I gave my sewing machines away. Now there is only cloth here; corduroy, tweeds, raw silks and purple satin. Someday the needle will rise and fall again, guiding thread into fabric, connecting pieces together with looping threads.

creating stitches 
holding tight this creation
magnificent cloth


dVerse quadrille prompt with the word rise and form of a haibun



Small stack of books not yet read. Their titles draw me in.

Virgil, the poet who died of a fever; poet to emperors and Rome. 

His poetry of the land, Georgics. Kenneth Rexroth translations

of Japanese poetry, one hundred of them. The Grandview Hotel 

poets from Peoria, Illinois, write together about the weather, 

changing of seasons, bluffs and bridges. My friend hands me another 

for the stack. She knows my heart. “You can borrow this if you take 

really good care, no coffee stains.” It is the Peoria writers’ work in 

letterpress, fine paper, portfolioed, each piece a work of art.

I am afraid to open it. A delicate thread creates a closure on the front.

It is the opening. Are my hands clean enough? I ask myself.  

I imagine myself enmeshed in reading each line, those words 

embedded into the paper, an art of poetry. A drop of blood falls

from my nose and I am horrified. How can this happen? How 

can I tell my friend that a spot of blood is there. I could hide it, 

hope she never goes back to the page where the stain was spilled.

I could remove the blighted piece and hope she does not miss it.

My remorse that I could not write this, could not design this, could

not print this. My drop of blood the revealer of my lust and

inadequacy. I bleed for more than what I am.  


I Poet


I came out of the canal listening

for my own voice

with my first breath

I heard it as a cry

I found darkness in my eyes

til opened to the light

I was that baby you wanted to be boy

I was made girl

all parts of me to receive touch

to open

to flower



Listening for my own voice

it navigated out of my thoughts

my mind spoke a product of time

of culture of possibilities

of bouquets gathered in spring

it was good to be who I am



Now the voice knows its own cry

weeps into the light and dark

listens with belladonna ears

what hallucinations will arise

I Poet

Going Off Road

I want to take to the back road

or am I too old

4×4 off road vehicle

on dirt path no obstacle

nothing to stop me

you call it crazy

big tires to maneuver

over rocks and boulder

need clearance below

good for both rain and snow

off the grid going solar

must carry one week of water

I want to go where others can’t go

to find places I don’t yet know


NaPoWriMo a list of something

Going Off Road

Mark of the Tattoo

My son the tattoo artist

two delicate piercings on his face

no tattoos

soft brown hair

falls on his shoulder

where a geisha is painted

In such fine detail

the most detail he tells me

of all of his tattoos

this one in colors still brilliant

No branding here

no scarification

just pen and ink

a portrait now a poem

etched on skin

by tattoo artist

my next of kin

The newest one is on his palm

still healing

it is of aum

he talks of pain

of blood letting too

a religious experience for him

and now for you

he tells me of puja

of Ganesh

I see


mark of tattoo

Mark of the Tattoo