Forestland

I was here first.

And when I say I, I mean we
And when I say we, I mean me
And a handful more but
not more than a few.
On this hill, in that valley
with our pads and our shoes


And grass lived here still,
in that place where you lay
to admire the vista
on this beautiful day

There were faces, but no names
And flowers and bones
And I knew this could be my temple
I knew this was my home

You can't understand this.....
I won't ask you to try
There's too much strength in your limbs
and lust in your eyes

But I was here first
not nearly the first
staining these walls
with my blood and my thirst

a springtime garden

Today I entered my garden
I did not know what I was looking for
I did not know what I would find
Kneeling down, my hands touching the ground
My heart stretched open
and accepted the sun as her companion
The birdsong of complex melodies
became the playlist of my peace
and the smile I knew was lurking
spread across my face.

All Hail

how lonely without the moon

if it were gone, would we finally realize
our limited size

or would desperation arise
from a lack of companion

to hurtle together with intertwined orbits
repulsed and attracted by internal forces;

could we navigate the oceans
without their tides to drive us?
and when seeing the stars,
would they compel us to madness

with the urge to reach out
and prove to ourselves
that we are not alone
entangled in darkness
with only a sad song of patriotism
to guide us
on this delicate jewel;
our only home

snow moon

It is the last snow moon;
the last of its kind.
The last time the light would shine so brightly
that daylight kissed the sky through the darkness
and all the mysteries of the night were laid bare in plain sight.

The waning brings with it the rising of a different season
and the snow moon sleeps again.

In this blue light, I love you more
and no horizon exists to limit our hopes.
I will exhale my ambitions and breath in
the green grass of springtime.
And dream of the snow moon and the
frosty spirits that flow from me
freely toward the stars.

2014 For You

If I could find my voice,

And words flowed like water....

I would whisper to you love, respect, awe, gratitude

Agony

What I allow to share with you instead

Amounts to a jumble of gravel, boulders

Course sand

Papercuts, blood.

I remain mute, afraid of the

Broken glass, slivers and shards that amount to my love

A song of sin and feigned regrets

Trace the bloodline of each wicked word
to the inevitability of your crashing world.
No mystery hides this ugly truth
from eyes swimming in feigned regrets.

Our choices are our cruelest deeds
and yours, my friend was without
need; so out of place in your
crystal world
of ideals on love and life and loss.

That bitterness, I never saw
but listened to her tender voice
and understood there was no choice
but freedom on a thousand wings.

So try and sink or dare to swim
no longer will I bear the strain
of tying you to a swaying shore
in hopes you'll be a better man.

Turn the earth around the sun
a heart's wounds knit with time and silk
thinnest thread; a delicate hand
torn anew....this time, by you.

Walk away,
I watch you go.
I call you back and wonder why.
A friend you are but not to her
not to me
alone you cry.

For the boy inside that man

Best name your demons soon boy,
Lest they consume your heart and steal your dreams away.
Yours is a tempest soul. There is a swirling that lives within you
and I never know which way the wind blows
when I meet you.
So many hurts and scars
framing your beautiful face.
I will admit that you scare me
from time to time.
A love so great resides inside you
I see that now;
There is no hope long enough or
patience fierce enough
to survive this storm.
From here,
you must find your own path
and at a distance I will wait.

Mine Sne Hjerte

Soft whites in a steady cascade,

Of flakes, og perler or fragile hoar frost and rime

Of gentle sounds and dampened footsteps…

I come, born from arctic blood

Of Mo i Rana and fjørds cut deep.

Blue eyes flecked in silver and storm

As still as waters fractured with ice

Mine hjerte synger med winter light

Of long dark nights og branden  bright

Vi findes vores stemme med hver nyt søvn

Strong and steady and in continuous chorus it rises;

To meet the morning of the first fallen snow.

Inside of Me

Only when you walk
Naked through your house
Are you Truly Free

It is when
You walk naked through your garden
That you are Truly Wild

el lago

As I sit here staring at these peaks, this lake, this life
My children with toes buried up to their ankles
The gentle slap of water on sand
And try to imagine a life without
this place....
without this warm sun....
without the evergreen, cedar skeletons, pebbles, solitude.....
On this perfect May day
 in this place that I call home
but is not the home of my birth
And will I ever feel fully at home
as at home as a birth-right allows?
Is this the gift we give our children
without them knowing it
This security of belonging
to a mountain vista
never questioning
only living
only alive

While you were out...

Hi Mom,
Just wanted to let you know
That while you were shopping,
Your Democracy was stolen

my eyes

the wait is over, the wrinkles are here
youth retreats, each glance in the mirror
:-)

a eulogy

and what was the price paid for your children as slaves?
new shoes and a purse.....
they will love you and hate you all the same.
this was your choice they will scream in their cage

when, my friend, did your castration begin?
your rage re-directioned toward women and ghosts.
lesser men have we hardly known,
when never were they needed most

A love letter to my husband

We are farmers. We are young; the future, the changing tide. We believe in the natural world, the magic it contains. We are not afraid to work, to dirty our hands, to break our backs. Our days are long. The sun, our luminary. It streaks our hair gold and platinum. It bleaches our clothes, freckles our arms, burns our shoulders.  So consumed are we by our work, that we often forget to feed ourselves, relieve ourselves or rest. The soil is calling; people are hungry. We must work.

We are farmers. Our labors are tangible, rewarding, and transcendent. The perfect row of broccoli straight and tall, healthy children, toned muscles, a full plate. Nesting swallows, speckled eggs, bean pods plump and thick.

We are farmers. The people we serve are our friends, our neighbors, strangers, children, pets. They all come. They come with baskets, bags, barehanded and unprepared. They leave with a meal, a snack, a smile, a miracle. And they are grateful.

We are farmers. Our faces are many. Our skills are countless. Bookkeeper, businessman, mechanic, mathematician.  Plumber, engineer, parent and spouse.  Master of all, regarded for none. We are written off, unappreciated, under respected.  Yet we remain, brilliant and constant in our earth-bound orbit. Our love is our gravity.

We are farmers. We rejoice in the harvest, pray to the clouds, beat our chests and pull at our hair. We cry with exhaustion, cry in confusion, disappointment and sorrow. There are not enough hours for the work that must be done. And it all must be done.

The summer is coming. It never really ends. The seeds wait and we wait with them. For the sunshine, the rain, the soft light of springtime and the fading edges of fall.

A restless mind

A rebellious mind is a lonely mind...
a solitary place where the conspirator takes solace from the world.
The treachery of idealistic thoughts; of peace, prosperity and equality;
ideas without a home in a harsh and unrelenting landscape; our reality.
Tear down the walls and plant the seeds.
Change is growing
one corpse at a time.