Waiting Still

May 31, 2019

Godot, you failed me.

Camus and Sartre

You all failed me as i gave up hope

Embraced your philosophy

Dropped my compass in the hay

Later, I would return


Sifting straw through my fingers

That is how you left me




The Grackle

May 31, 2019

After vigils

After the angel girl

and the child monk

the kayak leaves the shore

sand crystals cling to her feet

strong arms form figure eights

a Great Blue leaves the shore

and then she hears a voice

strangely human

it is the grackle she has missed

perching on one single grass

Iridescent purples and greens

shimmer in new light






May 29, 2019

I sit now in a golden love seat in the spot of my antiqued desk.

Then, I read Emerson, Thoreau, Gibran.

Now, I read the walls of my cloister.

Circle. 42 years later. and I am home.

And I am alone.


Kya and Amanda

May 28, 2019

Kya stands tall, black hair streaming to her waist while the seagulls circle on the marsh.

She throws cornbread in the air as they swoop and fetch, her spine straight.

Amanda buys ice.

Little do I know it’s for her cooler. Her spine is straight too as strong lean arms toss the bag in the back.

Later, i will figure out–slow as I am–she has no refrigerator. 

But dignity resides in her Being.

She is self-reliant, figures it out as she goes.

Aren’t we all? Ultimately?

Figuring it out as we go?

Kya and Amanda, show me.

May my spine straighten as I observe thee.



” A single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows.” — St. Francis of Assisi

I am bipolar. Have anxiety disorder and PTSD.

It is my shadow self, the black hole I fall into, sudden and fierce.

My winged arms fail me, my grip cannot hold, and in solitary silence I swirl. Grasp jagged rocks with bloodied hands, resist with powerful will and fortitude until the swirling gravitational pull wins, has its way with me, like a woman raped.

I bruise, my pink flash torn, ripped open. Wounded like a soldier carrying her dead sister.

It is a death. The interior Be-ing is pierced on the spiraled flight into the Eye, the very Eye of the storm.

The Black Hole is unimaginable suffering.

And yet..and yet.. orange light is discovered. Glowing and warm.

Fire bellows up in my lungs and I am now golden, as the dross is burned.

I breathe in Light like Aristotle in his cave. My own Nickajack where Johnny Cash went to die-but lived!!

I believe each of us has a shadow self. It is part of being human.

The dark side of la lune we fall into like a shocking chasm in the desert. The deep and rugged, ebony gorge.

None of us is alone in our pain.

But like a truncated poplar leaf at the end of the branch, our pilgrimage is ultimately solitary.

As we fall into our Black Holes–our shadow selves–may we hold onto our precious Faith in the Orange Fire, the interior glow which purges.

We emerge like amber embers while others glimpse the Holy Light.