The Shasta Daisies are in bloom,

Snowy secrets whispered to me

In codes of Earth language.


The soil is ancient of days, tombs

Of ancestor Oaks and Shasta Daisies,

Mother’s recycle bin.


Our souls, woven on Mother’s loom

Soft as Shasta Daisies, strong as an Oak tree

A playground for dancing gods.


We are mere embryos floating in a womb

A cauldron, a life-spiral of being.

We are exultations, astral mirrors.


I am in total despair of what my country is doing.

Oh where are my children,

I hear their crying

But I am far away.

We ran from danger

Cartels and abuse.

The North is free

And kind, we heard.

We did not find it,



Oh where is my child,

Her mouth open

A silent scream

A hopeless look

And I die,

Let me die.

America is free

And kind, we heard.

We did not find it,



Oh where is my mother,

Doesn’t she hear me?

Why doesn’t she come?

I am lonely and scared,

The boys and girls

Cry all night, exhausted.

America is free

And kind, we heard.

I do not find it,



The tension of finding yet another thing to fix around the house

A carved chair stands,

Leaning against the living room wall.

The chair is tilted,

Front legs

Raised six and one half inches off

The worn hardwood floor.

The top of the chair rests

Against the wall,

In a small dent

In the flower-print wallpaper

That she bought three years

And four months ago.


A carved chair is tilted against the wall,

Resting in a dent thirty-seven and a quarter

Inches above the hardwood floor.

Someone in a hurry

Jumped out of the chair,

Leaving it tilted, resting in a small dent in the wall,

They might have had to answer

The telephone (it rings

9.75 times a day) or, the oven

buzzer could have rung, or they might have had to rush

a scented picture postcard

into the mail.


A chair is tilted into the wall.

The sharp edge of the carved

Top of the chair has left a small

Dent in the wall.

She will need to paper

Next month

My moon is unobscured

My moon is unobscured,


She is grey/white,

Color of ash of bones,

Color of a white rose

At twilight.


Now She rides and hides,

In mists and clouds,

Chase her,

She is here

Now there.

And She goes

Into the West.


My moon is ever there,

Even though a dark coin

Stealthy and new.

You must be quick

To glimpse

Her perfect darkness.

One hundred and eight

One hundred and eight

Beads on my mala.

Each bead a life,

Each bead a breath.

One hundred and eight

Dreams float by

But they are not me.

Those dreams

Surround me with

The music of the seasons,

Welcoming wind, rain

And Sun.

One hundred and eight

Natures of our being.

Swirling steps

In our astral dance,

Creating the Sri Yantra,

In the stars like sand.

One hundred and eight

Days in our journey.

Each day a memory,

Each day a chance

To sing our mantras

To all we love.

The wind brought a dream

The wind picked up today,

A swift shuffle of leaves

And palm fronds.

It was breath.

The wind brought a dream

That blew through my hair.

A dream of dry lake beds

And asphalt.

A dream of a river

Long-lost forgotten

In the time of Man.

Can we go down that path?

Blown by that ancient breath.

The wind picked up today,

Bringing scents of burnt sands

And pine.

A static charge

That sparked images

Of sage and manzanita.

I love the wind

That picked up today,

Because I could breathe in

The very soul of the world.

Dark of the Moon

“What do I have to do

With the sickle Moon?

Selene: she winks at me.”

My love slowly

Turned to look at me

With that look.

“She winks at me,

Sly, She knows

I love the Dark of the Moon,

Shrouded, and still,

Stars giving their ancient

Glory. I love the sigh

And whisper of the earth

At the coming of the Dark.

Water floats as if Air,

Going deep, then rising

As breath.”

“I see you dive

Into that Dark of Night,”

She said. “You revel

In that crouching stillness,

The breathless journey

To dawn. You long

To see Her

As a dark coin in the sky.”

“Ah,” he said, “She is mine,

A denarius to toss,

One side dark,

The other light. And Mother,

Keeps flipping.”