The witch and the sage are one. Inquiry in place of inquisition Herstory is known to all History listens with reverence Travelers and traders Expand hearts and minds Territories left unsullied Trust flourishes on the vine Our voices woven together Make meaning emerge Truth is a living tapestry Rugged, fertile, tangible In another world
Songs/Poems
March of the dead
One quarter million of souls have conscripted since spring.
An army of the beloved joins the march of the dead.
The still-living bereaved wail in protest of this draft.
And are met with denial, derision, and doubt.
———
Tell those losers they’re lying and lazy and shrill!
We must keep the crowds coming, hear them cheer, feel the roar!
Keep the thing makers making! Let the revelers reel!
———
So the risens ranks swell, each soul-dier armed with the truth.
And their loved ones are left to raise hell here on earth.
Kitchen Fire
We cannot leave the house until you have checked to see if the stove is off.
I wish I could do the same with you every time I come home.
Is that why you switched to an induction stove…
So you could learn how to transfer heat directly to the object of your ire?
Am I the carelessly draped towel idly scorched by your silently sizzling electric coil?
Sublime
Dry ice sublimes to air, life-giving to trees.
Electric pulse sublimes, feel the soaring of wings.
Painful memories sublime, now divine call to the light.
Grief sublimes, see the star-scape in the night.
Survivor sublimes hailed as brave-one and wise.
Hate-words sublime, total revelation of lies.
——
The sublime is our soul song, our vision, our grace.
Excited vibrations accelerate transformations pace.
Age-old fear sublimates, unbridled truth in its place.
We, the people
I see you not seeing me. Not seeing free me. Not seeing me as being me. Not seeing human-giving -loving-being me.
All you know is what is known. No knowing outside of mine, my, me. No knowing the knowable abnormalities. No knowing the notion of another’s knowledge tree.
All you think you are is everything. Think nothing less than everywhere. Think nothing less than all that’s there. Think nothing less than the endless, edgeless air is fair.
And yet I see, I am a whole me. A wholly found me. A wholly sound, profoundly bound me. A wholly embraced on sacred ground me.
Embraced by the we who believe in thriving. The we will live beyond surviving. The we believe in spite of your lying. The we believe in life worthy of dying.
You will know us when you know more than you’ve ever known. Know us when you know you are nothing more than free. Know us when you know the human-loving-giving-being-we.
Then we, all of we, will know the unknowably sky. We, all of we, will breathe of the ageless sea. We will see what has never been seen.
The people, we.
Hallow’s Eve Incantation
We wicked witches,
murdered midwives,
silenced soothsayers of old.
Hear our prayers
from our pyres
Oh dear progeny be bold!
—-
Sister-soldiers hold the center
Brother healers break the bread
Tired teachers turn truth-tellers
Wailing weepers mourn the dead!
—
Vision-keepers hear our prayer
Dream creators hear our plea…
—
We bequeath to thee our power.
We bequeath to thee our songs.
We bequeath to thee our magic.
We the wise, and we the strong.
—
On this hallow’s eve we hail thee
Under blue moon’s watchful eyes.
All our children, justice angels.
Hark! The revolutionaries rise!
Linoleum
Resilience
The black and white squares gleam in the tree-filtered light that pours like sweet lime juice through the kitchen window.
Silently shining, the tiles reflect children’s socks sliding, diapered bottoms pushing off to find freedom in motion.
With a sturdy softness, the weathered floor braces the delighted soles of cooks. The cheerful eaters dance, drawn in by the scent of roasted, ripened love.
Somehow always comfortably cool, despite the baking from inside and out, the humble platform invites busy body bones to sit, stretch out, tell tales or just listen.
This unheralded dais is, in fact, the place where life happens.
Depression
The weakened rays meekly dust the floor with a remembrance of light.
Icy fingers dampen the spaces between old wood beams and the graying cracked cover.
Feet of all shapes and sizes shuffle listlessly along its spine, longing for the ready warmth of rugs and slippers.
The daily meal seems distant, dull, made without fanfare. Eaters emerge reluctantly from their darkened rooms to consume and retreat.
Inside this cold silence, the sullen floor sags, certain the wood beneath it has turned to rot or dust.
It should not be trusted to support anyone.
The one who hurt you
I know that one. To me he is warm smells of spices watching over hide-and-seek. He is a mother’s childhood hero, soft protector of little sisters, quick to smile, always asking, “what’s the matter sweetheart?” He once gave me a book that made me who I am today.
The one who hurt you.
The other one is a golden-child. They make me twinkle. They remember me when I was effulgent, effervescent, wild. They know me better than I know myself. I would take a bullet, stop a train, rob a bank, to keep them alive, surviving, thriving.
The one who hurt you.
I know that one too. He charmed the pants off me, literally. Held my head as I hovered over the toilet. Held my hand when I fell into the abyss of promises unfulfilled. We were each other’s resting place. When the world collapsed, I looked for him, knowing that if he was well, I must be too.
The one who hurt you.
And her, I owe her so much. She gave me my big break. She trusted me with her fears and weakness, when the world was on her shoulders. She opened my world, filled it with hundreds of new thoughts, new people, new ways for me to shine. She taught me to trust my vision.
And the one who hurt me.
They were also safe harbors, true-loves, someone’s reason to live. And, yes, they hurt me. Both. And. Also. And me, who have I hurt? Can I mend the wounds I have made as surely as I claim the wounds that mark me? Am I both innocent and guilty? Both? And? Also?
The one who hurt us. The one I hurt. One.
Ode to the winter solstice
The longest night
Bids you to rest,
To dream,
To close your eyes.
The night is,
And always has been,
And always will be,
A time of souls.
What can we say to the children?
What can we say to the children,
as we watch the waves rush in?
“Apocalypse” gives them no room
to imagine their emancipation.
What is love in these times:
cradling, coddling, condoning…
catastrophizing, condemning, collapsing,
or calling in, calling out, calling up courage?
Our children need courage
to care, to acknowledge, to witness, to change.
One world is ending, so another begins.
Prepare them, prop them up, propel them.
Find your own courage
to set them free from fear,
free from fate, from false fathers,
free to find the future for us all.
american incarnations 