Monday, March 21, 2016


my silence is not acquiescence;
do not mistake it for weakness or languor
or label me as pacifist

for I have drawn back my bow, back bent and ready
to let loose more arrows than could ever be counted,
their edges sharp, their feathers bloody

we are not pawns to be moved about haphazardly
in this horrific game of chess, its invisible players
hiding behind bastardized philosophies and awful grins

they are not invincible;

they, too, are mortal and afraid, 
yet they are trying to murder my country
with their wicked politics and a multitude of sins

they are trying to kill my husband
with the churn and burn of Big Pharma 
they are trying 

to smother him with neglect
O, but he is wingéd and rare
and we are bright with battle

we shall not allow 
our selves to be swallowed 
by this terrible maw of hopelessness

those who love us well join hands to build a raft,

to keep our heads above an angry tide,
to help us float on the sad debris
our tattered hearts have left behind

bring us now tender hummingbirds, a bounty of butterflies 
to carry our spirits, so heavy with dew
if we could only

brush aside a river finds its blush

Author notes:

"brush aside a river finds its blush"
This is a line from the poem "elemental drumming" by Danny Beatty, 
my husband; it is used with his express permission.

For deeper understanding and to clarify, 
I had two emergency surgeries done at the end of October; 
shortly afterwards, my husband was diagnosed with cancer.

“There are people everywhere who form a Fourth World, or a diaspora of their own. They are the lordly ones. They come in all colours. They can be Christians or Hindus or Muslims or Jews or pagans or atheists. They can be young or old, men or women, soldiers or pacifists, rich or poor. They may be patriots, but they are never chauvinists. They share with each other, across all the nations, common values of humour and understanding. When you are among them you know you will not be mocked or resented, because they will not care about your race, your faith, your sex or your nationality, and they suffer fools if not gladly, at least sympathetically. They laugh easily. They are easily grateful. They are never mean. They are not inhibited by fashion, public opinion or political correctness. They are exiles in their own communities, because they are always in a minority, but they form a mighty nation, if they only knew it." - Jan Morris, from "Trieste and The Meaning of Nowhere"

Thursday, January 21, 2016

navigator — for darcy (onerios13)

your shining almond eyes
consumed every peach in the orchard
without ever bending a bough 

everything you'd ever need
fell gently into your hands
curled contented at your feet
lingered long within your heart

sunrise caught you wide awake and dreaming 
moonlight streamed through your fingers
creating beauty from an empty page

warm currents surrounded you
summoning your seductive smile
wind and water reaching 
for your inevitable shores

you were your own planet
discovering unknown galaxies
we were your satellites
drifting in apogee

tossing starseeds at us
you'd laugh
a solemn memory still resonant 
within this wilderness

boldly echoing throughout day's eternity
murmuring deep inside this infinity of night

a delightful song in the making
a brilliant story still waiting to be told

Monday, December 14, 2015

The Many Names of Love

He called me mariposa,
as if my chrysalis had disappeared
overnight, its wispy tendrils drooping,
then falling away into shadow.

He called me gentle bird,
as though my song was sugar-sweet
and soft, a moist whisper cast aloft
into remnants of dusk.

He called me beloved,
as if his tender words
would shame any onslaught of tragedy, 
somehow keep me safe from sorrow's clutches.

He called me querida,
as though such fervent declarations
could make a thousand miles evaporate,
bring me to his distant shore.

He calls me his only, his own -
I answer his embrace by gathering 
succulent flowers into a fragrant harvest
to leave scattered upon our doorstep,

perhaps to delay the coming of darkness, 
perhaps to hasten the arrival of dawn.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

poem for this moment

"Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, 
but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary 
as bread in the pockets of the hungry." 
                                                                                — Mary Oliver

How I have craved 
the lavender of your laughter,
the wisteria of your weariness 
when you lay your jacket aside,
done as is the day ...

and then you come to me.

How you have saved me
from clinging vines of chaos,
from numb emptiness of stars 
too long dead, their light lingering
as an afterthought, a cold memory.

Your music wrapped each chord around me,
a comfort in darkness, a smile I could not see,
a gleaming jewel waiting only for sunlight
to describe its edges, its facets, its dominions;
we are created from stone and fire, 
composed of water and air ...

and then I come to you.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

From Beyond

Mirrors of solitude held within release a shimmer 
when eyes overflowing by love's purest gaze creates 

in us a painter divine; and so, we swathe our silhouettes with adoration 
what there is to love beneath fiery flesh tossed and tainted by aches. 

Once our hearts become distinct to another's glance, 
we begin to envision more truth than we ever knew, 
more laughter than we ever imagined possible 
upon this isle of sorrow - 
we shed the skin of cynicism, rise up into the sun's warmth, 
embrace wisdom with new songs written within rhythms 
of our now synchronized hearts. 

We finally befriend our own natures 
and weave light away from shadow's grasp.

Monday, November 24, 2014

Retraction on page 39C

Poetry is not dead

It has not been seen in silk-lined coffins
or seen in the ICU gasping for final breaths
not in the ER with a concussion or a severed artery 
or in the alley, left unconscious by a stockbroker's 
well-placed punch or a drunk's misplaced anger

It does not whimper in shadowed corners
or cry for help from distracted strangers
It does not beg for bread or soup or debate or alms

but it might break into song
in an unexpected moment

It does not care for currency 
or validation from upturned noses
or retreat to dusty shelves of libraries
turned into museums instead of concert halls
It appreciates silent thought and quiet philosophies
offered by open hands flowering with kindness
not closed minds full of gray unpenetrable fog

It does not dress for dinner or pay heed to idle gossip 
the latest celebrity's faux pas or felony or who disappeared last week
It won't pay their bail or represent them in a court of irrelevant peers
It is not a smiling anchor reciting untold horrors
bright teeth gleaming madly at disastrous headlines

One may find it at water's edge
eagerly anticipating a child's homemade boat to sail
or the first smooth stone they've ever skipped
laughing as it makes ripples in warm currents
concentric circles to travel around an eventual world

yet it may hum slow jazz rhythms snapping fingers
as the world's pulse begins anew with rising light

Poetry is not dead

It is only waiting 

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Divergence (Inspired by Margaret Atwood)

                                Inspired by the poem "Variation on the Word Sleep" by Margaret Atwood

I know the moment sleep takes you, leading you away from me, 
into landscapes sculpted by unspoken thoughts,
molded by forgotten memories.

Your breath slows, a quiet metronome - 
its rhythm soothes me as I lay beside you, 
wondering where you are now, if the air is sweet.

When you move, perhaps a whisper 
shall escape your slightly-parted lips,
a murmur I cannot translate, but can only feel.

When a tempest shakes you, disturbs your peace, 
I put my hand upon your shoulder 
or place my leg gently over yours, calming those tides
that would submerge you far from my reach;
no matter where or how you slip, I will catch you.

Darkness and sorrow would diminish each of us
if we had no arms to hold us as these long hours pass;
loneliness defines our secret thoughts unshared.

When your chest rises and falls, 
I am there, watching. 

I am your lighthouse keeper - 
as seas batter the infinite shoreline,
as the moon recedes behind the mist,
I hold the brightest light steady and aloft, 
a beacon designed to bring you safely home.