Lace Wings

His hands - tender
and big and calloused
cradled the lacewing
struggling to loosen
the web's sticky throttle
hold. Released, its gossamer
shadow flies off into the night.

His hands - tender,
and big and calloused
have likewise saved me
from entrapment. He opens
doors - setting me free. His yes
face and shining eyes assure
my return. He is my home, my light.

Advertisement

Itinerate trobairitz
available to

tell stories
write poems

set tables
light candles

sing songs
compose meals

arrange flowers
kindle fires

hold your aching heart
catch your tears

kiss and wave Godspeed
on this sacred, perilous journey.

Testing for Marine Grade

Certified marine grade plywood
used for boats is stress
tested by boiling,
freezing, boiling again
and freezing once more.

The layers must stand up to pressure
without the lamination springing apart
under duress. It's not impervious
to water, but if joints and surfaces
are finished properly it
will stand up to wet and damp
without leaking as long
as maintenance requirements
are met.

I'm his workmanship, his poema.
He must have ordered marine grade
to build me. I feel some ribs creak
and the hull shudder, but I'm holding
together, maintaining momentum.
Elasticity keeps me from the scrap heap.

I recently heard about a young girl
who left food for crows who visited
her yard. The grateful
birds started leaving gifts -
stolen gifts, but over time the stash
makes an impressive collection - shiny
trinkets and odd bits.

My curiosity is growing
about a crow who's voice makes me shudder.
My curiosity is growing
about a crow with robber instincts.

I'm becoming friends with an amiable
and mutually curious, black-winged,
strong beaked, bold bird who visits
my back yard and bullies the robins. I know

changing my mind is doable. A clerk in a hat
shop helped when she plopped a black,
straw boater on my crown. It's cute - look in the
mirror, she said. The hat changed my
mind about a belief I'd held a long time.
I didn't think I could wear hats.
If I can wear hats - might I
learn to like crows? This could be
dangerous.

Impetus

Scott Cairns' forays
into holy mountain
pilgrimages and noetic
explorations leave the
edges of my soul wild
with yearnings girdled
by envy -- envy neither
green nor curdled.

Trees wait for children ...

Wonder Full

Water Dogs and Bird Baths

After a swim
dogs stand with four
feet planted steady
and shake their soggy,
baggy coat like
a washing machine
agitating a heavy load
prior to the spin cycle.
Water flies. They smile.

Birds bathe every morning
outside my window
as I drink coffee and watch
them abandon themselves
to frenzied flapping.
Water whips into a creamy
froth of ecstatic joy. Beaks
can't bend into gummy,
toothy canine smiles. In lieu of it,
they sing. I wish I could make
water fly and shake
my troubles off
in this exact way.

The New Homeless

I saw a young couple 

lingering in McDonald's

parking lot carrying new

bags stuffed with nice 

belongings. She didn't know

the pillow she clutched 

cased in white

would be the first soiled,

soggy item discarded. 

I wanted to beg them 

to turn around

and start over again 

at home before

the dealers

talked them into easy 

money, and a dirty death

requiring loyalty minus

clean sheets. 

Dry Ground

My breasts and womb
have dried up. I'm finished
nourishing new life.

I grieve the familiar
ways my body produced
these miracles.

Now - if only my false self's
ego would pause, dry up and be
done confusing me -
I could be fruitful again.

Find a Way

Rocks allow 

delicate roots

access. But do 

they realize

 tender 

persistence

has power

to break, 

to crack, 

to crumble 

hardness? 

Amada

Inteligente 
soothes wounds
tonta scraped raw.

Competente 
erases bruises
inútil tattooed black.

Bonita
covers graffiti
gorda vandalized ugly.

Insultos leave injurious
wounds -- lies dressed
up like truth.

My beloved, crooned,
mi amada, seen in the
twinkle of loving eyes --
may take away the taint --
but stains and scars remain
proving how a woman
survives until she thrives.





For my new friend. She shines.  

Letter From Elleanor

A slow note tucked into an envelope

with a stamp stuck in the corner

penciled poetry and graphite art - 

profound truth spoken

and sent. 

Thank you Elleanor, you made my day. You're an artist and a poet. I especially 

like the hummingbirds sipping nectar everywhere…..

Lament

I want to post a want ad
to find new friends. They
must be atheists or agnostics
or part of the underground
practicing being the church
unchurched.

The institution of church --
the busy business of church

leaves no margin --
leaves no white space

to linger over sharing
broken selves and bread
or drinking the full bodied
blood of poetry.

How ironic is this?

Offscourings

Tires drown in sewer muck

where ducks feed. 

 A marriage bed loses 

its sacred status.

A thistle offers

a pink brushstroke

 of redemption. Metal

dreams sorted 

and craned nightmare high

 rust a recycled sigh. 

What lies behind this door? 

Hauled Out

A skipper keen on maintaining the means 

by which his dreams navigate the straights,

 coves, currents, tides, and shorelines --

hauls his boat once a year. The barnacle clad 

bottom needs washed and scraped and painted. 

The keel needs repaired. Rudders want debrided.

 Bronze craves a polish. Bright work begs 

  a sanding followed by a buffed glassy shine. 

Haul me out. 

I need my transom primed - prepared 

for my new name -- a fresh 

christening every time.

Ted Shell's Bike Made Me Smile and Smile and Smile

We met Ted Shell outside 

West Marine in Tacoma where he found 

and bought the missing piece. 

His bike - a showstopper - I 

couldn't let him get away without 

framing his  story of purposeful

repurposing and whimsical

pairings of rust and tape and polish. 

People ask him 

to build them one - but he

 wishes they would dream big 

enough to use their own

 imagination and playfulness. 

His creative spirit rebelled at 

confining rules taking away

  the license to be free

I found him and his bike 

fascinating. I'm 

easily enchanted. 

Writer's Retreat - Lummi Island - May 2015

The beach taught us 

multiple scenes and turn-arounds,

take-aways and dialogue. 

The sand invited us to 

 pocket beach glass and let

 poetry find us. 

The water floated us

 into story-lined epiphanies --

buoys anchored by words.

Nancy, thanks for being jealous and doing something about it. There's a wide black mark on my Storyline….a before and after. None of us will every be the same.