Edacious, Uproarious, Rascally,
Irreverent, Ribald, Red-Hot Mama,
Hilarious, Gleeful & Ungodly Baubo,
Hear these grateful hosannas now
in this my time of outrageous style.
When You call me to our long repast
I shall respond full tilt boogie, with relief.
Until then, fatten me with frequent feasts
among felicious friends, fritillaries, and felions.
Extend my time in Your Pulchritudinous Presence.
Send me song: serenades of hoots and peeps,
cheeps and trills, warbles and waverings.
Knock these knees and tickle these bones
so we jig past propriety into happiness.
Fire this longing into lusty, laughing living.
Swirl me in eddies of Your sweet sweaty
sultry scents sent to the old Snake brain.
Tease tempt tumble toss this simple husk.
Thirteen times I boistrously thank You.

White Lilac

Apple Blossom


One Moment


Feeling fatal, my heart pounds;
ravenous hunger nearly sated
holy reunion with pure freedom.
Dance of ecstasy; dance of grief.
Liquid arms, no bones, no angles,
a swan’s neck, a wave, the wind.
May this touch your soul.

Bone-bruising, hell-hot repetition:
step, ball change, plié, relevé,
chassé 32 counts from the corner.
Collapse, run, contract, release —
piano scales played on this body
by a crazed lover — my need.
Straighten that back.
Long neck!
Shoulders down.
Arms in fifth!
Start again.
Chin down, head high.
Do it again.
Light feet!
Four more counts.
Heart thunders; lungs bellow;
floor burns enlarge; blisters bleed,
exhausted muscles quiver

Minutes accumulate —
hours become days, weeks, decades —
building physical strength and vocabulary.
For one moment when there is no body,
one instant of perfect communication.
One soaring leap conveys all joy;
one contraction contains every pain;
dervish spins merge into lovers’ ecstasy.
Let my fragile, tender visible self
mesmerize you, draw you into
an impeccable sense of being wholly alive.
One exquisite crack of lightning
illuminates the darkness
of our separation.

Slithering, stomping, saltating,
willing the Sublime to blaze for one second.
Using bones, sinew, lungs, heart, skin
as offerings,
my burning body as the sacrifice,
dreams wisp into smoke on the altar.
And again.

Then, my darkness won.
More frantic than fine
emotions consumed me.
I plunged into an abyss
my spirit withering as I fell.
Drama seared everyone.
I crawled; I wept; I drank.

Don’t talk to me about dancing.
Don’t cajole or coddle me.
It’s too late.
I don’t dance.
I never was any good anyway.
I understand now.
Alcohol is my muse.

It took years to remember
how to soar again.

Myrtle Dancing

Maggie Mae

Jeanne | Lola | Hank Brusselback

Here I am,
Proud, sexy, single
Strutting my lovely breasts,
Shaking my tasty booty,
Watching eyes turn,
Winking as I stretch my lithe neck.
My curves are soft, inviting caresses.
My long hair teases nostrils with aromatic smoke.
My skin is so sweet, a day-past-ripe peach is envious.
My eyes flash and laugh easily these days.
My lips are wet and ruby, sweet cherry red.

But I am fifty now,
Past my prime,
No longer the Sacred Whore,
I serve as Crone now.
My bones are weary.
My spirit is wearier, sometimes
Stronger, surer, other times.
I sleep more now and
Dream different dreams.
I know how to love now.
I know what I need now.
Thank the Goddess,
I am unloved and unneeded now.

No child of mine roams this world.
No husband warms my bed.
Hot glances come only from
Those who are troth-bound.
Remembering another time
Their lust flames high again.
My knowledge is of flesh, of loving,
Of living and of dying.
I know the seasons, and
I know all men.
Now I take only those I love
And only when I wish.

Jeanne | Lola 3 | Hank Brusselback

(“but I was so much older then. I’m younger than that now. Mr. Bob)

That Child


Edgy and uncomfortable
long bones throbbing
in syncopation to
late afternoon monsoons,
I stutter-step, surprised, toward

Longed-for solitude loops
half-glimpsed memories,
curious journeys,
dreams haunting clarity.
Rocking with pain
I sink into myself
chasing emotions through
convoluted crannies,
glimpsing images of a tiny being
I don’t immediately remember.

Who is that quizzical child
standing firm in tender hope,
fine wild hair swirling above
sun-squinted eyes and fat cheeks
hesitantly peering from her
beginning into her future?

Do old, grainy snapshots whisper
clues of emotions, dreams, needs,
of who she wanted to be?
Is there love beaming to her
through that camera lens?
Know she know that love?

Does that new little face recognize
this old puzzled laugh-lined
face with the whirling hair
we still share? Today
my fingers feel their way around
the mood maze etched in this skin
but I cannot trace the meanderings
which molded this shy, lined person.

Was there an incarnation agreement
some faith-choosing baptism
requiring I swim, sometimes drown,
in this particular red river
on this turbulent and dusty portion
of our blessed Earth?

Is there some softly rustling being
embracing me from behind
whispering into my secret ear
guiding, tempting me
to become this me I am now?

Was it necessary to stumble over
forgotten suggestions and promises
wisdom mislaid and overlooked
to become this soul learning
to lovingly inhabit this
fragile and exhausted body?

Not knowing if it is a flaw or
a brilliant design
that keeps my dreams
ever before me,
I look to the child
for hints, perhaps answers.

Neither of us recognizes the other, yet
it seems that most of this lifetime has been
remembering what she came here knowing.

Fragile Threads

Creating our relationship
this late in our lives
requires trust
which cannot
will not
should not be
easily given.
We probe each other
searching for
gossamer threads
with which to weave
a comforter of smoke.
Long distant whispers,
old wounds camouflaged
by independence
Dashing through the fire
of past experience
wounded gentleness
strident posturing
we race past each other’s
protective barrier of self
carrying our silken truths
to lay at the other’s feet
in mute plea:
continue weaving?

Chili Day

Sunrise glitter
outlines crystalline branches.
Midnight snow disappears.

Slippers swish softly.
Cats murmur, mew.
Disheveled ravens mutter oaths.

Yesterday’s gold lies softened,
brown with drizzle.
Itchy dreams smell of wool.

Colors dazzle then mute.
Low splashes crest, recede.
Cars rumble afar.

Flickers’ whistle sharp farewell.
Pigeons pin tattered grey
clouds to high wires.

No longer Indian Summer.
Sips of White Peony tea.
Quiet poetry.



My grief sobbing shall no longer drown one bird song
one child’s giggle
one exuberant hosanna
one scrubbing prairie wind howl
or one whistle of contentment.
I shall quiet myself and listen.

I shall allow my sense of entitlement to wither
starve my neediness and longing
divorce my despair
prise addictions from my body
and untangle myself from my eloquent dramas.
I shall stand in truth, protected by kindness.

I shall not drug myself stupid
comfort myself with protective fat
seek a thousand healing metaphors
stuff my shelves with poignant totems
cocoon my heart with ancient wounding.
I shall not flinch from today.

I shall peer into the future with expectation
affirm beauty’s continuing reign
acknowledge love’s reality
drink the abundant green nectar
and soak up autumn’s heart-quickening flash.
I shall continue planting and nourishing.

I shall delight in cheeky fur-covered demands
encourage uncontrollable nose-noise laughter
shiver with sudden shyness as love sparks
rhumba amidst rain-cleansed sage and chamisa
and taste the bounty, the endless bounty of this Earth.

I shall tango intoxicated with life.
I shall splash into this sensual and splendid world
swimming in the glory.
I shall become lush; I shall thrive.