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Sunday, February 24, 2013


 Lucille: "I'll be in the hospital bar." Michael: Uhh, you know, there isn't a hospital bar, mother." Lucille: "Well, this is why people hate hospitals. Arrested Development

I Walked into a Bar…I Needed a Hospital.

Hospitals should have bars--
I think they should-- a pint
of beer for a pint of blood.
Lounges are like waiting rooms
in hospitals, yet with libations.
Hospital stays are not
like a wild weekend, more
like a reality check.
The regulars are sitting,
some in waiting rooms,
some on bar stools,
some wondering how much
longer until their time is over.
The patient is praying
this stay won’t kill me;
the cocktail barely numbed me, 
the t.v. is blaring.
How much longer
will it hurt like this?
the patron asks the bartender.
Who's winning the game?
Can I get another lager?
The pounding of a heart,
the pounding of a beer--
states only one thing--
cardiac arrest or attesting
to the beginning of a scar.
How much longer will I be
waiting for a miracle at
a hospital or at a bar,
because after today,
I am not sure whether I
need a bar or a hospital to
pick up and heal my remains.

Thursday, February 21, 2013


Sand is Disposable Graffiti

In the sand, she wrote,
I cleaned this beach---
Please don’t pollute.

The line was drawn in the sand.

Pressed into the sand are
footprints lasting only to
water’s edge.

In the sand, he wrote,
Will you marry me?
inside a giant heart.

Left in the sand is  
graffiti at dusk---
for the rest of us
to learn.

The sand can always be changed.

Monday, February 18, 2013


“Feelings come and go like clouds in a windy sky. Conscious breathing is my anchor.” 
                                                                                             Thich Naht Hanh


Violet sky whispers light,
soaking color from the lotus.

Late lauders of the break
sing diligently hallelujah.

Soft gossamer haze lifts
from mossy cobblestone
giving truth to daylight.

Spirituality begins with earth,
ascending life’s energy,
humming with each bone.

The apex of the heightened
heart descends peacefully
in moments of silence.

Sitting quietly, the inner chatter
begins to settle and anchor.

Cyclical posture is the river
rising to a chosen passage.

In the noise, there is silence
without the rise of the hands,

without the voice of reason,
God’s wisdom will proclaim.

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Wednesday, February 13, 2013


Night's Elegy

Winter gray hovers above
the orange glow,
crashing through
the black bones
of a steepled pine tree--
the piercing
shimmers could be
mistaken for a house fire.

In seconds, one can capture
the rage of
elongated gold heat;
a God's shield from night.
The rising day begins;
we have survived another
rotation-- even as
the sun is hidden by a
blanket of clouds.


Thursday, February 7, 2013


                   “Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form." Rumi

Mystery, Misery, Mastery 

above ground,
calm as the night—
it always seems like twilight
your mother--
soft, warm, and tight.

A zipper straight down the middle,
an amniotic sac breaks open.
It was a cesarean section,
opening the belly to the sky.
Outside low thick clouds
are white wings awakening
an arrival.

Holding close is a life,
delivered from a water bag
Breathing air, body of blood,
cheek pressed to her swollen breast.

Life shares her first breath with the living.
Death shares each heaving breath
with the dying.

She remembers when she was just a girl,
sitting on the foyer steps,
distant church bells, her doorbell rings,
the body bag arrives;
the men walked in,
and leave with the corpse of a man.
Cold, stiff, dead, she remembers; it is the last
time her father would be leaving.
She curls her body in a sleeping bag,
zippers it closed and remembers
to stop crying.
Back packs,
purses, storage bags
containing the remains of one’s life.
Life considers a life, hospice, and
just down the corridor is a gurney rolling to
retrieve a person’s failed bones.
The body bag is earth’s final destination,
a zipper runs down the middle, outside,
a resting place underground.