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…

Mad-eyed September Tribe

Something about September– There’s something about September, that’s what’s in my head, in my body, what my experience is saying to me.   But wait Kel, it’s not September, it’s October, the second week in fact, so really that waft of sensual that grabs me from behind and muscles the back of my legs, that…

Union

At their union I am moved By the course of truth. What has brought me To be madrinha A Turkish man Lovely woman from Spain Her Lebanese born French Husband. Two Romanians In love. The solidarity Of this path. Union: The heart of this matter, To be one.

At the library

Amazing to me How much joy Out on a simple walk And, for free~

Without suffering

Without the suffering, which seems the requisite for psychological and spiritual maturation, one would remain unconscious, infantile and dependent.  Yet many of our addictions, ideological attachments and neuroses are flights from suffering.  James Hollis I ask my self fragment the Unconscious aspects in which        I ~between~ remain: is he toxic or stimulating? Both. It…