To Rest & Poetry, on the Winter Solstice

In Oregon the Breitenbush river is a color of steel-teal that exists no other place on the earth and this must be partly because of the non-negotiable trees.  It is easy to be grounded and feel at one in your place in a place like this.  It is easy to revere the miracle of dirt:…

I went camping to soothe my soul: Thoughts, Final Harvest Moon

I walk a lot on empty beaches.  It helps me breathe from muscly places in my belly that otherwise I can’t feel because they’re so deep. So last Monday I guess it was,  walking along the roiled and wilen coast, beholding the brown and black and steel greys of Hurricane Maria’s deeps, there came this…

Wildness on the Full Moon Tide

The last thing there is with ease is craziness in this world. Here in the house of my grandparents where only my mom and dad now live it is dark, far darker than any other place I’ve ever been.   That includes both sets of coastal mountain regions where I’ve been lucky enough to stay,…

In the clutch of the moon.

The way the crescent moon cups in the center feels deep down in the hollow of my heart like this.  Like yes for many days now I’ve been laid back in that very good place to hang out a while.  Laid back swing– –that’s home, the east, the fall-changing leaves, the peeps and screeks in…

The things about Waves.

PT. 1 To swim at a spot where there’s a deep divot drop-off and lots of backwash from pounding shore break, this is what you do.   Stand at the seem, the furthest place the water flows up on the sand. Get your ankles wet.  If you’re not timid go up to your calves.  Now…

New Moon: She takes up pen, again.

It’s been a million days of this I think, and as I write such words I see the gray slant of my ceiling in the morning, the days leading up to, but especially following,  Aunt Mary’s death.  Grief, which sits like a bone in the air. Its smooth, cold, calcium-yearning.  Always there, blocking the place…

Friday, but not my town poem

Friday but not my town, a hawk flies & wings in the air make trilling sound imagined, as the screech above and outside my door puts the hair to raise up on my arms. I am thinking of you again, not for nothing but need for magic.  And men. My mother, I finally told her…

Open Letter to Brooks Long, on the prophecy moon of summer fruit.

Catfish, I was sitting on the floor in my hobbit house, on two plush pillows that are hand-me-downs from the upstairs neighbor who moved out.   I live in a hand-me-down house. I was sitting in the hand-me-down hobbit house on hand-me-down pillows on the floor, on a hand-me-down rug from the woman who lived…

In the summer you write in the morning.

What can I tell you that you don’t already know?   The 101 in Ventura County in June smells strawberry sweet.  There are paintings of seagulls on a wall in town, circling a convertible. My sister-in-law is 8 and a half months pregnant and I never got to hug her when her belly was big…

Looks, cast with wary

And here it is, moonlight again; we’ve bathed in the river and are sweet and wholesome once more. We kneel side-by-side in the sand; we worship each other in whispers. But the inner parts remember the fermenting hay, the comfortable odor of dung, the animal incense, and passion, its bloody labor its birth and rebirth…