Stream of consciousness… words & story













Nothingness With Twinkles… Oh!  But What Twinkles!

The kind midget twisted the lemon for juice and pulp. A click drew his attention to a fold in the drapes… is this a joke, he thought?

A twinkle from behind the fabric lit the stitching in shiny neon-like light. It sped and shimmered forward into the air.

Around the kind midget flew flowers and red grapes in temporary light– bright then dissipating, its disappearance an injustice to the sense of sight.

The kind midget had lemonade and thought about imagination.



I opened the curtains yesterday – looked outside myself. Sun swallowing the dark, I saw squirrels on wires, moments in a man’s life as he walked away. I ate blueberries by the window and cried, luscious blueberries, all matte-black-purple and sweet. Clouds (not unlike ghosts) curled in the otherwise blue sky.

I turned to face the room, narrow daylight spread across my feet. Stepping away from the light, I felt a tear plummet to my lips… maybe it’s the last one, I thought, maybe I’ve used them all up.

I saw the makings of yesterday – Japanese characters of twigs and twine. Compassion. Existence. Sacred Fire. It was sweet distraction… searching in the yard for brittle stalks fallen by wind, sifting through shadows, simply living.

Ophelia’s Rue

I noted life in the eyes of others

vibrant life so surprising

that I hid and wept

behind the gravestone of a child

crooked in the earth, unadorned

I drank rue

plunged into the brook

naming the nameless

one breath taken

East of the fog, I settle in for silence

I belong here:  under broadleaf maples

atop the mottled moss

and fallen feathers

The ground is wintry

quiet as a water skipper over the creek

Weight shifting to forest bed

slumber comes to mind

Tucking gauzy white gown around my knees

I draw myself in

I imagine a girl, staring at an ocean

unafraid of its vastness

unafraid of its depth

She stirs, diving into the aqua blue

past the urchins and otters,

the tentacles of octopi

She falls deeper still

surrounded by traces of bubbles

left by the flow of her movements

She is down where there is no light

only the feeling of resistance

between limbs and water

Here, she sets up a house

lives on one breath taken –

taken in the light with wide open eyes

Drifting across anemone

the skeletons of coral

she is asleep and dreaming –

dreaming in the light and of one breath taken

We surface together, the girl and I

A moth rests its powdery wings on our joined hands

We don’t move, we take it all in

Setting amber resin on a small bed of stones

we see fire, we watch

Smoke stretches in flight

a stirring of the very moment


At Night in the Floating City

 At night in the floating city

gargoyles stretch, crawling

from architecture, swelling

across arching bridges

Young women wake

to their own words

like insects they wander

with purpose

They weep into silver buckets

carried to the garden

with simple grace, tears for moonflowers

and gardenias

Night passes softly as swanskin

’til the light of morning spreads

like bolts of scarlet, unwound

002 (2)

For Kate.

Brain Anarchy

Circular thinking takes down sanity

is there intuition in madness?




learn to unlearn

unbind the mind

unrestrict awareness

look but don’t find


is a forever to interpret

language, translation, philosophy

synthesis, mind’s eye, explosions

what it means to mean something


There is a forest I remember… with an oak tree unbelievable in its twining, fantastic limbs.  I turned a bend and there it was, standing in a deep hollow beside the trail.  It was surrounded by steep and unstable banks, just out of reach.  It was safe.

The bark was cracked, casting dark shades in the narrows between.  It was nearly bare of leaves, which had carpeted the ground below, crisp and coiled.  I felt a sense of magic… the higher powers of nature.  For a moment, I belonged.

I was with people I didn’t know, one of those planned hikes for nature fanatics and/or lonely people.  I was both.

Nobody that was there is imprinted in my memory.  I only remember the ring leader telling incredibly stupid jokes, followed by nervous laughter, setting an air of separation amongst the sparse crowd.

Much of the trip followed a brook… music over stones and moss.  We trekked a few challenging miles that day.  I felt my loneliness deepen.  Alone in a crowd.

As I grow older, my journey seems to become even more introverted.  I find peace in words, sewn together into stories.  Peace in solitude and mindful moments.

I sometimes wonder if I am doing myself a disservice, with my increasingly hermetic lifestyle… but it just feels right.

Guanyin rests on my altar, towering above all else that is there, observing the sounds of the world.  Within her, I can hear the brook, see the heart of the oak tree.  The moss is bright, the shadows deep.


A dear friend has passed.  His wife said he saw vivid life in his last hours… beings seen only to him, coming from the corners.  He called to them by name.  I imagine his voice soft, bringing forward all that had been.  Making way.

Crossing my arms around my body, I hold emptiness.  Emptying my life of unhealthy fear, I fill it with hope.  This is my foundation.

I will make this my mantra, until I believe it.  So far to travel, to true acceptance and open-mindedness… I am up for the trip.

For Piet, January 2013




In the shine of sun

a bird hears

what is under the earth

around the pulsing

anchors of trees


Upon vines

a spirit is grafted

in wishes of calm

unending growth


Through light and shadow


as if waking from a dream

certain you can fly