Preacher Woman

I become a sermon
Not so much the words and pulpit pounding
I grew up with, but I cook a piece of heaven
Pad Thai, shop and play a “you matter,”
To the check-out girl who chats and recognizes
That I remember her story, maybe she is the preacher today
I touch the old woman who dresses in wild colorful
Clothes and sits across from Trader Joes, I wake her
Gently and place a twenty in her hands, walk across
Get a red cart, look up and she is waving, though she
Has never spoken a word to me in my several weeks
Of saying here you go or merry Christmas or hope you like it
I empty the dishwasher for the millionth time, not my job
In the house of cards where I live but I say all right, I still love you
Though you dirty everything and never help, like the
Sun I’ll keep shining here but I’m writing too in my room
While the drama goes on out there, my sermon to myself
Today, listen, keep on when every distraction threatens
Your real work, keep listening and pounding these keys.



A Longing for Trees and Brooks and Stones

i’m an old woman
often angry at the state of affairs
preferring admittedly love affairs
waning my life with whining
i think of Shakespeare’s “Now is the
winter of our discontent,” as if he knew
of this time in my life
and perhaps he also knew the heart of this old
crank of Woodland Hills, California
 who also has lived by and longs for his other words:
“And this, our life, exempt from public haunt,
finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
sermons in stones, and good in everything.”

The Peach and the Pair…Ten Years and Counting

for Micah
loving long term is such another
animal its not the erotic grip
that addicts us to pleasure
and got us here,
but the long slow lick that
sometimes gathers all the tastes
the bitters the sweets salty
savory how the memories
accumulate to form a soft
bed for times of extreme
exhaustion love muscles
strained beyond burn
learning what even old
people just don’t know yet
every inch of each other’s
body but more the mystery
of always new discoveries
her new breath, the way
her beauty opens like
never before or her
broken heart bleeds in
your open hands and rips
a hole in your selfish yearnings
you can’t run in this race
it’s a steady walk hardening
the weak places and softening
the hard barriers leaking joy
all the way so that really
more than walking this
is a dancing journey
two souls in such
raw recognition bound
only by knowing that
past these separate unyielding
identities, there is only One

Are you feeling stuck wishing you were in France just traveling for a while. Check out these two amazing friends of mine, Lukie who is Brazilian and her husband Martin, who is English. They are in a motor home traveling the back roads of France. At least you can pretend.

She Comes Undone

How the land bends toward her humans
Falling she comes undone
Lets her hair down in the rain opens
Her body, comes, clean and fertile
Spills her seed in grand abandon
Hides quiet and pregnant in winter
Waiting calling for peace
Laughing her joy in spring in a thousand
Thundering babies given for us and for
All of her loved ones, though we cut
Her heart out and bomb her womb
Still she finds a way to give


First light bask in the oneness
Feel my tongue. Is there something to say
Drink in the silence of a wildly raucous household still asleep
Turn into a prayer breathing to adjust my sight
Self  preoccupied groaning let’s go of my pajamas
 Cartooned thoughts pop telling me that there is work to do
And play to make grandsons to love and homeless
People to feed, poems to write, Thai barbecue chicken
To create, or is it poems to create, homeless people to
Love and grandsons to feed?  Hanging upside-down skews the picture.