Whole Being: Life Alchemy
Being, Belonging, Becoming
Poetry
Poetry is the marrow of language—the place where words shed their armor and reveal their soft, singing centers. It is the song of our lives, the current of emotion that flows beneath the surface of speech. When our thoughts scatter and our feelings defy explanation, poetry gathers them, distills them, and offers them back to us as something tender and true.
Poetry is not about explaining the world; it is about feeling the world. It touches the spaces where logic falters, where the heart beats louder than reason. In its distilled lines and spacious silences, we encounter empathy—the quiet recognition that we are not alone in our joy, grief, wonder, or pain. The poem holds a mirror to our experience and, in that reflection, we see others staring back. We see connection. We see belonging.
In a world that often rushes past nuance, poetry invites us to slow down, to notice, to feel. It stretches our awareness beyond ourselves, helping us embody another’s perspective, another’s heartbeat. Each poem is a bridge—delicate but sturdy—connecting the isolated islands of our experience into an archipelago of shared meaning.
To write or read poetry is to listen for the song beneath the words, to lean into the subtle music of being alive. It is to allow language to become more than communication—to become communion. Poetry is the ember of empathy, the thread of connection, the tender place where we remember that we are not separate; we are notes in a greater harmony, always singing together.
Eisteddfod
The Wind Howled
and the sky
became red
like rage
people fled
their cars
into the thick night
as the roar
assaulted the land
swallowing
the abandoned cars
buildings
traffic signals
roads and houses
it swallowed animals
wild and tame
it swallowed
them whole
it drained
all the colors
except black and grey
ash so fine
it could be sifted
through your fingers
and that angry red sky
to remind us
we must let go
of what we
thought we knew
Nature Girl: The Bard Poems
Grandmother Sycamore
ancient crone
extending east
west
north and south
no longer reaching
for sky
as she did at birth
now
caressing earth
tired from
weight of years
pulling down
branch arms
into cradles
to hold spirit children
who climb
easily into her lap
I hold her
with ear against bark
and listen
to the wisdom of
243 years
Birthing
Abandon your house
Leave your car
on the highway doors open wide as wings
Run
into the forest
cast off your name
strip away everything you have learned
Bury
your books in the wild
read the grass and the hollyhocks
Shave away layers of belief
Compost
religion like dry leaves
forget about God
In favor of rich soil
Plunge
your hands into earth
Leave there your sparkle rings and gems
give them back even in their corrupted form
Cover
yourself with dirt and forget your color
your ancestors
imaginary boarder lines
Strip
cloth from your limbs
nude in mind and body
Dive
into dark earth
Dig
yourself into the roots at the foot of a sycamore and gestate
be born wet and empty into a world of fungi and worms
Wrap in a blanket of forest floor
Climb naked and dirty into tree branches
Sit with her and know her as sister
Gaze up into the canopy
past heads of tree brothers
into the blue eyes
of the universe
Midwife of your rebirth
Song For Pele By Kathleen Reeves
Hawaiian lava field after dark
Come sing a forest
or beach into existence
kiss rocks and touch
me or earth, it is
the same
watch evening rise
with white orb
black hawk wakes me
from forgotten days
into dreams becoming
ballerinas upon the volcano
perhaps flamenco dancers
passionate thumping
their way forward, out
of day fearless
in the night
When trees
of my bones
rise, ache heavy
from flesh I say
come with open eyes
come whirl- winding
stroll my dust
around lava fields
So I can see
how the Koa does
and the honeycreeper is
when you fall
with sunset
lie with me here
under canvas
where we can watch
the lava glow
in the closing of night
and know how morning breaks
Whale Watching
Tiny boat
on the ocean
rises and falls
like the breath
in my chest
the hump
of the gray
whale crests,
curls back deep
into darkness
before she rises
again, a blast
loud, wet, together
we exhale
all that must
be cast out
expel with power
spouts of salt,
water and air
inhale life
tail fluke
slaps the waves
calls to my
ancient soul
sister whale
descends, deeper
I follow
Making Love
I step outside naked
I am touched everywhere
my body awakens
yesterday it rained
my feet rest in the wet grass
I feel air, wind pushing against me
pushing the clouds away
I remain
heat of the sun warms my skin
dries the earth it so recently
showered
a bee lands on my shoulder
I feel the tickle of feet
but resist the urge to brush it away
it leaves soon enough
for the orange poppy
a tiny sun in its own universe
this is nature making love to me
this is what I have forgotten
Novelty
I forget to notice
but every day
is another chance
to remember
the soil is holy
that I am not separate
from the seasons
I move in a spiral
like the earth
nothing is fixed
I surge forward
yet I come round
again to a new place
somehow different
for what is a spiral
but a circle
with novelty
Time and Apathy
my heart barely leaps
when you write
so seldom
too many moons
too many suns
too many wishes
madness wore off
I wear new skin
cells replace
every seven years
it has been
that long
my body does not
know your touch
my heart did stir
then wonders why
wound of silence
most generous
returning the gift
I don't write back
Between the Worlds
I like to walk
in the early morning
while the world
is still sleeping
when the sky
is pink and orange
ribbons before
the sunrise spotlight
shows the waking monsters
before the newspaper
arrives with tales
of murdered children
I like to walk
between day
and night
in the time after
and the time before
I try to hold onto
this threshold
ask the world
to pause before
birthing the day
pause in this place
where nothing exists
but possibilities
where I can walk
the world into peace
Worn Inside Out
I'm too tired
for rage
I've been
eaten from
the inside out
slow fire spreads
like cancer
charred parts
of me crumble
demons purge
the rest
this shell
wants sleep
not war
the weapons
are too heavy
this is not
surrender
I'll give myself
over to something
else to animate
propel me forward
I'm still stubborn
in places
beyond body.
I am in mourning like this
wake before sun
dawn chorus
birdsong announces
the show to come
even through rain
the sun will rise
I will direct my heart
to the cosmos
fall in love
with Venus and Mars
they do not lie
or break promises
they spin in predictable
orbits never missing a step
I turn my heart toward
my compost pile
love the worms
and all they represent
inevitable ends
I understand death
and decay as a promise
it’s this world
we make
that baffles me
I am in mourning
like this
Blank Page
I lost my words
they used to dance
together
sometimes they
would sing in ensemble
like a choir
I haven't heard
their song
in so long
I must stop
all noise until
the music
of a poem
rises once again
Throwing Stones
Sorrow in my bones
I cannot count each rock
hurled through a window
each shard from shattered
glass or profane word
thrown like sticks or stones
at visible targets
If God had made us blind
how would we define
our differences?
Truth
my mother is aging
my back is getting stiff
and I just found
my true love
I want to wrap
my arms around
this day and hold it tight
days used to
go by in slow motion
while I was in a hurry
I need more time
in this moment
if truth is a mirror
my reflection reveals
battles lost
pieces
of me
gone forever
I don't know
where this
road leads
but I'm
afraid of
a destination
where everything
must be left
behind
Prague, 1998
The train ride was long
I carried a rose called
Freedom pressed between
the pages of Neruda
Autumn was yours
we walked rainy streets
our reflection on wet
pavement
melted together
washed away
you covered my eyes
so I could use other senses
you wanted me to smell
the wild rosemary
plant of remembrance
There was music
always music
yet so much silence
we talked with our hands
and had much to say
now even our hands
are silent
Acheron 2020
River of woe, one of the five rivers of the Greek underworld. The Suda describes the river as "a place of healing, cleansing and purging the sins of humans
Pine trees and sweet
grass rain down gentle
ash on homes
and cars, each charred
message carries
squirrel, spider
and deer quaking
in the muted light
crispy pieces of butterfly
still flutter like gray flurries
travelers with tales
of orange sky
Hades rising
into coastal bonfire
forest crematorium
on a sun burnt planet
April 20
the day he killed
the praying mantis
I wondered
who he was
this man who
destroyed
that beautiful
creature
crushed into
green liquid
oblivion
insect that once
had a face
like a monk
yogi in namaste pose
verdant Shinto
priest in gassho
Franciscan wanderer
and those hands
those praying hands
concealing truth
that we are all
cannibal predators
like him
The cat lady
my Guru is an old lady with eleven cats
who wears striped elastic waist pants
and a flowered shirt that doesn’t match
I have never heard her speak
except to her cats at feeding time
on the cluttered porch
her nirvana garden
an unruly display
of rocks, dirt piles
and an occasional weed
the Zen yard of least labor
framed by neighboring roses
and picket fences
In comfortable shoes
she sets off to the grocery store
buying only what she can carry
her rare adventure
beyond the front gate
I watch and wait each day
when the man from code
enforcement stops by
she peeks out the window
but does not answer the door
it has gone on like this for years
like an unrequited lover
the officer will return
only to be rebuffed again
one day, as I stepped on her
empty driveway
in admiration of the weeds
pushing through the cracks
my Guru catches me
and in a rare moment I think
she is going to speak to me
I wait for her words of wisdom
of simplicity and age, a monastic
breaking her vow of silence
she exclaims
“Why don’t you mind your own fuckin business!”
Sitting Shiva with an Open Bar
No more shall your sun set nor your moon be darkened: for the Lord will be your everlasting light, and your days of mourning shall be ended. Isaiah 60:20
Perhaps this quiet man
would have minded
to the laughter
and mixed drinks
on the day of his burial
he rarely spoke
in his lifetime
so others filled the silence
and he filled his glass
he wouldn't have the words
to suggest a Mourner’s Kaddish
or that they cover the mirrors
those brazen naked witnesses
reflecting gold earrings
and diamonds dangling
over the hearts of mourners
on this day glasses are filled
with his fine scotch
visitors laughed and drank
and forgot why they were there
sadness was the missing guest
This silence
fills my head
like the stunned
quiet after the towers fell
or just before the levee broke
or that phone call
at 3 in the morning
when words stuck in the throat
while the brain like an abacus
goes through its calculations
but not believing the answer
it is the space between the inhale
and the exhale
this pause before
the picture becomes focused
and is understood
this silence is a moment
containing all the water
of all the oceans
waves suspended before
the giant crash on miles of shores
or the still quiet sky
hiding fists of tornados
ready to descend upon
my home and memories
and throw them around like
hands and gears
mother’s antique clock
until it cannot be reassembled
this silence lasts as long
as the flap of a sparrow's wing
surprise like a sucker
punch to the stomach
before the alarm
bangs through the ear drums
it crashes the peace before
the tsunami attacks
the shore tearing
away palm trees
houses and the floor
under my feet
if I knew what would come next
I would
grip onto that second
and try to hold it as tight
as I held my father’s hand
before he took his last breath
What he kept
in drawers
protected from bumps
and bruises
like children
who didn’t come
to claim
memories
or forgive
now dumped
onto his bed
by strangers
his life in a box
sorted and assigned
cracked eyeglasses
and drinking glasses
in separate boxes
each determined
by their usefulness
in the trash pile
orthopedic shoes
photographs and letters
unopened mail
dusty as an untended
grave
of less value
than
a chipped coffee cup
or a forgotten birthday
I am unsteady
in the morning
trying to find
the floor
the up and down
of things
I am new
like a baby
within minutes
of birth
I want to cry
or eat
or know
this strange
cold world
soon I can focus
see shapes
into furniture
in my hand
the world waits
calls with flashes
and pings, and ringers
I scroll through
News slanted
like my morning body
see evil eyed monsters
sweet smiled heroes
blended mixed
solid not solid
not quite awake
like me
I’m flying
without feathers
naked and wet
I soar across
a vast sea of
white tiles
to land upon
granite stone
cut and polished
I see my reflection
closer turning
into a kiss
or slap across
my face
crash landing
on the bathroom
sink belly flop
upon the commode
and a drop and roll
onto the floor
with a final thud
like a punch
into silence
this flying
is for the birds
School days
My memory
is redder than meat
silent witness
to bloody walks home
dodging landmines
and 5th grade bullies
Hurling insults
nicknames that pierce
the heart
even time
cannot wipe clean
the damage
The Things of Childhood
gone: the scent
of cedar church pews
like fresh ground
cinnamon and cloves
gone: the sounds,
creaks and groans of wood
benches, as bored children
unable to sit still
try to ride time
like a rocket into the future,
to the end of the Mass,
after bread becomes
flesh and consumed
freedom is found
in the laughter
of a playground
In my boredom
I tore off my white dress
and hurried through
to the end of the Mass
gone: silky wooden
benches devoured by fire
arson took St Patrick’s
and my youth
reduced to ashes
I mourn the loss
gone: the aged priest
of my baptism
gone: the tabernacle
and the altar
I remember walking
charred floors
when they were clean
like my white communion dress
virgin girl that in time
would be consumed
In many fires
gone are white
dresses and innocence
I want to grasp
the hands of the clock,
and wrestle with time
I would pluck the hours
that I wished away
like daisies, gather them
into a vessel
rather than trample
the precious petals
under my hurried feet.
I sit at the grave
of wasted minutes
and mourn.
The fisherman
Like a prayer
He loads the bait
Casts out
With Hope
The cuckoo is Broken
I was so careful
to unwrap the wires
holding the chains in place
unfastened billows
to the sound of a half koo
I hung the assembled
clock on the wall
carefully placed
the metal sculpted
pinecone weights
upon the long chains
I set the time and waited
alone my attempt
at whimsy and fun
my fowl companion
reminds me
that time heals
clock hands drag time
and me forward
proof of passage
with his silly squawk
my cuckoo popped out
to exhale the news
tardy dispatch
overabundance of cuckoos
not matching the hour
but that German cock sang
his Black Forest song
we must catch up
sure I could adjust
the time and get that bird
on schedule together
we would start anew
I pulled on the chain to raise
the weight but the entire clock
came crashing down
A flock of carved birds descended
to the floor smashed
and splintered broken
chain yanked out of its gears
by the heavy weight
sounds of the billows
and springs in a disastrous
symphony came to a halt
I gazed at the wrecked life
on the floor
like a mirror
Broken (rewrite)
The cuckoo makes no nest at all,
But through the wood she strays
Until she finds one snug and warm,
And there her egg she lays. Anonymous
Careful to unwrap the wires, I hold the chains in place, unfasten the billows to the sound of a half coo. I hang the assembled clock on the wall, carefully place the metal sculpted pinecone weights upon the long chains.
I set the time and wait, my attempt at whimsy and fun after the divorce.
But my fowl companion is behind his time. This chick is delayed. No worm for this turkey. my cuckoo popped out with his silly squawk to exhale his tardy dispatch. That German cock sang his Black Forest song out of time. A foul friend.
I could tinker; get that bird on schedule. We would start anew. I pull on the chain to raise the weight, but the entire clock crashes down. A flock of carved birds descend to the floor smashed and broken; chain yanked out of its gears by the heavy weight. The sounds of the billows and springs in a disastrous symphony came to a halt.
time stopped
wrecked pile
on the floor
like a mirror
Path to the Beach
I have followed
creek side nasturtium
through the sticky mud
where the trains sing
on the sturdy bridge
still warm from the metal stampede
to the open sky
where the eucalyptus soldiers of my childhood
once stood tall and proud
were cut and crumbled to ground cover
I stand uneasy in the spotlight
shade has gone to the wood chipper
the stream races to the ocean
where waves speak truth
and spit out discarded tires and trash
I sit and listen
Redefining
The trees stand tall
lined up in a row
what they know is whispered
carried on the wind
they shed
pink leaves and acorns
as I hang on
to each memory- infused photograph
or diamond ring
I inhale
eucalyptus scent
mingles
with campfire and ocean spray
wrapping around me
in a comfortable blanket
of memories
the long pink leaves
like fingers tickle my soul
waking me from my dream
of a girl running
under yesterday’s shade
cast by trees
of my childhood
Swimming in the creek
that emptied
Last winter’s prodigal snow
to the forgiving sea
I would forgive
and return like waves
with relentlessness
as coastline carvings
cut into sandstone flesh
earth’s edges
like the topography
of my face
the sea waits
Silence
faint trace
of yesterday
a long empty
silence that plays
a memory
once we danced
to beautiful music
a long time ago
you stopped playing
I cried
I forgot steps
you forgot me
a dance that was
perhaps only
a dream
I listen in Silence
Once we danced
to beautiful music
I heard
a long time ago
there were days
I cried
a faint trace
of yesterday
our dance
I forgot steps
you forgot me
silence
a long empty
silence that plays
a memory
a dance that was
maybe only
a dream
Fleeting time 1/2013
The clock face
Round
Wounding me with its
Hands winding
Rounds taken
The years round and round
Taunt
Till my bones hurt
Still the seconds
Tick by
Pulling me
Shortening my bones
Shortening my years
The constant circling
Tires my heart
The spinning
Blurs my vision
The Westminster chimes
Dull my ears
As they ring
Over and over
Every quarter of my life
Passing
Never pausing
Never weary
As am I
Streetcar
Stella could tell me
about nights of heat
passion after a fight
stripped of airs and ancestry
Tennessee’s naked truth
boils over, exploding
breaking bottles
throwing dinner plates
while Blanche rides
desire like a wish
Stella has colored lights
and Stanley’s hard body
like Blanche I fear age
and loss
long for paper lanterns
to soften harsh light
hide in cool baths
Southern Comfort
or Wild Turkey oblivion
wearing a glass and glue tiara
It will not stop time
I hear the wheels all night long
my streetcar is passing
by with nothing but memories
A Bar Poem
In my grey suede boots
I am elevated five inches
and that is my camouflage
the bar is dark
the music loud
the voices louder
women in tight pants
heels and low cut tops
revealing their personalities
I should have worn my
sweatpants
And revealed mine
Alone at the Piano bar
nachos and diet coke
out of place in this sea
of margaritas and drinks
with names like
sex on fire, punk Cadillac
and purple hooter
you can have a drink
made of something called razzmatazz
with apple and watermelon vodka
called johnnies juice
or the devil in a blue dress
with tropical rums and blue Curacao
I think I will upgrade
to a Shirley temple
Anticipating Fall
There a is stillness
hanging in the air
shedding a brown and golden past
wind carries discarded
remnants of summer
dead leaves drag a
cross hot pavement
stand naked
in the warm nights
I learn by example
shed, and wait
Waiting
Waiting for the words
to flow
To caress the page
like lovers creating
new life with
dancing pens
in waltzing poems
I the lonely wallflower
sit with barren paper
impotent pen
waiting…
Mother line
I am daughter
of Salomé who is
daughter of Rebecca who is
daughter of Jude
and the daughters carried on…
great grandmother
married a drunk
had nowhere to go
when he beat her
and her daughter carried on…
Nana married a weak man
an invalid growing
older as caregiver
in a house of death
and her daughter carried on…
Mother married an angry man
thought it was the best she could do
but she did better with his best friend
and her daughter carried on …
am I a vessel
what should I carry on?
family tradition?
burdens of my mother line?
I carry on…
.
I run barefoot
through the forest
and I am free of tethers
drunks and fists
but the ghost carries on…
I do not reach my arms out
for these burdens
though they haunt me
they cannot follow me
for I have no daughters
to carry on….