Wednesday, December 27, 2017


Art by Dan-Ah Kim

Once again . . .
The promise of sanctuary.
The insolence of perfectionism.

or, should I say
the sanctuary of perfectionism?

Whatever I name it,
it beckons.

This time, I decline the offer.
I no longer constrict myself.

no more armor.

Instead, I crack myself and 
open wide the mouth
of the wound.

what pulls me, now?

I am inclined towards
the quiet wonders
that sit before me
in silence and listen.

what do you want me to say?

In the space between us,
the softness glistens
like stardust.

I can cry, if I want. I can let
the image reflected in my eyes dissolve . . .
like millions of undulating raindrops.

But, I cannot lose that image.
Or, can I?

what pulls me?

Nothing is permanent.
Not this.
Not anything.

I sit it out. Let it pass.

let it go.

The heavens are here.
Stars. Stars. Everywhere.

Monday, September 4, 2017

Untethered Inquiry

Art by Gustav Klimt

After Hurricane Harvey


I’ve always kept certain questions 
tucked away like forbidden 
family secrets.

Yet, something has shifted,
these last few days.

what is this helplessness?
what is this vigilance?
what is this hope?

What is the source of these inquiries?
What is triggering them out of
placid hibernation?

Can this be?
Can it be I attribute inspiration
to the intensity with which the sky falls?

But, that is far too complicated for today.

Today. Today . . . I am happy
with the simple things.

I am happy with the wind in the trees
and the crunch of dry(ing) grass 
beneath my feet.

I am happy with the song of September
enveloping my waist like so many
curious yet subtle fingers.

I am happy with the trill of the bird,
imperfect and uncertain as it may be.

I have learned 
that the heavens 
hold enough water
to saturate the earth and 
make it plead with overwhelm.

And, I have cried, because
some forms of abundance
are cushioned with tears.

But, though I have been pounded by an
unleashed dam, today, my spirit
fills to the brim with a craving
that gushes from this world
into the far beyond.

The fallen blossoms from a crepe myrtle
scatter in the thickening morning.

Last night’s moon hangs 
from the clouds—an
echo, a remnant, a

Like a thirsting willow, I unfurl my
splendor cautiously. Bowing down, 
I deliver, and I receive.

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Cautious Renaissance

Beata Beatrix by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I am a fallen angel, struck by
the thunderbolt of wonder and desire,
exiled to a destiny of solitary emancipation.

But, hear me, now:
I am also a woman of truth.

And so, I must, you know . . .

I must transport myself into
a certain willingness that embraces 
this brave new autonomy.

I must enact this deepest form of 
worship that knows not how to ask, 
but only to receive.

I must open, submit . . . believe.

I have wandered in a Dantean limbo
for eternity. And, I have fallen . . . 
risen . . . and fallen again.

I seek the promise of relief.

The sky will soon be evening-gowned 
in black silk and brilliant diamonds.

The oil-smooth river will ripple like mercury
beneath the milky glow of the moon.

The owl will weep once more.

And, I? I will fall 
like a lush tree in a postmodern forest.
who will witness this . . . ?
No one will hear my cries.

And so, I must . . .
I must this rebirth allow.
I must this Self redeem.