To Find the Answer

The mind runs
like a train to a small town
where the news is old.
It travels
to the same
endlessly certain
so you can live

from the intrusion of possibilities
by questions.

Bound tight

your muscles clenched


You are puzzled

by how hard it is to bend,

to reach out or up

of the bars in your jail cell
like a fish, unaware of water.

In your narrow, airless room
open the dusty curtain
lift the window
vistas to open
where solutions
like surprises
rise up as flowers ready to bloom
in the soil of spaciousness.
your hands
your own neck.
Unlock the prison cell.
Step outdoors
at last
fresh mountain air
at the start of a new day
in a new place.
Unfold yourself
like a blanket on the grass.



The Greeks have more than one word for love.

It begins with storge, family,

where we can find,

      if we are the fortunate few,

 philautra, self-acceptance.

So clear-eyed, well-fed

we make our way to philea or even, though rarely,agape.

The rest of us,who were planted in cold, rocky soil 

grow stunted, frozen

reach for fire, thinking it is the sun.

Romance is the name for our illusion of love

a fog that hides the shorelineas we navigate

by wishes and lies

instead of stars.

Tossed about, dizzied, bruisedby storms we name passion     

  whose dictionary synonyms are pain, obsession, mania. 

We think we will be saved 

by grasping,


tighter still

to the punctured hull.

The Aeon of myth and Tarot appears before us

the Star Goddess Nuith,

       her companion, Hadith, a winged ball of fire, 

       is omniscience

       their child Horus

       clear insight.

Aeon rises above the waves,

as an eagle now

wings spread 

calls out to us

philea, agape

philea, agape





Who Will Explain?

The brown-eyed children,
under silver blankets
that sparkle like Christmas tinsel
or gleaming party gowns
worn at country clubs,
sleep on the cold, cement floor
but do not understand
the wire cages,
their loneliness
the long, hot walk
through the desert.
Do they wonder,
as children will,
what they did wrong?

Who will explain
to them

this land that hates them,
these people who sleep
on silk sheets
walk on marble floors,

washed by brown-eyed women,
take cool rides
in shiny new trucks
through the desert

like cruel-eyed matadors

immune to the pain

of the bull,
drunk on their comforts.

Who can explain
why these people
never wonder
what they did wrong?

How Could She Choose Him? Why Didn’t She Leave?

Mostly she doesn’t remember

but this

hiding under the porch stairs

like a frightened dog.

The mother, who cannot reach her,
bares her teeth, screaming.
The girl knows 
it is all her fault.
Mothers like good girls
pretty girls.

No one tells her differently.
They are afraid.

The woman huddles on the floor
makes herself small, silent.
The man’s eyes blaze
it is all her fault.
Men like good girls
pretty girls.

She hears the echo.


The Dog Says Sit

Words mask meaning
which rises in silence
comes clear
with the attention,
the patience
of a dog.
We know this
but refuse to trade our talk
for wisdom.

Those who stop to still themselves
know how dogs know:
see the others’ eyes shift
flutter like a bird taking flight
how the mouth tightens
the shoulders rise.

Though we sit close to each other
we hear
from a distance.