Stream of Consciousness (#24 Na/GloPoWriMo)

“Stream of Consciousness” A style of writing in which the author uses interior monologue to show how the mind works. The unbroken flow of a character’s thoughts and perceptions are revealed either directly (first-person narrative) or indirectly through free-wheeling discourse

The crow hops, hops, crow hops,
Murky swampy mountain meadow.
Front loader raking mounds of trash,
Washing machine bent, broken, retired.
Phone, mom, phone, husband, phone mom,Phone husband, phone mom.
The rain is snow in tiny Styrofoam pellets.
Little girl growling guard over dry pellets.
Explosion, whorls of pink laid wide open,Latte stripes wound up in fiber.
Anxiety whirls in loving, packet, teaching, living,
Each needs its place.
Tomorrow adventure and work.
Today, more struggle, vainglorious trying.

On Unwhinnied Mornings (#23 Na/GloPoWriMo)


When I think of how my flights were spent
Before these days grounded on my own feet,
A warm hide, coarse mane, hoofbeat,
Until my very being was rent.
Dark eyes, flicked ear, face buried in the scent,
My security, my dry future this love did cheat.
A lamb ambling to slaughter without a bleat,
Setting aside all that flying has meant.
My mind insists “Adults don’t need
The sieving sand steps when the world was best.”
My heart leaks the invisible essence of life.
Whosoever says a heart does not bleed
Has not from that ineffable organ wrest
The glory of those galloped heights.
inspired by John Milton’s “On His Blindness”


Trees (#22 Na/GloPoWriMo)


At 4 years old, I grabbed my mother’s
Gasp, shock, knocked my
Hands away.

If she’d asked, “What are you doing?”
I could have explained that
I was trying to draw a picture.
Of her.

I decided that I only needed to
Touch the shape.
Then I could draw the

I remember that crystal moment,
Amber suspension,
Not only embarrassed,
But trying to make sense of art.

Everyday I want to write a poem about
I want to explain how the bark feels in my

I want people to smell vanilla,
Or today is it butterscotch? Wafting
From sun-warmed Ponderosa

Why, what did you see when I said tree?

Alien Autopsy (#21 Na/GloPoWriMo)


Blood is thicker than water, oh how negative.
Negative monkey tree.
The aliens live among us, spreading, growing.
The slouching Neanderthals kiss the others, glue the spear, strike,
and the humanid who grubs the tuber gathers around
the stars alight roaring in flame over the tiny drama


Blood is thicker than water.  Oh negative.
Negative rejecting choice.
In the womb, restless, blood at war
no voice, the helpless innocent
because the surface doubt;
driving and colliding, a sunrise of doubt
the departure, death highway, extinction.
Tribes are not unanimous.  Rise!  Rise!  Rise!
We mesh our negative, our positive, our vegetables
But answers are not real, belonging is a myth;
stories tell truth.  The cords that bind
the winding stair,
and the risen’s rise will raise the risen this day
and every day those above will deliver the past.

And yet
the chimpanzee writes laws
and the personalities wither
scrubbing the stones at the feet of butterflies snacking on
baby toes.

we walk the water’s edge, secrets breeding,
and then, revealed, the water evaporates to desert
calving ice to rising trees.
Rise!  Rise!  Rise!
Only when the washed world recedes,
and the baby toes catch in all-too-human
when the eyes cloud to the rising sun,
there the witness mashes gritty sand
cheek to surf,
at the sunset let the pooling cool,
let the choice and the fortune strike even,
and light fade from the scene.

The witness awaits
Stars without end
The negative, the lonely, the outlandish.