Category: Living on Purpose



  I will thresh the mind with both hands; fingertips of golden afterglow to select only nuggets of naked tranquility; to throw rugged shards of infancy behind goose-like shoulders, to cede this habit of bare toes on dust. In overthrowing infamy, brevity demands we be good in the mind, good in the body, good in the soul—and what cements into habit dyes the soul … Read More Luminescent


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


Persistence of Memory

  Ribbed and scurrying, a bus passes me; the sweat in airy beads drips to my bicycle knees. I am going everywhere, today. The ride is smooth, my mind is loose, the breeze is flesh and sweeps me— snatches of light-petaled afternoons. Pedalling backpacks to Point Chevalier, to the holy lips of Auckland harbours. Eager gusts helping me over wire-knit fences. The trees, bent … Read More Persistence of Memory

Desperate Relief

  I give you these poems at the tail-end of the trade winds at the cost of an espresso & my reasoning soul. I would sit in the midst of Kalakaua traffic simply to relieve this hounded mind with a pen. Here, enfolding the slender tipped shepherd, facing such fragrance of relief, I am rendered


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



  I’m a Fiat roof rack I’m the bicycle lacquered in red lights I’m the afterthought after the period drops. I’m dizzy with it all and too sleepy to wait til Christmas. Let days just be days— they’ve been overlooking my permission for ages.


Moon Dance

  There are 7.8 billion poems about the moon; having read none of them, I wonder: If all her glowworms cast their eyes to her size and whimper amongst themselves: why she so low— then what does she do? Diddly.


Sonnet 17

  Borrow the car Borrow the flour Borrow the book Borrow the shears Borrow the money Borrow the tuxedo Borrow the pencils Borrow the clothes Borrow the tampon Borrow the vacuum Borrow the ice pack Borrow the envelope Do not borrow the soul. The soul is yours.


  The words house themselves within me, I am not the words. If they come I remain whole. If they do not come I remain whole.


Artistic Integrity

  I want to be an art critic. I want to have such a glorious eye piece, that the thinnest strokes of oils and acrylics could shine off my lens into your face when you address me as “madam” and I grace you with my gaze.


  Slow down. Whoa, slow down. There is a way to do this. A way to do it all without feeling pieces of shrapnel carving cave lines into the ear bones. A way to do it all and feel electricity in the veins, singular purpose so singular, elephants in the foothills.