Arriving Home

When you walk in the front door
the walls of your house
feel constricting,
instead of welcoming.
The same old chores call you—
endless cycle of dish washing
and the sweeping of floors,
pulling you into the dutiful circle of sameness.
So you turn, walk down the hall,
step outside the back door
into the garden sanctuary,
and in that instant,
you are truly home.
Shaded, green, full of tall peach and apricot
and fig trees,
tomato plants and basil and yellow squash in pots.
Thunder rumbles and you work alongside it.
Bend to the tarragon, cutting stems to bundle and dry,
tie beans to wooden stakes so they continue to climb.
The rain falls elsewhere, as you dig the soil and think
of planting cosmos in the last open spot,
the way they will push through the ground,
their fairy green growth, their tightly wound buds
opening to reveal a simple circle of petals
holding hands around a yellow center,
to thank you
for putting seed to earth.

This entry was posted on August 4, 2018. 2 Comments


Passing through forest and grassland,
roaring like a river,
beneath sandy arroyos,
underneath concrete streets,
runs a message.

The children, in deep distress,
are calling –
Locked away in metal cages,
ripped from parents’ arms,

a thin blanket on  cement floors
no windows to look from —
the dusty ground,  the bird song, the kiss of breeze
has also been taken from them.

The cry goes out-
help us, bring us back to our families.
You, who walk in the world,
speak for us,
set us free.




This entry was posted on July 1, 2018. 2 Comments

They Came Across

Standing in line,
two children and their mother
hold hands.
The girl has long black hair and dark eyes
that have seen too much, too soon.

She holds her younger brother
with one hand.
He is small, skinny,
his brown skin dirty, eyes glazed,
his stomach empty, so long.

Her right hand holds her mother,
who whispered last night,
“We’ll leave in the morning
and go
where it’s safe.”

Her mother’s lip is still swollen,
her cheek, bruised and purple,
her husband’s marks of ownership.
She moves slowly, while her daughter
watches and listens to everything.

She gives their names at the front of the line.
“You may cross the border,”they say.
In a moment of hope, of joy,
she squeezes
her daughter’s hand.

After they walk across, an armed guard says
“Your children will need to go over to that building.”
“Without me? Why?”
“But they are with me. We are a family.
I have relatives . . .”

The man reaches down,
tries to separate the hands,
ones that have brushed back hair from eyes,
wiped tears from cheeks,made food each day.
She pleads “Mi familia, mi vida,”

The guard takes them out of line,
to the side where no one can see.
He takes her arm, squeezes hard.
“This is the new policy
in this country.”

He wrenches hands apart,
pushing the children along in front of him.
When he opens the door,
the sounds of sobbing and voices calling “Mami, Papa”
leak out.

The mother covers her mouth with her hand.
Her daughter looks back at her,
accusing her, eyes becoming hard,
like stones,
only a tear betrays her.

~ We held a protest against detention centers at the border yesterday in Silver City, New Mexico, in solidarity with the other 700 protests around the country. We made signs and marched peacefully. I still wonder what it will take for these children who are already separated to be found, reunited with their parents and for these families to be treated justly.



“A revolution must be based
on inner truth or it will not succeed.”
~I Ching

When I threw the I Ching yesterday,
I got Revolution.
It could have just been about me,
but in these times,
the ripples spread further.

It cautioned: political revolutions are to be undertaken
only when there is no other way out.
When there is combat between forces of light
and forces of darkness,
there must be transformation.

When I look up to the blue,
chem trails paint the sky,
On the coast, dolphins beach themselves in toxic oceans.
Frogs grow, malformed, in Minnesota streams.
The lives of our rivers are threatened and attempts made
to sell them on the auction block.

My own revolution is small,
ant-like in comparison.
It is also about
the forces of light and dark,
the war mostly on the inside.

Yet the bigger questions remain.
Not just how tainted, toxic, wounded,
the country is, the planet is, but . . .
How can we heal now?
What can we do to help?
How do we bring light
to the darkness?


Standing at the top,
two sets of stairs appear,
blur, drift together, then apart.
Sway, lose my balance—
I am four, five, six, seven,
falling through my childhood.

My mother and grandmother argue in the night.
I lie in bed, hearing them tear at each other—
I am the reason they fight.
Gram’s glasses, broken in the morning.

Doctors promise to fix my eye,
the one that keeps wandering,
seeing two suns, two sets of stairs, two realities,
the one never spoken of that I feel inside
and the one everyone pretends is real.

The day of the operation
black-robed men come and stand by my hospital bed.
I am certain this means death.
The nurse puts a needle in my arm.
It hurts—then it is over.

Peek out of a patch that covers my left eye.
They tell me it won’t heal straight.
Yet I can’t help wanting to watch the sunlight
slanting through the small space above the curtains
to see the light, that transforms everything.

A Cry

Dedicated to the 1,134 young black men killed by police in the U.S. in 2015
and to Trayon Martin, Feb.5, 1995-2012

Walking down the street,
talking to his girlfriend on his cell,
one hand in his pocket,
he looked up at the night sky,
moon behind the clouds,
when a man came up behind him.

The man yelled at him, called him names
to hurt him. The boy, only 17,
turned and ran. The man kept chasing him.
There was an argument.
The man was a neighborhood watch captain,
watching out for anyone he could bully.

And the boy—how could he know
the man had a gun?
When his cell phone clattered
to the ground,
the last words his girlfriend heard were
“Help! Help,”

The man thought the boy was
different than him,
separate from him,
that he could make his own
fear and hate of himself die—by killing.

He didn’t see the moment
when the boy stepped out,
stood above his body,
all pain gone,
his heart, quiet,
continue his journey toward the stars.

There is the boy taking a walk in the night,
whose life was stopped short.
And a man who extinguished a life,
yet got the charges dropped:
the old, tragedy happening over
and over again.

Does Trayvon’s cell phone
still lie open in the street,
echoing in the night, a cry for help?
Are we, the ones who can still speak out,
are we doing enough today—to
change the story?

This entry was posted on February 3, 2018. 4 Comments

Monday Morning

In the silence of early morning,
I stand outside
ready to go to work.
Across the road a buck appears,
antlers upraised.
He looks at me—
and time shifts.
The only movement he makes
is to turn his head slowly,
then back to face me again.
He does not tell me
everything is all right.
He stands, like a prince,
showing he is at home,
even on a broken patch of cement
in this strange little world of ours.
He brings me in with his gaze
showing me what it is to be tender,
including me in his world for a moment,
as time winds out on a spool—we are kin.



This picture was taken by my neighbor, Eileen English, the morning the deer appeared,


This entry was posted on January 20, 2018. 3 Comments