The heart, how it sings

The heart, how it sings
in the ribcage, a songbird
welcoming the dawn.

If I remember to let Her out
to soak in the skies
the vast spaciousness of the world
she is happy. Her calls grow
wild in their joy.

Others, too. The nameless ones.
Shame, Anger, Jealousy, Fear.
Their raucous songs are no match
for the wingspan as it spreads
across the sky. Just look around you.

The world opens itself to us.
Each moment, the rounded glimpse of eternity.



march —

the snow lingers,  persistent
and the wind
blowing from the south
rushes to me like the breath
of the reed flute.

I am impatient in wanting —
wanting the ground to uncover itself,
robes off, the body of the earth
exposed. Wanting the tunnel of winter
to surrender itself to the opening
of light that teases those
on the long journey.

The season of Pisces,
in which I am swimming
in two different directions
the land of yes
and the land of no.

March sits right in the middle
pleasantly minding the Now
without pain
or apology.

KALI [spoken poem]

Because sometimes things need to be said out loud. You can also find the poem written below the video if you actually visit the vimeo link.  This may not be complete in its evolution, but alas, is anything ever complete? I’m just so into this landscape right now, some surrealist feminist version of the bhagavad gita, who knows. 

KALI [poem] from Zen Bootcamp on Vimeo.

Honey Bee in Winter, Circa 2010

This is an old poem from a while back (circa 2010) Found it again the other day, and feel its such a perfect poem for the change of season. It is also somehow about my mother, and maybe all mothers. Anyways, it’s a poem thats vey near & dear to me.


Honeybee in Winter


My fingernails wept the loss
of the soft ground: the frost
left calloused bumps in the soil,


On Loss

The mother-hunger of all hungers:
when love moves away &
the grip on the world
 unties itself
in the most thoughtless of ways

Then, rage. Perhaps directed at the mirror
quietly, in the mornings. Rage that makes
the air dim & heavy, makes the universe
expand & contract, squeezing you in & out.
Time becomes a different animal
all terrible & foaming, relentless in its hunt.




When the blood comes
the wolf mother she yawns
and comes towards me.

In the same way we are rushing
towards each other
the magnetism
electric, like the rumble
of thunder, distant & seductive
as the storms roll in from the west.

When the blood comes
there is an earthiness to the pain, like
gravity is pulling me, heavy-handed
wild-eyed, thick jaw, & long tongue. (more…)

listen to the owls make love to the night

yes, things are often like this —
the running from point A to point B
the heavy bustle of energy
moving quickly in and out of the mind.

I learned how stop.
but i forget &
land in the haze of Busy
as if this is noble
as if this means
we are worth something.

I learned how to stop completely
but starting up again
(as we must)
doesn’t need to look so forlorn
doesn’t need the dark sleet
of the manic Up, the manic Down.

I find the middle ground &
take the time to listen to the owls
make love to the night or
walk the forest
only to hear
the soft steps
of two feet.

It’s the place of quiet
where we are afraid;
where we find something
akin to death, or beyond it,
where we live out our days
beneath the sky
as the mind drifts
on the current of breath &
the earth floats still
the heart beats its wild beat
as the hummingbird
makes her way
from this red flower to that.

Mother Wound

Through various ceremonies & meditations, I’ve been feeling in to ancestral & family karma; this idea of the “Mother Wound” keeps coming up ~ what it is, how it carries itself within me, how I am here to clear something somehow. Here’s a poem I wrote after a women’s cacoa ceremony, right after the full moon/lunar eclipse/earth quake AKA kali fucking MA energy.



 Mother Wound

is the teacher yanking me up the ladder
guiding me a I stumble around the attic
looking for the clues to unglue
the plague of the wild heart
that tears apart the ribs
in seach of home.