poetic lament — “We all come from broken pasts, murmured the voice from underneath the hood. The Dark attracts the grieving. The sounds of lament are a pleasure to its senses. All who embrace the Dark know loss before they are granted its blessing.” — Rin Chupeco, The Shadowglass We are birthed from…

A poem. — The world needs to be wrapped in warmed up fleece allowing the softness to envelop, the warmth to permeate and infiltrate - But not to pull over our eyes, - For we need to see the ignorantly-formed intentions of those who seek to control us to avoid the fleecing of our collective joy. - Let this warm softness be our bond, our protection and connection nurturing and growing our fierce will

a poem — The hot water pipe burst in a mist from the flowering patina on the copper showing its age. In our bedroom, a drip…drip…drip from the register upstairs, the drywall bowing a water stain phallus developing on the ceiling. When my tears burst upstairs that night in uncontrollable sobs from a rose-splotched face you were my bucket embracing me and the feelings that needed caressing. I am the house

a poem — Finding my air, my breath is like reclaiming the space in my lungs as mine. It has been stolen from me particle by particle in these moments of grief. My grief is in the eaves – circling the rafters of my mind waiting to pounce. The bats are in a tizzy and my heart fills with the venom of their many bites as I fall victim to rage. I wish there was someone to yell at, I wish there was someone to blame

a poem on sentiment — Fuck Cancer is something said when we are angry and sad and floundering for control of grieving emotions for loved ones (which can include ourselves). But what if cancer did get fucked? What if it got fucked right where it lie – in the bones, the tissues, the organ where…

a poem — The world needs to be wrapped in warmed up fleece allowing the softness to envelop, the warmth to permeate and infiltrate But not to pull over our eyes, For we need to see the ignorantly-formed intentions of those who seek to control us to avoid the fleecing of our collective joy. Let this warm softness be our bond, our protection and connection nurturing and growing our fierce will to thrive

a poem in an attempt to articulate what finishing another Nic Stone book feels like — Is full and overflowing with blossoms, Spring has not yet begun, But this is what your writing does to me, No matter the season. You are like the sun’s rays equally warming the seeds under the cool soil of my exterior feeding them energy, giving them life, inspiring them to grow and break the surface. You are the air that greets and nurtures them

a poem — in the mirror finished putting my tresses in a topknot i spy rogue strands it’s frustration season then like a light switch a new perspective glows showing me how perfectionism is still playing me as pawn in the game of getting in my own way recovering i throw a bandeau over my hair and reconcile that this imperfect ‘do is good enough realizing in past perfectionism almanacs it was predicted

Humpty Dumpty and No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed Mash-up — Mumpty Bumpty laid in bed, Mumpty Bumpty twisted their head (and everything with a joint); Mumpty Bumpty went to the chiropractor and Mumpty’s bones said: Pop! Crack! We are out of whack! The Bumpty was worked out of Mumpty which left them feeling jumpty and gettin’ up to startin’ sumpting and no more Bumptys came out of Mumpty until Mumpty no Bumpty laid in bed…