Thursday, November 24, 2011


"There comes a time",
said the sage
to the drenched woman,
"to use your arms as oars."

"When the mother of all
storms surges its
crushing waves,
pounding and plowing
across the bow,
and tears through sails
as through your lungs,
and against your ribs
like spars,
it's time to reach
your arms as oars.

Your oars are
smooth and broad,
oak old and oak hard,
polished by oil,
smoothed by sweat,
and molded by toil.

They will guide the bow,
align the sheer,
override the surf,
undermine the tempests,
and hold
the old boat

Tuesday, November 8, 2011


Wind pushes loose bodies around, and through them
we are space
Rain blankets down, running rivulets through
we are water
Waxing gibbous moon, one eye open in view
we are light

(funny how life changes make unseen storms in a potentially tranquil world)