Mar 11

Sure of One Thing

Mar 11

Figure Study in Red

Mar 03

I Am The Quaking Aspen––A Revelation

Did you know?

The tree certainly couldn't have relayed the message to you.
You named it a wise old woman:
tender, battered, sexual.

It seems you knew.

Her scars––the tree's––were so similar to yours.
And she told them to you. In colors, in seasons, in falling branches.
In her quaking––unsure if it was applause or fear-trembling.

And yet you weren't aware she was you.

You created her story, her labia and breasts, tears and dance moves and 
sacred femininity. 
She was truly old though––and strong.
You didn't make those up. Those were simple observations.
Mar 02


Mar 02


How can I sum up in words the way you make me feel
How can I adequately convey the way
I let you
stroke the paintbrush across the expressions on my face adding layers
and years
to this once simple sketch
You are what allows others to interpret
this complicated sculpture
in the way of their liking
You’ve hidden my words in the dark corners of my own mind
and filled the empty space with your tongue
You’ve hidden virtue
in the places I am now too afraid to enter

As you imitate the willow leaves
with your hands
You then steal my breath too
My heartbeat then seems to resemble that of the Quaking Aspens—
not sure if the leaves are applauding or trying to scare you away

As Spring rolls back around
and the soil becomes fertile again my youth will be renewed

I will then
and tear
at the scabs you have created
Dec 28

With Love

Dec 28


Nov 25

Thanks to Geof Hewitt

Early in the morning my mom sings to me Lorelei, the Irish folk lullaby she used to sing––
on down the line from my Irish-Catholic, 33rd and 3rd grandmother, now living free and dying in the granite state New Hampshire––
who sang to women and their divinity and powers teaching them spells of nurturing and baby-bearing and growing life.
She eats oatmeal early in the morning.

The paper birch is home to chaga mushrooms, if I remember correctly.
Interconnected communities that thrive within the ever sacred forest. Secret societies of life and fruit and system and equity. The mushrooms grow from ruin and death to create medicine, food, poison. The BAIN OF ANYTHING. Why bain? Why so vain? How come I hadn’t known the forest’s majesty? I am so in love! SO IN LOVE! Ferns of moisture. Turkey tail: a shag carpet on logs. The reishi calls to us! A sign? The puffball that we couldn’t find is watching us. Consciousness is existence.

Nov 22

Scattered Together