To consume less,
To create more.

We fill the room with noise
To chase down the ghosts
Who slip past us
Without us looking up from
The screen.

To silence this is
To find solace.

To wake up from this slumber
Is to notice the song
Erupting from within

To sing softly
Under the breath
Is to chant like hummingbird wings
And fluttering leaves
And cresting waves

It is not the loud cries from the mountain top
But the whispers in the valley
That carry these words on down feathers and dandelion seeds
Through the mist and the breeze
Until we are heard
Barely, but broadly
Over the sounds of
setting suns
And rising moons,
And shooting stars.
We whisper wishes
And listen for the whimpers
Of those before us

They will not blare
But we will hear them between radio signals
In the static of snow

Remember those days:
Laced with angel hair and
Shards of glass 
The smell of synthetic cinnamon
Candles in the fire place
And it was all about the wait
Anticipation met with
Pine needles gathering
Shiny wrapping paper
Hanging ornaments like
Toys with narratives
Songs sung into canon
Carved into this
Melting pot culture
And the best memories were not
A present
But the gift of time.

My photo albums feed
Online obituaries.
And my yearbook is full
Of platitudes and prayers
I no longer believe.

Faces flicker in the dark,
The light never catching fully.
Synapses firing through caverns.
Memories etched on cave walls.
A smile -
A laugh:
The perfect epitaph.
But I don't know them
And they don't know me
Not really.
Not any more.

It is easier to post
Celebrity obits
On social media
Than to know what words to use
To grieve these ghosts.

We flip through images,
Waiting for them to come back,
Wondering if they already did.
These ghosts have been gone.
Memories buried in these graves.
Long before death.

Laughter rumbles deep,
From within became without,
Joyful as we weep.

My third eye
weeps
and runs dry.
She blinks
slowly
and the darkness
creeps.
She closes to
constant
sounds
and busy
ness
She stares
for a long time
unable to focus.
I must rub
the sleep out.

Words tattoo themselves.
I cannot forget the voice.
The silence deafens.

Once there was a pause between meetings and greetings.

Once we dipped feathers in ink,

Giving words time to sink,

And used penmanship,

and flowery language,

To impress with, we hoped,

The impression of initials,

Dipped in wax,

Sealing the envelope.

Do you remember,

Waiting by the phone?

Making sure it wasn’t off the hook,

Relieved to hear the dial tone,

You’d take another quick look,

And worry that in those few seconds you picked it up,

They got a busy signal.

Once there was a pause between meetings and greetings.

And now,

those means of communication,

Are always within reach,

We become part of the constant conversation,

With a chat,

An email,

A facebook message,

A text.

And you start to wonder,

What’s next?

How soon do you reply?

Is it ok to follow them on twitter,

Before the twitterpation is returned?

Can I profess my love aloud?

And share it on a cloud?

Do you use shorthand, acronyms and emoticons?

Can you LOL at your true love?

When do you become Facebook official?

And does it start to feel more real?

When the relationship is also virtual?

Thinner Than Blood

Blood lines cut into
Urban landscapes
As we plan for our escapes
From small towns and small minds
Our youth confines
Familial relations replaced
In these new places
By these chosen faces
Who we add to our lives
Like husbands choose wives
But where does loyalty lie
When we need it most
When we’re raw
When we fall
When our thick blood thins
And spreads on pavement
Broken skin on hard cement
We are this series of transitory moments
We sit alone in small rooms
In tall buildings
Wanting more
Are we not just strangers?
We put on airs and pretend
As we deadbolt the door
We scurry around the alleys of this city
Like rats seeking
Nibbles of love
Scraps of dignity
Crumbs of loyalty
Starving for attention
For connection
To be known
Wanting more
But we come up short
And alone

Leave the phone at home.

It feels good

to leave the phone,

at home.
to walk out the door
without the vice
of a device.
to watch the tick
of addiction
as you go to check it,
but it's not in your pocket.
it feels good.
to be diconnected.
to be reconnected.
it feels good to experience life first-hand,
with our own eyes and ears
and just our memories are there to record it all

Inspired by:

And:

Lunar Fray

 

The full moon is rising,
And she is sizing,
Me up.

The moon wants a fight,
As she takes on the night.
I must be a loon,
If I want to fight the moon.
If I want to pull her from her pull,
But not pull these punches.
As she rises full.

 

I’ve been training for this day,
Much to the moon’s dismay,
To put on this ludicrous display,
Welcome to this lunar fray.

A Response to the Media's Disaster Porn

i don't want to be in a dark corner,
isolated from current events,
nor bombarded with the incessance.
does the headline make the pain go away?
does the death count justify my politics?
does the bleeding lead to anything but ad sales?
the link leads to nothing.
the story has no content.
we grieve.

Welcome to the Fuckery

If this doesn't break you,
you're doing it wrong.
Listen carefully:
This is not a love song.
And this is not some hippie love fest.
It's a fest in fuckery, at best.
Don't harsh your mellow?
Aren't you a wishful fellow.
Don't mellow my harsh.
Go back to your dreams of a marsh.

Welcome to the desert.
Where we are hung out to dry,
Where you will cry,
Where part of you will die.
And in those moments of mortality,
And varying morality,
You may sense the totality,
Of this world and everything in it.
You know those piling levels of shit,
In porta-potties serviced by,
The dollar you claim should die,
All that you knew was a lie.
Floating off in this hot, dusty wind.

The desert gets to the core,
Our bodies, our egos, grow sore.
Welcome to the dark side of the desert.
Welcome to the breakdown.
Welcome to it.

 

 

I am letting free,
this discontented,
self-doubt inside of me,
Or trying,
Rather.
This attempt at confidence.

I am burning words that flicker,
In the recesses of my memory,
Revealing through cobwebs of insecurity,
Echoes of unkindness,
That left behind this mess,
A typical scenario.
I am letting them go.

 

Sandals. No coat. Good hair.
Extra pep, in my step.
Is it spring?
Is that a thing?
Yep.

Increases to my daily dose of d,
Increases to my oxygen supply,
I am increasingly free.

Liberation is found in the tilt of my axis.

Pollen floats in the air.
My nose drips.
My eyes crust.
I don’t care.
A fine yellow layer like dust and
little pink petals coat cars.

No socks. Short skirts. Crisp shadows.
The benches and steps are full.
Pulled out of hibernation.

I am the sun dial,
Placing my feet,
Facing the glare.
I’ll stare,
into the sun,
squinting and squeeling.

And so we met spring,
In turbulent gusty rain,
Yet, this hummingbird.

Can't Sleep

I am full of conversation,
To be had,
Thought provocation,
Is not a fad,
I am wanting,
To go deep,
Thoughts are haunting,
I can't sleep.

Look me in the eye,
Dear Stranger on the street,
for in this passing moment,
our souls shall meet.

Know me,
and I will know you back.
We can dance in this city
we’ve painted black.

Hold my hand and
Let’s jump.
Trust becomes
the ultimate trump.

We’ll free fall together,
and improvise;
Ready to say yes,
and…
to the echoes of our outcries.

It is my hope to connect,
And treat your dreams with respect.

We give the shirt off our backs,
to the guy we just met:
humbly, with gratitude,
and without regret.

Sharing our souls,
with Strangers on the bus,
this is how I know,
this choice is a must.

sacred space

I spent this weekend at a retreat. When I sat down to begin the experience, I penned this on the first page of my notebook (with some slight edits.) I look at it as an invocation of sorts.

 



 

as we enter this sacred space,
and choose to accept the gift of grace,
let’s slow down to a snail’s pace,
to share the smile upon your face.
to be open to the universe,
or god or fate or happenstance,
whatever gets the soul to dance,
perhaps it’s really all of the above,
grounded in unconditional love.

If I am going to be blinded,

May it be from warm sun on my face,

Washing me into this contented place.

she at the Alle' Stage

Here's a little video of The Urban Poetess performing she at the Alle' Stage in Port Angeles. Thank you, Rebel on Stage, for recording this and putting the show together!