Category: Living on Purpose

+

Washing Machine

  Grave diggers clear the drive way brushing aside gravel dustings and stately brochures the children in their homes where they should not be watch wearily eyes heavy with screen time soreness & hot lunches. O, to be young again! the young say

+

Hiccups

  The artist at work in her studio the sweat running down dusted forearms the sun shining in through plated windows and the artist barely breathing. So barely hiccups happen hic ups interrupting the artist

+

Pronunciation

  Valerian gardens, gardenias in the rosebushes sunlight twilight and mountain rain makes everything grow like this. Tricolored notebooks rest easy on the table near me and the door opens once more. The door opens. Has been opened. Will be opened.

+

Monday Morning after a Storm

  What happens. What happens, when the cold morning breath of a foggy night slips under the covers and over the lips and bare feet stretch evenly over a woolen rug to a world that smells of light eucalyptus and an open balcony door — What happens.

+

Phytophile

Beyond the ribbed panes of the kitchen window swings a gorgeous plum and yellow philodendron; sweeping lacquered leaves catch the breeze half in split leaf, half monstera, a good name for such a beast! She belongs to our neighbor, who carefully disregards her day after day, neutrally striving to feed her natural sunlight (9-9:30 a.m.) and a sprinkle of cloud water from the Mountains … Read More Phytophile

+

Humans

  The mountain shudders under great weights of gusts and snow, groaning and creaking the six English climbers huddle rope-tied to rocks and tree branches listening for avalanches. And I sit here, at this metal patio table, so arbitrarily square, in a humid afternoon swatting flies and wondering what I will have for lunch.

+

4:00pm

  Little boy, blue jeans to the belly, puffs his little red cheeks— his pointed spectacles, falling down that button nose, watch as he blows his mind into the trumpet.

+

Breath Work

  She sighs, constantly. Always the sigh, sighing herself to wishful elegance, whisking the whites to rising peaks, she counts herself backward,

+

127 Percent

  Evening light pales into my windows from behind the palms, piloting in a fruity breeze to stir the pages at my desk. I’m 30 percent writing, 25 percent sipping tea, 9 percent listening to jazz beats & 63 percent certain my poetic Muse has taken the day off.

+

Lewis Wharf, Boston; 1978

  Fall colors warm her sweet face, deep reds and blushing oranges snuggling into the gentle wrinkles at her cheeks; the low light off the fading greens bounce from the brown of her sweater to my eyes, the softness I cannot myself believe. Contained in one tiny, aging human is the breath of ages seen and past— each petite wrinkle is a memory of … Read More Lewis Wharf, Boston; 1978

+

Soften the Jaw

  & tell the abyss the darkness is temporary. The moonlight is warming & the breeze which sweeps transposes the seeds and growth is in the underbrush. Tell the abyss it’s nearly dawn—that time runs parallel to furrowed brows and intersects

+

Kafka Talks

  Thunder resigns the dimpled sky to fatigue and stirs my Delphian soul— Around my brow clocks circle, clocks in heat in twenty directions the ticks tock— When the lights flicker, I come to. Lucid puddles seep into shoe beds