poetry

Lorica for my soon-to-be-teenage son

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Lorica for my soon-to-be-teenage son

at Moon Creek today
I call upon the winged ones
who have fired my son’s soul
since he was small

between him and adolescent angst
I place these birds and their powers
a living shield
to keep him whole as his life shifts

I place the chickadee with his confidence
and the albatross with her ease
the junco with his acceptance
and the eagle with her righteousness

I place the Arctic tern with his strength
and the loon with her devotion
the condor with his perspective
and the kakapo with her contentment

I place the bluebird with his optimism
and the snowy owl with her resilience
the trumpeter swan with his self-esteem
and the Verreaux’s eagle-owl with her wisdom

I place the little blue penguin with his connectedness
and the wooly-necked stork with her lovingkindness
the bird-of-paradise with his persistence
and the falcon with her focus

I place the bowerbird with his artistry
and the woodpecker with her grit
the blue-winged macaw with his compassion
and the ptarmigan with her warmth

all these memories and powers
I place between my sweet son
and all darkness
all despair

between his kind, trusting heart
and all forms of doubt
between gentleness
and the hard world

at Moon Creek today
I gather all these wonders
to encircle him
with their soft strong wings

to sing to him in the dark
that is not yet dawn
to remind him what a gift it is
to be here in the wide world

where hummingbirds survive hurricanes
and plovers calm crocodiles
with their grace beside him and within him
I send him out into the world

trusting he will be true
to who he is
what he loves
and what he stands and kneels for

poetry

lichen lessons / deverbing

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This poem was an experiment that didn’t quite come off, in my opinion. After hearing Merlin Sheldrake’s interview for Emergence Magazine where he talked about “de-verbing” to be “more fungal” I decided to try to write a poem about lichen then remove all the verbs. In the end, I think verbs matter.

lichen lessons / deverbing

lichen the rock
in splotches of sage
and masses of mustard
sometimes they
like tufts of feather
or gummy rubber crusts
they
then the news of the dead
white marble green

poetry

a hike together after isolating

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a hike together after isolating

the meadowlark singing
from the very top branch
of a ponderosa pine
melted summer into song
spilled in golden ribbons
across the park
and into our grey hearts
healing the hurt
of our long aloneness
warming our cautious bones

poetry

why I should choose sleep

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why I should choose sleep

dreams come carrying sparks
and maybe messages
electrical circuitry
becomes slow and even
the quiet night shift arrives
to empty the wastebaskets
and vacuum the mud-tracked carpets
time is allowed to go empty
and things are set to rights
my body prepares
for the next dawn
if I can only
let this day go

poetry

unexpected generosity

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Owen helped me film my contributions to the Earth Stanzas project. You can view them on our YouTube channel.

unexpected generosity

I keep apologetically
thanking my son
for helping me,
for spending his time
on something important to me,
and he’s just puzzled
why I should be
this grateful

poetry

desperation

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desperation

he came wounded to our table
and we didn’t know how to help
Roxy, the kind little red fox
we were so glad to see
you still walked this earth
we were so sad to see
the work someone made
of your elegant face
red puncture in one cheek
crown bare
all we could think to do
was say sweet words to you
and look you in the eyes
with concern and care
but when you circled and panted
hungry for our soup
I think we did the worst
abandoning you to the wide world
while we took our lunch inside

poetry

even as the cities burn, beauty

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even as the cities burn, beauty

on the little peak
in the warm late afternoon light
aspen leaves fired green
hermit thrushes burbling
clouds silhouetting the Divide
my heart empty
and body whole
in a welcoming place
I couldn’t stop saying aloud
it’s all so beautiful

poetry

Debaser in Chief

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Debaser in Chief

at a time this country needs
men who lay down arms
take a knee
and march with us

he stands scolding
arms folded shaking his head
then wagging his finger

just like my father
standing over my little bawling son
ordering
you –
cut that out

they never learned
the fastest way to end tears
is with with an understanding
hug

something in this breathless time
we all ache for

poetry

Jumbo Mountain Speaks

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Jumbo Mountain Speaks

come rest your weariness
here on these hard rocks
with a stiff wind
that will buffet your body
proving the heart
entombed in your aching chest
still beats

face west
toward the long white wall of peaks
back to the cities
the fires the glass
those are fights for another hour

feel your hardness
drain into the rocks beneath your palms
your porous bones no match
for their fixed crystals
you were not meant for this
a soft bleeding body
that weeps water, not ice

just sit and be
while the wind works its way into you
until your rage flickers out
and there’s a new space
between your ribs

I know what it’s like
to feel your heart mined out
set upon by pickaxes
swarmed by the rapacious
proving up on false claims
of their right to strip the world
of whatever life they like

and I know
how to lie still
every night
and stare unblinking
into quiet stillness
until my shoulders ease

it takes a long time
for the ore to lose its currency
the forest to gain a voice
and the scars to grow over
but you can see
all the little aspen now
their young leaves
fizzing with joy
reminding you
that evil subsides
when value systems
shift

poetry

what the spruce knows

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what the spruce knows

it’s that time when the creek runs loud and brown
sending the dirt of the road
through the gulch in a torrent
punctuated by white foam
and circling eddies
thrusting sharp sticks ahead

the air has just gone soft
and the snow is nearly melted
the big animals have gone wary
readying for campers and motorcycles
they move across the steep hillside less
their tracks left after dark

the green things begin to prick the soil
and grow wildly
twisted stalks sprouting thick wavy green leaves
and the Oregon grape strews little suns of yellow
blooms across the ground
the air fills with the sweet promise of honey

she still comes and sits every day
taps my trunk with a warm sideways palm
greets me with the old words
Tous, Neyei3eibeihii*
sits down on my curved trunk
gone flat against the dirt and creek bed slope
sometimes she leans her head against my rough bark
and we think together for a time
sometimes she simply rests
in the presence of Moon Creek’s rush

I breathe into her phenols of calm
and the belief
that above or below the ground
we’re all one
our cells align in revelry
we don’t speak
just be for a time
and when she’s ready
I let her go

*Hello, Teacher (in Arapaho/Hinónoʼeitíít)