April 1971

April 11th, 2019

I found my ears’ place
upright beneath her heart,
listening, a human
question mark resisting
some man’s hands
pressing me through
muscle wall to write me
head down. Overnight
I righted myself against
my mother’s music. He
pushed me down again
toward my birth,
but for my head.
Too large to pass,
he said, unlearned,
to Mother on her back.
He cut me out, red child,
her blood in my mouth,
lifted me into a world
where he made himself
hero and I made him
thief of my origin myth.


Ten Poems for Ten Days:
Five Shitty Catch-Up Haiku
for NaPoWriMo

April 10th, 2019

I get behind. I do. I catch up with haiku. Some are better than others. See below.


April 10th, 2019

Days watching TV
Instead of writing poems

Yes, Sally Jane

April 10th, 2019

I am one of those
Poets who try to catch up
When I fall behind.

Mosquito Snow

April 10th, 2019

Mountains disappear
In April snow. Buddhists pray:
Freeze, mosquito eggs.


April 10th, 2019

Winter yellow spears
gently gather snow, rain,
distracted horse’s life.

Thank Queer Eye for the Recipe
And Spray with Lemon

April 10th, 2019

Halved, tossed with garlic
Bacon grease, salt and pepper
Brussels sprouts don’t fart.

Babylonian Bazaar

April 5th, 2019

The striped vegetable stalls
of the mountain street market
aren’t full of home grown vegetables
but stones men find in cave pockets
to polish and suitably sell where people
don’t bother to brush their hair
or properly corral proud nipples
before wandering the town square.
Most Saturdays I come here to pause
over tables dotted with wire-wraps
of rose quartz, bloodstone, turquoise,
the solid, nervine promises of lapis
lazuli—muse of ancient blue glaze—
but my bare throat is no Ishtar’s Gate.


Elephant Cloud Gallery

April 5th, 2019

Crows and honey comb,
Rothko, faceless floating man:
Paintings can’t agree.


First Throw

April 3rd, 2019

Red mud cup on the wheel.
Your first. Slice it off with wire.
It dries. Note the bottom crack.
Damn. Change your plans.
Feed it to electric fire. Shrink.
Think coffee size, get tea.
Glaze it like an earth or sky
With your sloppiest thought.
Only for your hands. This cup.
Tiny planter? Better. Tequila.
Drink from the bottom seep.
Dream wabi sabi silver seam.


Invisible Dog

April 2nd, 2019

When the day goes grey
my invisible dog gets antsy.
No one but me hears him bark,
frantic, while I slip on boots,
smiling at his silly grammar.
I take him off leash. He knows
the eleven-minute loop
by heart, is actually walking me.
Twitching toward coyote,
mountain lion, wild cat,
domestic dog, brown bear:
holy scat. All to the nose,
none to the lifted leg,
are sacrosanct.
He’s no ghost.
This pinyon church
in which we live,
his scented domain.
God’s favorite dog.
When we return,
I appear alone.
My husband doesn’t know
while we watch the screen,
invisible, my dog sits pretty,
watching me, hunting my eyes,
tongue panting gratitude and hope
for another go. I don’t.


Self Portrait as Hydra

April 1st, 2019

I slash at my own heads.
One lost, two gained.
Always budding.
Beast of Hera,
Barely visible to the naked eye.
When Sun is in Cancer,
My heads are near.
If disturbed, I contract.
Cut me into pieces: I rebuild.
Never a set number of heads.
Some say seven, some nine,
Others one hundred.
Only one is immortal. Guess.
I reproduce on my own
Unless conditions are harsh:
Winter, poor food.
I reach out for a mate.
One man’s morbid task.
They called him Hercules
But killers are weak.
The strong man lets me live, finds
My singular immortality
Loving me.
I live forever under
The right circumstances,
See without eyes,
Sting in response to light,
Align with moons:
Charon, ferryman of
Align with Nix.
My tiny eccentricity.
Larger than Pluto’s
Smallest moons,
Smaller than Styx.
Invertebrate capable of great
Contraction, still I reach
Through fresh water,
Digest what is whole,
Stopped up in one place,
I burst forth in another.


Happy National Poetry Month!
Let Poem-a-Day practice begin!!

April 1st, 2019

Here we are again, my poetry peeps!  National Poetry Month is my absolute favorite month of the year, which might also be connected to the fact that April is the month of my birth. And who doesn’t love spring after a long winter?  So, let’s start writing. I don’t think I’ve ever actually written a poem for every day in April, but I get darn close.  Here’s a link to the NaPoWriMo page that gives us prompts to help us write a poem a day. Let’s do this!


16 and 19

March 29th, 2019

Taller than        their mother,               now men,

heavy-           hearted heads          their inheritance,

sometimes        they are little boys,       straddle handles

on         rolling suitcases             to ride them,

long legs          Fred Flintstoning            down the ramp

to           plane entrances.                 Then they are

holograms:       mirages of toddlers,        5- to 12-year-olds

prism-tilting         out at all angles       superimposed over

grown bodies             like time           ghosts.


Fresh Snow Haipu

March 18th, 2019

More beautiful now
Snow rests upon new places
Full bag of dog doo