POETRY

I wrote my first poem at five years old. The medium swept me up in its magical ability to create an entire world of feeling in only a few words. With our ever dwindling attention spans, poetry becomes more urgent a format than ever for telling our stories, motivating us to action and being in relationship with the world. 


As Mary Oliver said, “Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”

ONE DAY I HOPE TO BE A GARDEN

Look –


At my best I am a rainbow

No end, no beginning

Just some stunning arc

Bending over backwards

To make a few smiles

After the storm


Most days I am a graveyard

Tripping over shit I lost

Crying diamonds,

Trying to shake it off

Every which way a statue for

All I said but wish I hadn’t

Or didn’t but wish I did


See that might sound

Sad or something

But all graveyards

Are just big parks

Festooned with tiny flowers,

Billowing trees

Graveyards command

Respect from folks

For paying homage

To all life’s heartaches

So public-like and graceful


One day I hope to be a garden

Sometimes vibrant with flavor

Other times – tuckered out

From giving – fallow

Still as the dew of dawn

My soft hand reaching out

To life’s winters with

A deep squeeze as if to say,

“Hold on tight now –

Before you know it,

We’ll be all lavender and filigree

And laughing in the wind”

THE UNHOLDABLE NATURE OF ALL THINGS

SONNET FOR QUEERS
WHO LOVE STRAIGHTS

Am I allowed to feel the things I feel?

Am I allowed to say the things I say?

Is what I tell you really even real?

If it appears to be another way?


If flowers bloom without an eye to see,

And vanish before anyone can know,

Can flowers say they ever came to be

Or can they not lay claim to their own glow?


I wouldn’t blame you if you can’t believe

My heart is more complex than what I wear

Precariously on my outer sleeve

But how I love is my own cross to bear


So when you ask how I identify

I’ll tell you that there’s more than meets the eye

CORONA WISHLIST

GOLDEN HOUR

There is loneliness

Somewhere in the golden hour

Like, how could right now


Possibly return

Tomorrow and the next day,

The day after that?


I suppose we know

It might not / for us at least

So we weep for man

MOTHER I & II

FIELD  SUCCESSION

leave me alone
quit your cultiviating
emotional agriculture
the coaxing of my spirit
into neat little rows
quit spreading your shit
all over me
hoping it turns into
something you can
profit on
let me return
to my wild state
at first a dandelion
quiet, flailing, fragile
eventually something
woody, thorny, indeterminable
all spread out
completely 
unbridled 
by the will
of man

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