A waiting room of whispers

is inside the moon

poets sip tea 

clink china cups

while bridges of fireflies

arch across her chest

Moon mountains hold news

of friends and kin gone from sight

at dusk soot-winged bats direct traffic

to a star-shine path

hot toes walk cool stones

one door for clouds to enter and rest

Gods and goddesses

pledge silvery secrets

tiaras and marshmallows

are inside the moon

polar bears and icebergs soothed by her air


Magic carpet rides arrive at the moon

carry steaming teapots to our ship of dreams.


I wear my hands today

mostly in secret

as the crows caw

trumpet vine

claws the railing

Sun, rays the porch

to the pulleyed line

you tied from post to oak

across the lawn

A work-pleasure

the clamping on of damp

sails to drink clean breeze

perfume dreams.

Remember the mason jars

full of broken plates,

lined up in the funky green hutch

outside the screen door?

My hands re-made them








dig burdock


hold willow basket     hold kittens

do not withhold cream     hold each other     gaze     hold pages     touch lips     hold the

sign    hold my thigh     hold the brush of color     the lead     the dead wren     hold warm

bread     cut the cold with coffee in bed     do not hold a gun or a blade

to practice removal     do not hold-in sadness or truth     do not hold

or swallow hidden swords       do not follow too close              

do not ignore the soil     do not scratch the scab to bleed again or bring

Jello molds to friends     hold warnings      extinguish taboo    do not hold

loneliness or mourn the mirror     hold each other     hold a spade     a place

at the meeting     do not hold your breath or anyone else’s     do not

withhold imagination     do not smoke too much or drink to tremble

hold green bulrushes     hold a river stone     do not hold back your hip’s

sway     do not buy fur     hold your unwritten scripture pen to page     write as

if holding a feather or gun     shake the can     rattle paints-blood mix     hold

evidence of wide letters sprayed tall     do not leave traces on your pants

do not break panes or doors     hold yourself straight     mountain pose     hold the off

button on your screen     hold butter to pasta     do not hold diamonds

hold snowflakes     wander in internal rhyme     hold the child’s hand      walk the land

walk the land      hold a place.


What made us,
this clan of wounded
ferried across from wholeness
All our precious feet turning 
through interstellar matter?

What blankets our scars, in so much webbing
as to strengthen, cover, bring two sides together?

As we mouth words of open, of tender
of, I expected to walk without a stick.

Like clumsy beetles, pick our way
through green blades and joe-pye weed.

Remarkably, arrive in milkweed fields
as  mariposas, suckle the pink umbels

rooted in earth, magenta stem a straw 
a long throat of rescue.



My brother of the buffalo plaid
wool coat, taped horn-rimmed glasses.
My quiet brother ducked the baseball.
My brother who followed orders
to gut the fresh caught brim & bass.
My brother the collector of crystal center geodes
tiger eye agates and afternoons walked the creek
split sandstone, eyed trilobites inside. 
My brother the cub scout, boy scout, eagle 
scout, explorer, scout leader.
My brother who watched over two sisters.
My brother earned Dad's approval, later.
My brother on his motorcycle.
My brother who showed up for me.
My brother the craftsman--
turns gnarled wood in a shop on the land
he cleared near the house 
he built, the road he made and the pond where
he feeds the plump goldfish.



Coyote cuts dark

splits drape

of night's middle

hollow hunger woke

from dream-twitch


in moonlight

calls her pack

bristle chin to stars

small O of mouth-howls

she makes everything 

from scratch

tooth and nose-scrape

rolls on her back

in time parallel to mine

unaware of true endings.



Use a glance when looking—useful in seeing

without feeling accordion's



Hold and sort quickly into efficient piles. One,

for the start then all the ruler’s marks in-between, until


the end


Sort, like silverware. Forks on right, most

often used for lifting or



Spoons large and small for ladling, savoring

Knives dull for spreading, sharp

for cutting.


Now quickly, pick a few most relevant

held too long a stab of pain may begin to match

the change in your face.


Stop for today, rubber-band

each stack of time—place


back in the box.


the white canoe rests

on the sloped bank while trout kiss

circles on ponds face


the grapevine arbor

wears its morning glory wig

wild tendrils reaching 


the first time she wore 

her gold blouse her fingers moved

like a queen's ringed hand


last night the wolf-moon

loped across my forehead

left a silver trail

A small sample of my poems