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A Child's Moon


a waiting room of whispers

waits inside the moon

bridges of fireflies

arch across her chest

inside the moon

mountains hold news

of pets and kin

gone from sight

at dusk

soot-winged bats direct traffic

to a star-shine path

there is one door

where clouds enter and rest

gods and goddesses pledge silvery secrets

 tiaras and marshmallows are inside the moon

moon exhales cool 

soothes polar bears and  icebergs


magic carpet rides mobius 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

Remember the mason jars

full of broken plates,

lined up in the funky green hutch?

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
Every precious foot 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.



the white canoe rests

on the sloped bank, 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


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.


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 plump goldfish.



                                      ~ to wash against


The lid will not close

                            Bells ring 

inside my head     wild

teas from leaves and roots wash me

far    back to rust—patina’d

into stillness

                        WAKE UP     wake up      wake UP

offerings for altars      inside my head

synapses click     a line of stitch

find a thread    a line--------------------

of stitch    make sweet memory tea

leave the shadow of the dark-knit father

unravelling    at the kitchen table

the bottle is not empty of chemistry’s

old magic      photos in the basement


             under a lid

             that cannot close   chant rattle bones

near the keep for the dog’s leash

hooked to collar for a walk to the New River

where a stunned wren lays on the road  

ink dot eye half closed

she is alive

carried home

hammocked in my skirt.

A small sample of my poems