Thursday, January 25, 2018

Public Default

Turn in turn again
So hard to be a woman,
expectations that put a burden of silence
a quiet pall of whistles, touches, looks.

Harder to be a man
in changing times,
not to know what's acceptable
What does "no" mean?
why the prosecution for something
once only thoughtless and common?

Harder to be a woman
with babies on the breast
so judged by other women
for everything we do. We are harsher
then men to each other.
Because we have higher expectations.

Harder to be a man
growing up to be a man tough or
growing up to be a man gentle.
This is more confusing, wrapped in expectation
where there is a world here and across the way another world.

The twistflower of the world signals only change
as always
what is right becomes wrong, what is wrong become right
in the blink of Buddha's eye.


Friday, November 17, 2017


Sunrise surrounds me
I am the center of the world.
Following the ridges of sleep rising with the light and eluding me
Where ever I may drive.
I always look for the ocean
But it is a rare find in New Mexico, where the sunsets and sunrises also look
for the foamy and the brave.
Sunrise a little while, then the white and grey.
Drive drive drive away away.

Thursday, November 02, 2017

A dance of crows

Rising from the road, 

from the death and the pieces of meat that lay from the tires and from the cars,

are the crows.

Their quiet elegance is forgotten,

the beauty of the black wings spread is ignored

but they always escape

they always swoosh and rise and spread in the unrelenting desert sun

amongst the dry wheat-colored grass

into the hunter-green specked hills over the mesas

across the cliffs.

The crows are forgotten,

pieces of night crossing the day

windows into another reality

black specks

massive and tiny.

Thursday, November 03, 2016


In silence
in rain on the desert
pungent greasewood with that railroad tie richness

Coughing, gasping
they come
one, two, droves
crowding into the desert sanatorium
where water follows canyon walls
people trek now in Naugahyde boots, with sunscreen.

Swoosh with the
horse tails of old times
pushing away the flies with brushy yellow snakeweed
and now.

Geological, paleontological, archaeological, botanical
and a presidential proclamation.

Boom — monument created.

This is only human
really nothing is newly created
the ranches, with their melting adobes,
creaking windmills,
now leave the water

Monday, February 08, 2016

Human traffic

Working in the forest, cutting, sawing, dodging
No time, no money, no family
No escape.
Working in the houses, cleaning, chlorine surrounded
Digging, brick laying, walking the plank
No money, no family, no time
No escape.
My heart is hostage to fear,
My family hostage to pay,
My time goes by in years,
My children just grow without me,
Alone, always.

No escape.

Friday, September 11, 2015

In the evening

The light is almost gone
putting out the garbage
doing my recycle duty
two neat bins to drag rattle clack to the street.

The avenue is empty, no sound, no other bins there
but I have started something
and down the street the rattle clack begins
all the neighbors come out
for the Friday morning sleep.

Just a little community connection
the blue bin for milk bottles, news papers
the brown bin for left over wrappers, kitty litter and diapers
something we all do

Just one knot, one tie
one little leaf in the neighborhood language
a rattleclack thing, in the darkness
a dozen people who don't want to get up at 5 a.m. to put their garbage out.

Saturday, January 10, 2015

Posting time

So neglectful
Leaving the details of life behind like so many faeries
Bills, what's that?
But paper spiders floating around my ears leaving webs trailing over my hair.
But numbers marching over my toes distantly calling for attention I don't have to spare.
All this leads to disaster
and tired resignment to draw my consciousness
back and back to the magnifying glass so I can look for the details
so hard to find
in this vast adventure.
Who can look at ants when riding an elephant?