The Puritan

The Puritan

Her girlhood game of spinning to fall tilted onto fresh cut grass
in snail-paced ancient wonder. This was the miracle
how gravity could hold her. A force grounded counter-
balanced. The perceived stillness of a flying planet
across the arc of time she emptied her calendar
found herself lost her mind. No plan came true
through years of shelter greed justice
crime only a world giving birth to night and day
draw death from life between her suburban church
to the shattered earth her hymnal hit the floor in ordinary time



What if time really were a river?
The Nile, maybe the Amazon and the Mississippi too
All three tied together tail to mouth
Mouth to tail around our lonesome globe
We could travel waves of cherished books
Always another page left to turn
The horizon tuned to play our favorite song
Without a final phrase

The Morning of Her Passing

Portfolio Out of Nature

I cried with a banshee wind released
to run through elder trees
stripped bare by northern songs

the brown oak leaves
down bitter breeze blown
through footprint caves in snow

the girl I was touched fire
once, to wish on ghosts of flame
this frost burns the same

covet with the wind my limbs
frozen extend to grip the pallid sky
yet the geese migrate they fly

while life is lifted I’m left behind
to watch the wild winged escape
on the breath she took to die

Anchor and Arrow


I dropped anchor on other quests
that first night of lightest emptiness

Warmest skin pressed to find

repurposed breast. The smell
of newest newborn breath. A person

formed both young and old
timeless brightest growing child

Mine to hold. Yours to give

Blissful the arc of the arrow
when Fate pulled the quiver of my bow


Red Handed

her pulse turns wine into music notes
a bitter sip for a starved soul
she opens her hand to write the next line
in the novel of her calloused palm
one more time. One more loop
in the mandala



She walked through the fire
Nothing left but her soul
Open your fingers
Spread your palm
And blow

When She’s Gone

When She's Gone

you will hear her story
awake on a breath of  wind
the wings of a butterfly
in that first unfolding
whisper the colors of her dress
a prism of light through your window

The Artist

Bethany 1 12x12

The hungry mystery. The She. The I Am
Creation’s fertile ground
Do you have room for one more artist?
Give her a home

Your Seaside Souvenir


A woman, she’s an ocean and
the ocean has her moods too
Today, she started stretched out smooth
above a bed of predatory prey. The constant hidden
hunger under sheets soon tossed to billowed waves

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