Cottonwood Stars

beneath green shaded canopy
humbled by nature's sweet heart beat

you cracked a branch, peeled the skin
showed me the star that hides within

forgotten stories, remembered words
above our heads, a church of birds

high wire chirp-fest, a gathering
assembled perhaps that they might sing

no choir songs, but they did instead
take off at once above our heads

soft-wing, day stars filled the sky
showed us in spirit a legend and why

stars are born and understood
deep inside of cottonwood


The Arapaho Indians believe that cottonwoods are fundamental to the creation of the star-studded night skies. When the night spirit needs stars, it asks the wind spirit to blow, and blow hard it does, until cottonwoods shed some of their branches. At the broken places is left a star-shaped pattern in the wood, where a new star was born into the sky. [

Postcards from Afghanistan

Lord, bid war's trumpet cease;
Fold the whole earth in peace.

~Oliver Wendell Holmes


Writing with skin and blood,
metal bits that shine inside
sewn up pieces of survival

Operation endures selfless
unfaltering freedom,
tiny handwriting says

"Don't visit this place,
go to Venice instead,"
my head fills with images

Your mom's arms wrapped tight
around you, holds your face in her hands,
thanks every particle of every God

that has ever known
a damn religion,
anywhere, ever -

Thoughts scrape the edge of time,
days dream of "Venice and anywhere instead,"
awkward questions float on paper hearts,

So, you write to us,
skin, blood and a soul shining
on all that you'd give to be home

Nelipot

this child dreams
wears purity well,
climbs inside scattered branches
pops her head up to
suprise the little birds,
squinches a lovely eye
at God's sheer blue curtain

she knows,

stillness can suddenly go
in every direction

curious pauses,
bent over, breathing hard,
freelance miracles hide deep for discovery

sings off-key with feathered faces,
they take their wings
point at her feet,
serenade the beautiful nelipot
skipping over stones
without her shoes

but still, she knows,

takes just a tiny toe sweep
and she tucks herself together
at the edge of her dream


Word of the Day Series

Silver Tongue

soft hands careless,
caress, less and more

and oh...

go, yeah,

like that

opposite idle
silver tongue flash
rushed quick
into the vein
feel slippery,
blue-hot,
rain

Salt in Your Eye

Everytime I try to fall from the face of the earth,
gravity throws an arm out like a protective mother
who has without a single warning
heart-attack-slammed her brakes on.

Gravity, always very polite when she introduces herself,
tells me her name is Reality, weaves veracious fingers
through my hair, pulls hard to see
her impetuous, bitching disappointment.

Annoyed of all her frequent visits,
I set my "fuck you" stare on her
ask if she's ever walked away from anyone,
just left the world up to them.

She laughs, kisses my cheek,
and suddenly
we're huddled in a dark theater,
a persistent invitation sits at the edge of my heart.

Teeth chatter heavy, cold, the overwhelming screen looms.
Fear loosens my adhesive will, and the lights dim.
She hands me a box of kleenex, says
"It's ok to spill some of that salt in your eye, honey,"

and I spend the next few hours watching myself
beg her over and over not to leave me.