiddle fine

Bestir an ancient fire

Music as a tinderbox

creation to inspire.

10. Eyes Open

Everywhere I look

another shade

to see…

spectrum, hue, intensity

in baffling degree.

Iridescent, incandescent…

rapture for a tone.

Back lit in an opal

subtle in a bone.

Woven threads and feather blends

speckles, polkas, dye!

Neon glow intensity

rainbows in the sky.

Iris blooms and lily wings

visions in

my eye.

And if sight was gone tomorrow

color still I’d see

inside my mind

behind my eyes

in shades

of brilliancy.


9. Spider

Oh spider

so patient in your corner, hiding

amongst invisible strands

to trap unaware

all who would fly between.


With gentle geometry

you weave intricate, delicate


that when bejeweled with morning dew,

as diamonds would


in simplicity.


Oh Spider,

your brilliant self-sufficiency



8. Drift Away

“At the point where language falls away…”  first line from “Spelling”, by Margaret Atwood.


Songs and poems and words we dream at

beneath the sleep of night, and the

beginning of another thought, a point

a dance, a light… where

every line becomes a  language

to be seen… whereupon it falls

and drifts away.

7. Beneath My Skin

Deep within, beneath my skin

my heart, my pulse, unite.

I see my bones, my muscle tones

my blood

in liquid night.


The boundaries

between my heart, and where my brain would go

I melt like ice, in heat



to let go.


Feelings roll like waves or more

like shadows on the lawn

they come, they go, they pass…some slow

revealing what

they know.


Deep within, beneath my skin

beyond my ego lies

a spirit of infinity

relation to

all life.



6. Process

A verse… adverse

reverse, re-write…re-do!

Addiction to the form.

Complete, repeat

all right… delete!

A vision

to reform.


Decisions and revisions,

edit, shed it, let it go…

reactions and restrictions…

dedication to the show

off in my brain.


Dedicate, reiterate

enunciate in prose…

between the lines

I find in time

a space

where all

is known.


5. The Lake

I remember the wind in my hair

riding my Schwinn down the hill to

the Lake….

Summer, so long on fun

so carefree and abundant.

Our easement had a lock

and rack full of canoes (one of them Mine!)

and a dock with a slide and a diving board.

Next door was the fancier Country Club version, but I preferred our humble piece

of the Lake.

With my friends, we would lift the canoe

into the water

and paddle as Huck Finn

on back bay adventures,

carrying it over shallow rocky inlets.

Later, my friends

were old enough to pilot

their parents’ boats.

We inner tubed and water skied

and generally cruised

the Lake.

(Watch out for the Lake Patrol!)

As I grew older,

we began to make fun of the lake…

it’s smell, it’s algae blooms,

the human wealth

upon it’s shores.

But we still enjoyed it’s bounty.

In wintertime, I went there alone

writing poems

to the sound of water lapping

upon the dock.

I remember the Lake

it’s welcoming cool depth,

it’s freedom and adventure.

For this

I am grateful.


4. Comfort

My weary heart finds comfort

in words we wrote between

our delicate emotions

witnessing a scene.


My weary heart finds comfort

beneath the open sky

expansive in it’s bounty

reflected in it’s high.


My weary heart finds comfort

revealing mind to pen

releasing all emotions

perspective, once again.


3. Desire


breathe deep

for broken dreams

suppress the lungs

in  denial.

Beauty, in it’s desolation,

ravaging in reclamation…

all is impermanent.

(Alpenglow, beneath the snow, has purchased much desire)

Where promises despair

whispered in the air

abandoned as mercurial





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