The way

I sense a way forward

barely intuited

amidst the clinging brambles of life.

I’ve been a good girl

creating a good religion

but  each question answered

multiplied into more questions

until I spin

confusedly on a merry-go-round.

But when I began to run

wildly searching for the way

I tripped upon a hidden root

and fell headlong into the mud.

Soiling my fastidious clothing

I breathed a sigh of relief

as an aroma of freedom

tantalizes my sodden nostrils.

I see the faintest of deer trails

through the thicket

away from the groomed path

but it could be a dead end.

Here I stand

one foot on the trail

the other on the path

conscious that I may have to get muddier

before I can feel clean.

Is the key to  freedom risking everything to experience grace?

The Jump

I have not yet dared

to fall headlong

into the mysterious pool

of his grace.

I stand high

on the arched bridge

squinting to judge

the depths below

But I cannot be sure

how deep it goes

and so I wait

first putting one foot

then the other

uncertainly over the edge

dangling them

as if to convince

those passing by

that I am indeed going to jump.

But when they pass

I withdraw my feet

and cling once more

to the safety of the railing.



The Jacket

What will it cost me

to feed your ravenous loneliness

to be the balm on your raw isolation

caused by your double identity?

You’ve wedged yourself in a space

created by two concentric worlds

escape is a powerless prayer.

I opened a door

and you bounded through

exploding in the relief of freedom.

But the door scraped against my wounds

Blood oozes

from the cross-section

of history and experience

it spirals into a wild current

sucking me down to its thick red depths

where I can no longer hear my name.

When you withdrew

carelessly banging the door shut

you left something behind.

The coat that concealed your loneliness

lies crumpled over my wounds

but it cannot not staunch the flow

it only continues to absorb

my life blood

until we congeal together.

It is mine, now;

I cannot give it back.


You hide

from me

I look within

I look without

I wait

for some whisper

some assurance

you are shrouded.

But even your non-Presence

is a throbbing Presence to me

You are the Mysterious One

I cannot control


but your very absence

is like a beguiling aroma

that beckons, lures, invites

but I cannot find you

nor can I anymore

use trite expressions

and explanations

Take your name in vain

by my easy answers.

So I am here

wondering why you are hidden

Wondering if you will ever emerge

in my life again.

Blood fire

The first hint of warmth

crackles along my skin

curling smoke

like a Siren’s incense

begins to tickle my nostrils.

You tease it up

the licking flames

move under my skin

And I am inextricably drawn

toward the hungry heat.

It burns

burning descends down

taking its bittersweet fingers

to the hidden places.


You are a fire in my blood

I fear to be consumed

left with dust and ash

like winter’s deadening breath

spreading over my soul.

But the fire’s intensity

devours my fear

ushering me

into a strange place.

When it passes

fading into memory

the smell

pungent in my nostrils

I open my eyes

to see the vivid green

of a new world.

The fire destroyed the old

and now

I cannot go back to the mild pastures

of my lackluster control.


She can still see


images passing

behind an opaque glass.

Muffled sounds

she reacts

a character in a different story;

she cannot touch

cannot feel

she is wrapped in the tight weave

a soft loneliness

that touches her body

yet leaves her soul

in silence.

She struggles to break free

a fight born of instinct

and not of passion

but the flexible walls

are indomitable.


she rests

a tentative isolation

encircling her.


she waits


to the glittering sounds of  life.


is elusive

She cannot turn herself

into a butterfly.

“The moment of inspiration does not come to someone who lolls around expecting the gift to be free.  It is no giveaway.  It is the pearl for which we have to pay a great price, the price of intense loneliness, the price of our vulnerability which often allows us to be hurt; the less readily understandable price of hurting those we love, even though in less radical ways than Gauguin.”  Madeline L’Engle

“Artists have always been drawn to the wild, wide  elements they cannot control or understand—the sea, the mountains, fire.  To be an artist means to approach the light, and that means to let go our control, to allow our whole sevles to be placed with absolute faith in that which is greater than we are.”  Madeline L’Engle

The Stories

What happens 
to the stories of those
who are no more

Do they vanish into blankness
like an old book
in a dusty library?

In the silence
I hear their groans and laughter
their weeping and joy

Memories that are not mine
murmur like ghostly echoes
on my mind's horizon

The possibilities, the failures
the successes and defeats
cry out for rememberance

But we like senseless beasts
pass through the present
from pleasure to pleasure

The stories live on
untold pulsing hearts
faintly beating their life's song

Outside time's borders
vigilantly sheltered  
by the one who wrote them.

Senses of Something


Senses of something
just beyond
the seen;

How comforting
it is to keep you
in the neatly arranged
room of my mind
Everything in its place
No strewn socks 
No unlabeled jar

But then she talks
so confidently
"This is what this means,"
she says.
"This is how you do it."
How can she be so sure
and not be trembling
in some secret place
that she could be wrong?

my soul fluttering
like a quiet moth
near the light

I go to the room
knock on the door
I peek in
the room is spotless
no shadow of dust
I go in and sit on the couch
the decor
its neat gaudiness
as if I have seen it before
as if I have been here before
perfect in form
it weighs on me
a surprising burden

I want to leave
I go to the door
but it is locked
I scream and shout
bang and plead
but no one comes.

I sit back down
and look once more
and I remember
this is my room
my safety 
my refuge
now my prison.

were never here.