Breaking out of one is the hardest
break of all
the breaking of the toes
which feel too cripple
to walk

the breaking of the thumb
the pointer finger
when will it stop?

I look at myself, wonder
is there more to myself
than I

I turn my head, my
neck breaks, cracks
circles to include
a bit more,
a bit of a break,
for breaking
into myself
breaking my fear
of being alone
in this long life

I feel a terror, tremor of
being me
my knees break
to come up

I become shorter and taller than myself

And then,
my heart breaks
I shatter:
“no foot loose and fancy free”

But, a falling, falling
fall    ing       fall     ing
fall    ing       fall/I am falling
falling fall/  








I have so much life around my house
Coyotes howl
Owls in their pas de deux calling
Fox, red and grey, weasels, raccoons
Bushy tailed squirrels, chipmunks, and quail
Slithering snakes—garter, gopher, and king
Blind moles, burrowing badgers
Turkeys gobbling, deer prancing, skunky stinks
Feral cats, bobcats, roof rats, bats
Cougars in the valley, a peacock on the roof
Waddling possums ’cross my path
Horses of course
And multiple wings—
Blue birds, black birds, red wing
Hummingbirds thrumming
Sparrows fighting, swallows swooping, wrens’ chirrup
Cedar wax wings, thrush, orioles
Cowbirds, grackles, chickadees, crows
Red tailed and red shouldered hawks
The great blue heron
Dark shadowed vultures
Seeking their prey
Crawling creatures with bellies so low
Lizards leaping, frogs a hopping, crickets whirring
Daddy-long-legs dancing up the door
I have so much in life to be grateful for.

What are you grateful for?


In Memoriam: For Kathleen and Rosemary


On Bernal hilltop
looking up
a strong wind hits my face
but only a hint of cold.

Fog rolls in big clumps
passes towards the horizon
and then…
downing sun lights up the sky
highlights the tiniest finger of
gathered air.
It gathers there.
And then…a
tendril of wispy cloud
sails right towards me
longer it grows
longer longer still
right o’er my head.

I felt like it could touch me.
Awe I am…and then…
touched am I
by the feathered wing of an angel.

Note:  They both liked clouds.


A Fly


When you’ve been alone all day—
even though you’ve talked to a neighbor
a mail man, a homeless man, a friend on
the phone:

There’s this fly. It started
the morning with a buzz.

Is it     inside?     out?     It’s in.
Damn, should I kill it dead?
Damn it dead, should I kill it, but with what?

Upstairs I go to the computer.
Back down again.
In the living room I sit on a big
leather chair.

Around it goes, passes me
By. Dives straight behind the clothes
on the rack
by the front door.

Jump up I, and run slinging open it
To whoosh IT out—but no luck for me
                                   no luck for it.
Hidden, no FLY zone.     Gone.    Done.

Out I go to buy food for dinner
Cook and chop. Chop to cook.
Saffron and basil. Chicken in chunks.

Down I sit at the dining room table
look up to see…
                                     my     friend     fly—  

Emily Dickinson and I.






I hear the seagull
crying across the waters
late at night.
Black crosses the moon.


This is the time of my life.
I wake up, go back to sleep
Wake up
Go back
Wake, back
Up, up I/
/What form
Will I wake in


My hooves hit the floor
A deer, a sheep
Centipede feet
Webbed toes,  feathered wings
A duck, an angel…


The nascent steps
Of a little one
Are hard
To hear
But they are there.


The moon the moon the moon
Is the face of the child.


I cry across the waters.




White blue-moon
     with the brilliance of full
Sky indigo
     with a hint of Parrish

Like fallen stars,
     shimmer home lights
     on distant hills

Woozy me
     gowned in white
     with half lidded eyes

Down on my bed
I stretch to the moon
     revel in its peace
I release
     but then tighten
     from a worry way wondering:

What will I face
     in this dark world place
     of confounding
     rhythms and rhymes

Unwinding and knitting
     duo pattern of sleep,
     pearls garner
     from paradise

Wild night hold me
in your unfathomable arms




Plum, apricot, cherry, apple
the trees have put on their finest
plumes of bloom.
Each flower bursts with water—
dripping blossoms weigh down boughs
in pendulous languor.

Sweet sweet promise

Everywhere i look—
rippling white down creeks
distant dots in crevasses
swaths of swirling crimson
pinks, whites—
each petal plumper.

Sweet sweet promise

One hill near Canfield Road
sports a wide white shawl
bordering the creek at its feet.
on on on on it goes
and when all of those petals are gone….

Promise promise promise promise.

The promise in the mouth

Sweet sweet promise

cherriespeachesplums         apples
the  promise in the mouth

And then I found
the queen of all trees
in my daughter's back yard
as wide as it was tall—
a cherry blossom cloud.

I bow down in beauty and
Sweet sweet promise.





I wanted to write about so many other things, but I couldn’t. I was there in Sebastopol with my family when the fire broke out. It had been such a sweet Sunday with a barbeque. So beautifully warm. Balmy evening—so rare in West County, Sonoma. And then a delicious strong warm wind which quickened our hearts.  It reminded me of the massive winds in the movie CHOCOLATE portentous.  We sang until 1:00 in the morning. Going to bed I looked out the window. Something was different about the sky. A subtle, glowing  haze in the far north.  Mmmmm, maybe a small fire.

In the morning I walked to the kitchen. Solemnity masked a frisson of fear. “The kids came to wake us up and we said it was too dark outside. It’s not time. We looked at our watches. The kids were right. The sun looked like the moon.”

There were scraps of burnt paper collected from outside. One was about 4 inches square, a remnant from a mortgage document blown in from Healdsburg. My son-in-law said he had witnessed many fires in Australia. When the land was this dry, all it took was one spark. You must know: my son-in-law is not an alarmist.

Outside. Ashes everywhere and more bits of paper. Erie yellow light reminiscent of sunset—except it wasn’t. Later others described it as feeling like “Armageddon.” Our animal bodies knew something was wrong.

What are the roads like? Could we even drive?  Traffic was bumper to bumper. Would it take hours? Would it be safe? Did we have enough gas? The air started getting better and so we waited. Waited. Hard not knowing what was best. Then the air got worse. Decision made. We left.

The drive home was not that bad, but then the harder part came.

Many many many  fires. They could not stop them. Houses upon houses incinerated to the ground. Fire safes melted. One friend’s house gone. All that was left was one blackened necklace. She and her family had barely made it out. Another friend’s house was 1 mile from the evacuated areas. People left anyway because the smoke was so bad.

Acres upon acres burned. Places we loved. Places in danger. Shock and Waiting…. Would more friends loose their homes, die? Would we loose our family home? Reading every text message from the emergency team to know what was happening. Tension in every beeping text as it came in night and day for days. Fire. Fire.  Fire.  No containment. No containment. More winds. More high temperatures.

Then shock again to realize how bad the smoke was in San Francisco. We had to wear masks on certain days. Day after day smoke.

I prayed for colder weather.

And now the more amorphous part. I was not there long but I was still traumatized. The first week I was dizzy, eyes hurt, had sleepless nights along with being drugged by sleep. I walked around in a daze forgetting everything. Sometimes not knowing what day it was. Foggy brain. The second week it all continued. The more I talked to people everywhere the more I realized I was not alone.. Everyone looked dazed.  Everyone knew people who were touched by the destruction. Everyone had favorite visiting places that may be ruined or are threatened by future fires. The suddenness, the river of fire, the vastness of it coming on the heels of a perfect day.

And the grieving: crying for the loss of so many people’s homes and land near my home town. Crying for the loss of places I loved. Landmarks, eateries, schools. I still don’t know if the woods around Lake Elsanjo have been destroyed. Crying for the loss of people, animals, trees, plants… But there was a grief I could not reach. Then I faced it: the  unswallowable behemouth of HUNDREDS of THOUSANDS of acres torched. The scourged land was crying. I could feel it. I could feel it and I could feel our people’s burned connection to it.

To feel is to unfreeze, to shift, to move, to let go, to go forward.

A good place to donate is the Redwood Empire Food Bank.


Grief: A Mysterious Lumbering Beast: An Article, a Poem, and Thoughts

Above is an article from The New York Times Magazine written by Jacqui Shine on beginning to grieve the death of her mother. She describes the complexities and process so clearly and speaks about how sitting in the Rothko Chapel helped her.

And here is a poem of mine:


the river of heartbreak
glides slow today
moving me south...
I lie on my back
stiller than I've ever been

as the rock—
we are alone
we are alone
and so still
we can feel the
white planes of
our faces—
the hollows
without bones

breathing in, out
past the place of
weeping remains...
feeling the river—
the continuing river
the holding river
the caring river,
carrying us south
to the unfreezing sun

St. Francis
knew this
knew this
Emily Dickinson
knew this
for adornment
carved sorrow
to wooden
from her
she danced and sang
the river


I     float     home.



We all have spent time on this river. I have found if we let go, float, feel, and don't hold on,  we move towards healing. Others have also found that grief and joy are part of the same dance. I have experienced this in moments :-). And if the grief is severe or unbearable get help: friends, therapists, counselors, spiritual teachers, books—what ever it takes and however long it takes. I have done so many many times.


The Heart: Doors, Not Walls


The heart is a "flood" subject for me. I will be returning to it again and again. A dream awhile back told me I was to reveal the structure of the heart like Kandinsky. Whew. I forgot it and Kandinsky for a number of years.

I was shattered. Having your heart broken by betrayal is a good primer. I remembered my dream. I remembered my heart. "I am not going to close down my heart." I did everything I could to love others, hear others, reach out to others...while unconsciously building a wall to protect myself from others. I know this because I am slowly and gently taking it down. It's been 5 years. It's my time. And I am also discovering shards, bricks that date back to childhood. It is scary, disorienting, and some days I don't know which way am I.

The wall is made up of frozen emotions, protective patterns for possible future pain, patterns of intellectual ideals, fears about being abandoned or hurt by people. Of course the list is longer and of course the wall may not completely fall down. But it is giving me more room to breathe, to love, and be freer.

What I have discovered is that the heart is a mysterious and dangerous place. You can get broken here, but you have to trust it and follow its flow. You have to let it navigate you. This is the difference between knowing and feeling. It will take you into scary, exotic, painful, joyful places that can be both unsettling and exhilarating at the same time. Meet you there. If my door is shut, just knock.

And a poem:


One Night

One night
In the middle of the night
I awoke.
I realized
I would be on the same path
fighting the same demons
even if I had not divorced.
Nothing is wasted.

Also, I love him.
I tried not to
for five years.
He was mean
He had hit me
He scared me
He left me.
To let go I remembered
all the bad he had done.
Tried to forget the good.
Now I forgive myself
for my ceaseless heart.

All I can write about now
is about my flesh.
It's all I have left—
Isn't that the case anyway?
For that is the place
where love circles.


Play Time #1: "And the Word Was Made Flesh."


Play Time # 1: “And the Word Was Made Flesh.”

Words are powerful. They structure how we think and feel everyday. They help us claim our experiences. They help us claim our inner lives and help us communicate externally from one individual sack of skin to another. They can help us create new orders, structures, and relationships for governments and societies.

But here’s the but: we have forgotten the fundamental origin of words. Words come from our bodies. They come from our flesh. They have flesh. They have sound. When you say words out loud they have shape. They make shapes in space. Currents. Using tone, rhythms…. Fundamentally, spoken words come from the mechanics of our throat, tongue, state of tension in our bodies, shape of our breath leaving our mouths. Words are rooted in the sound our bodies make.

And when we claim the flesh of sound, magic happens. Word sound can take us right back to the object or experience the word names. Words come from the ejaculation of the breath about the thing it describes. Obvious ones: Yes!! Bye!! HaHaHa. Or onomatopoeic: Splash. Fizzle. Zoom. If you listen and play with more words out loud, you can feel the shapes of the words and their ability to evoke reality: The tones of the voice can go up and down, languid or fast: River.  Ri---ver. Ri~~~~~~~~~~~ver.  You can feeeel/create the trajectory, the flow of the river. (You hear this in songs.) Feel the cloud’s shape as your mouth goes through shapes: Clouds, Cl ou dss. Cl  OW dz. Or train.  In the sound hear the compact object hurtling down a track. Crush. Sound moving into compression that continues. “Let me hold you.” Feel the opening in the middle of the word “hold”. It begins with the clear, soft, but boundaried “h”, moves into the open space which includes you, and ends with the strong, defined “d”. You will be enclosed, held. Then of course the tones, pitch etc. can make the phrase go from safe to menacing.

Make the words flesh.  Listen. Speak.  Create experiential worlds with your words———. 

Some words you could start with:  steam, giggle (let the “g’s” vibrate), taste (feel your tongue), merrily. Notice what vowels give and what consonants do.  Kids could have fun with this too.

Have fun!


C*NT: or the Horror of Nothing to See" by Monique Jenkinson, AKA: fauxnique


She said she was angry.  She was working on an angry performance. She hadn’t done that before. In the current cultural climate how could she not be.  I was talking to a womanly dancer in the next studio over from where I work. I heard snatches of voice and saw snatches of movement as I had rehearsed. She came across as balanced and as a performer who had deep craft. She was into interweaving wordings, sound, movement like I am.  I was in.

 I walked into the ODC main theater and saw a golden statue on a pedestal: a statue with push up cups under its breasts. I sat down. Statue was on its toes. Statue was wobbling.

The statue got down. A man’s back. A woman’s body. A woman in drag shaping her body to look like a man’s. She’s taking down the 3 heavy boxes of the pedestal and dragging, pushing them across the floor where another pedestal was created. Then, going back and ripping up a heavy strip of rubber floor. She was tired. Sweat gleaming on her man back.

Underneath the exposed floor—shimmering mylar. Lights cast feathery glimmers on the back curtain. Fauxnique came out in high high heels walking strides and then mincing steps over and over again. Came out in a bold oriental restricting floral dress and headdress. She kept dressing and undressing. Beautiful curvy, erotic dancing. Mostly tightly bound. Music wove in and out. Words spoken from dreams and sadness

A tight dress of paper petals slowly falling off and being torn as she dances until there is nothing left.

A swirling dance of open legs and vagina. Words of men’s sex so different from women. Women feel sex in whole body, in movement of labia, in beauty. To many men, vagina’s so different, so strange. The theory of penis envy. Women’s sex often defined by men’s sex.  The dance continued of curling, swirls of vagina and men’s fear at the same time.  

Men’s sex and fear impact the movement and dress of women to fit their fantasies and keep them constricted. The more women try to fit into these fantasies the more they loose themselves in nothingness —the nothingness of men not seeing.

 Her cups came off to painted nipples. Nylons came off to a tiny scarlet thong. Fauxnique took out a roll of scotch tape and began tightly rolling the tape in segments up her thigh and then the other. Flesh spilling over the tape. Rolled the tape tightly around her belly. WTF. Under her chin across her cheeks lifting them up, then her eyes, up. OH.

Last week I wrote about the restricting corset on 19th Century womanhood. Fauxnique deconstructed the restricting corset of 21st Century women.


A Shout Out for the film: "A Quiet Passion". Emily Dickinson brought to life.


An experiential diving into the soul of Emily Dickinson.  That's what I felt. It's dark, witty, passionate, multiplex. Diving into her vibrant inner life. A soul searcher trying to reconcile many disparate threads in her psyche and her restrictive culture.  She created an alchemy of her different loves, yearnings, griefs, bitternesses, illnesses while living a simple more and more reclusive life at home. This film takes all of these themes and helps you feel them. And in the center of that inner sensory trajectory of Emily Dickinson you can feel more deeply into your own conflicts and humanity. This is what makes a brilliant film and this is a brilliant film.

Terence Davies wrote and directed this film. The way he wove Dickinson's poems into her life was flawless. Cynthia Nixon played the role and it again was brilliant: The way she spoke and interpreted the poems unlocked many for me. The way she embodied Dickinson's rebellious, passionate life bursting to be free from the rigid evangelical corset of the Nineteenth Century. This woman knows her Emily. I believe she should get an academy for this.  Davies too.

Disclosure: Emily Dickinson is one of my favorite poets. I studied her "easier" poems in high school. I had tried to read and understand her other poems and got blocked. I just didn't get them. So I ended up writing a play about She and St. Francis. (I found parts of him equally concealed). I researched Dickson for a year and read every biography, treatise, essay, article I could find on her. Read and sat with hundreds and hundreds of her poems. Visited her home in Amherst. Finished the play and then kept on reading. Friends would send me finds. Birthday gifts were punctuated with discoveries.

 I started to find a portal into her work. I was stunned by its beauty. It's starkness. It's unflinching courage—ranging from the most detailed descriptions of the physical to the most ineffable metaphysics. Then I walked into this film and discovered its cinematic tellings matched my gleaned inner sense of Emily Dickinson. The relief, joy, and learning was/is immense. She has so much to teach us and Terence Davies has opened an important door into her soul.


A new poem: WE LIVE IN A PHYSICAL WORLD & a performance


Let yourself sink
into your deep pocket.
Get into your gravely voice.
Moan your existence
into this world.
Take time to
smear the mud
of the earth on your body
or you will loose yourself
in your daily strivings.
For we are not born once
but are created
again and again.
It is a daily choice.
Sink your heels
into the ground.
Feel the circle of life
from light to night
spiral 'round your spine.
Feel the thrust of your pelvis
up, up to the sky.
Feel the bellows of your diaphragm.
Let your breath
steam the air
with the passion of becoming.
Let your heart burst/break with love/longing
for all things.
For we belong to all things.
We are all things.
on the brink of emerging.
Every minute, we can be born.

(This is a performance gem by a master. I stumbled on this favorite from a couple of years back and to me it embodies this poem. If for any reason the link doesn't work, GOOGLE "Bill T Jones TED Talks 2016.  Believe me it is worth it.)




With all the little “t” froufra and fear swirling around the country and so many good choices of what to do one overarching message has been haunting me. The Dalai Lama has said more than any successes or discoveries what the world needs most is kindness.

I was on the way to Walgreens on Mission St. several weeks ago to pick up a subscription for a friend and I was stressed out so I decided to park illegally in the Safeway lot.  Hey, I just didn’t feel like driving around for 15 minutes—looking. I dashed out of the car, and stopped.  Shouting. Screaming.  There on the street between me and the door to the pharmacy was a tall, hairy, bedraggled man dragging a couple of bags, jutting his face at everyone, and telling everyone to F---off. I was tired. He was scary.  People were walking around him in wide berths, eyes to the ground.  I took a deep breath, stood up tall and walked toward him. I looked him straight in the eye. Not angry. Not judgmental. But, straight.

He looked back.  He said, “When I am overloaded I lash out.”

I said, “I understand,” looking directly at him and wondering with a slight tug if I was putting myself in danger. Where is this gonna go? I was alert just in case.

He looked at me directly back again and said, “You are kind. You are really a kind person.” in a soft voice.

My face broke out in smile. His comment dove straight to my heart.

I said with deep feeling:  “Take care of yourself” and continued walking.

When I came out later I saw him sitting on the ground happily eating French fries. He was in a totally different place and I had a glow in my heart. It’s still there.