In Jerusalem, my hands
are never searching.
I’ve walked a thousand lonely landscapes
and picked up stones, sticks, shells
to hold, to occupy, to serve
as placeholder to what my empty hands
hold on a midnight walk
down whispering city streets
in this place, this Yirushalyim.

“Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground.”

How can I sleep
when Jerusalem whispers breeze secrets
past my open window
as I lay to rest each night?
even the curtains dance
to that quiet, star riddled song.
The air and I cant bear
to miss a verse
of prayer breathing past,
we stay as still as possible and listen
to silent mutterings across the dark plane
of Jerusalem night

hot wind, dry wind tells me
i’m home, in
fact there’s no wind, but
that still breath of this desert
city moment speaks loudly as
if a windstorm shouting, but
in truth it is silent
speaking to those who hear quiet’s
presence. she does not whisper she is
sound itself, she is
nothing. this windless
desert afternoon, this air
is my breath

I would have
to write a poem for each waking moment
and every one between
to praise creation enough–
but I would miss
butterfly’s flight, bird’s in-breath,
redwood’s shadow–
to look down
at words and paper.

At times its too beautiful
to witness light changing between
blades of grass or to hear tree’s
silent prayer. In weakness
I look away
to a blank page such as this
and calm my ecstatic heart
with words of prayer,
not of longing, but of fullness–

Either tears or words will flow forth
from inspiration and her source. A
thousand poems a moment
could never express…
Listening deeply to each breath–
it’s all I can do

as a sweet sun-
rise rose
to sit in my fragrant bloom,
inwardly blushing

summer stains spring breeze
arid winds on its
breath sweet, dry
rose scent pressed
onto water starved
California air

questions do not beg
answers, but plea to be seen
as they are, open

i need to take out
the trash. haikus tumble
from tired fingertips

Woman, body neatly packed
into size zero one size fits all magazine
dress, long hair and smiling
My grandmother, my mother, mother’s mother’s all
been on a diet
constricting beauty, restricting plump grins,
disciplining wide hips to fit
into “pretty”
wrinkles, creases of dried out restrictions and fat
I wish she’d eaten.

on a diet to manage
to restrict what we ingest
small and unable to express
food, words limited
into margins

So skinny so
small playing so small as if
I have no appetite nothing
to say. Brittle and widdled
down to standards,

My body, my belly, my mouth
plump and free to eat
to speak to move

Wind is still.
When she comes to keep
moon company,
she sits on the lonely stone
& moon does nothing.

Air sings to her stillness
grass dances, trees wave oaken limbs, and wind
is still, all things move in her presence.
As she arrives, there is
song and dance in the fields and canyons
and across the waters

Do the hawks love me
like i love them? Stopped in awe
they return my gaze.
Do the trees see my beauty
like i see theirs? Receive love.


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