photo of green data matrix

Photo by Markus Spiske on

malignant code is running

in the background of your mind

invisible hurts metastasized

their poison overwriting your grace

inscrutable code

transmutes your beauty

into vile duplicity

what I would give to have known you

when you were three or four

how would I show you

how wholly sufficient

you are





Peach tree 6.3.16

Stepping off  my ride to nowhere

which can yield nothing

compared to warm red tomatoes

I find the ohm

between sleep

and all this cold coffee

and unattended need

I pick dewy weeds


having silent conversations

with the patient mother

who inscrutably coordinates all things

in this green heaven

where flowers turn to peaches

and death to loamy earth

With an unrelenting circular cadence

she makes me think about buckwheat and honey bees

rising creeks and moon phases

I am reminded to strive

for nothing

because working and dancing 

are the same thing





Losing as Winning Again

balancing rock formation

Photo by Tina Nord on


A sweet epiphany

Joyful liberation

Upon awakening

As the weight of trying


Leaving me slightly disoriented

But with a transcendent peace

In waves, appreciating

The heaviness of so much grinding

Realizing the lightness of it’s absence

Slowly counting each new opportunity

Every new place

The sun can get in

Revealing the gaps

Where the poison once crouched

And we will fill in the holes

To make pockets of gold

Fill them with the lightness

And the light

Of ourselves





How Home Is


Industry percolates out back in a house of windows. A pitcher of  late summer weeds and medicine greens anchor the center of a round wood table that wears the beauty of decades of purely utilitarian treatment. There is room for all of us at the table, including the unnamed and as yet, absent, who will arrive in various states of enlightenment and dishevelment.  We are joined loosely by constraints and steadfastly by principle.

My tribe has drawn close to me. We are busy and the work of our hands is fruitful. Our laughter and our labor keeps perfect cadence as we play in the music of the hum of the earth.

In winter, morning finds our circle closer. The fire already crackling and glowing as I arise. Cello music and warm cats, fresh coffee and rich cream against the gray sleet falling on our garden. Soft voices planning for spring, collected around the hearth. Last year’s seeds waiting for April in the bountiful larder of our collaboration, fortifying our bones and our dreams. Our rhythm slows to a heartbeat’s pace among the blankets,  catalogs and blueprints.




more is better

Red Flower Near White Flower during Daytime

More sleep, better coffee

Newer books, older wine

Fresher faces, festiver places

More green, window scenes

Louder drumming, less clothes

Sunnier faces, quieter places

Bigger waves, privater coves

Sugar maples, oranges, cloves

Crisper sheets, cooler nights

Snappier style, flattering light

Longer lunches, cheaper flights

More is better

Better is nice






a heavy and excessive abundance of too much of everything

traffic cars street traffic jam

Photo by Life Of Pix on

Mail, bills, calls, requests

Phones in my life, packages to mail

Needs, wants, hours at work

Days at work, days in August

Degrees outside, places to be

Pockets of people, hands in my pocket

Pockets of dirt, dirt in my house

Houses on my street, streets in my town

Cars on streets, streets to travel

Towns full of people, people full of needs

Less is best

Less would be more