Poem: Quagmire Kinfolk

Quag(mire) kinfolk

the girl in the marsh was me
when I was small and we were lost
I left the hurt there in the marsh
to be cleansed by mists
(to be) wavering weeds
the girl in the marsh was me
and I was younger then but
not                       so young
as to meet dread for the first time
he and I walked alongside
grassy heaps
and ferried our secrets
the girl(in)               the marsh was me
I left her there to wait on my return…
the marsh,  she           knew all
about the low hanging fog
and the weight
of water
in the



Confession Thread

sorry about the random halt post last night in the wee hours.. for those of you on the email list, 1 am is not my prime hour for technology 🙂

Confession Thread

one in the morning:
now, in my smallest form
I come to the doorway
and unravel myself
I put on the dress – the white one
from that last spring,
when we straddled the curtain
of the dressing room
and laughted with our bellies
for the last time
you said it wouldn’t be the last
white dress you bought me
but it was

Quiet the preocupied rustle
of liner and lace, the dress
once lovely dangling from the hanger
is ugly on my limbs
but I know better
it fit once
the zipper is stubborn
the buttons are stiff
but I know better
I know better until I cut my thumbs
the zipper is stubborn
because I’m different now
the dress – the armor of my loss
is a poor silhoette of my body
was made for a younger form
and I wonder, if I would know myself then
If I saw me from across a hall,
with something esle on,
on someone else’s arms
would I know me


Yoga Poem 4: Inversion

{Image from Sydney Le Fever on Behance}


Salamba } the body breaks the surface
with height it is permitted to see perspective
and learns the wisdom of the sacred woods
life is a kind of process we witness with ease

The shape begets the mind – begets the soul
we are working ourselves into more solid forms
justifying our breath with deep guttural signs
the body bends and we are rendered infinite
balancing and yet balanced – released

trust is a kind of inversion
placing the heart well above the mind
falling trance to the thrumming of pulse
believing the body to be stronger
than the pull of the earth – knowing we belong there
in the middling well
to drink of spaciousness
& be full.


Teaching Poetry

Teaching Poetry: What I learned from young poets age 12 – 14

Hand writing takes a long time
especially in pencil. sorry
I assumed you would all be young
beethovenns (also no spell check)
i guess i was ready for nearly-published
chap-book happy slappy poet dieties
I was suprised at how small the room is
when I have no true expertise. sorry

My poems were bad too. not bad, just drafty
and the rafters are close to the floor when
my teacher ego tried spread the table
with wisdom; I was no good on the spot
either, we were something of a rough
draft, the five of us, then the two of us
and then the room and I quietly
slapping papers along the desk
straightened and folded, for the car/ride home.