Sun melts my bad mood
dripping it into dry earth.
Moisture is no match
for the rays beating down.
Foul winter is finally burnt;
Spring leaps forward.
Daffodils, Narcissus and crocus
have wilted weeks ago…
unruly weeds fill in their blank spots.
Petals droop from flowering trees;
tulips naked stigmas swell.
Frogs still sing;
birds chant morning and evening.
I turn another calendar page;
May 1st is dressed in blue and light.
Practically skipping through dog walks,
my light heart entices muses to gather;
most likely they are amused by my spring fever…



waiting forward
selecting this breath
because nothing else is real.
what are memories?
nothing but trouble
keying into past patterns,
sucking into a black whole,
rehashing the useless.
lightness is all around
until that switch is flipped…
then monsters crawl out.
it takes time to round them up;
rehashing boundaries,
gifting rewards consistently,
training the form and the soul
because only this heart beat is real.







Rain pounded the skylights.

Waking from a short nap…

it was meant to be short

but now several hours later sleep

expanded dreams broke a sweat.

Deprived of reference, time and space

was lost until glaring red digital numbers

grounded me. where was I…

is answered by a dog’s bark.

physical form is achieved again

and sleep unsaddled an hour

before normal bedtime.






I’m taking care of your flower pots.
Grandma smiled and nodded…
there was a soft glow of a summer’s eve
surrounding her as contentment flowed outward.

Some dreams are more than that…
there are visits from beyond the last breath.
Gram was dressed in pastel colors
the total opposite of her navy blue or black.

Her hair was braided but softer;
light sparkled off the white mass.
wrinkles were smoother too;
her skin was rejuvenated.

There was probably more to the dream.
Seems odd that it was about three Majolica flower pots;
I do treasure them… I only remembered
Gram’s visit when I touched one pot to rotate it.

I have her two McCoy Pottery – green brown Glaze Majolica Jardiniere Planter Pots … the third one is probably the same maker but is a little larger with a fluted top.


naked night
fire swirls across midnight
ashes turn dark
embers grow cold
Beltane is over
another spring is relinquished
to summer’s longer days and short nights.
Solstice creeps nearer with every step…
even timepieces can’t keep up.




nervously picking
at creases of worn jeans,
the faded blue denim becomes
pock marked with tiny holes –
threadbare openings
expose white skin
to sun rays…
what odd patterns appear
on pale Easter lily white legs.
now decorated with odd red dots,
its a shame there is no one to see them.
in this trending time of selfies,
one could share the oddity with the world.
it’s my chance for fifteen minutes of fame….




almost unnoticed
must have picked up a nail.
can’t be late to teach.
because screaming won’t do.
it doesn’t mean replacing one tire;
a flat means replacing all four.
we’re full of quirks
but Subaru’s need four tires if one goes flat.
more laughing –
more maniacal than funny,
the day is warm,
the sun shines,
and it’s only money…



“s” word

apologizing too much
nasty habit
the repetition
the real “s” word
must have said it a billion times
once is more than enough.



No style styling

My intentional indistinctness of worn comfort:
T-shirts and faded blue jeans with hair mused –
I forget to comb it
and slap a stained baseball hat on my head.
Decorative paint stains and rips on clothing…
that’s me on any given day no matter where I go.

Some friends are so put together –
not in a crazy expensive way,
they wear some make-up, blouses, pants…
I’m amazed – they dress like that all day
not to go special shopping or out to dinner.
Those clothes are uncomfortable to me;
I’d be so conscious of not splattering paint or ink;
smearing excess glue on a pants leg would be out.

Most of my friends have husbands;
maybe that’s part of their dress code.
I have no one to impress not even myself.
I’m comfy in my worn duds…
maybe it’s a career mistake.
Who hasn’t made loads of ill-fitting choices?

I should be at the top of my game for my age.
Here I am styling with no style;
occasionally pondering selecting a different image
to personify the creative artist within and without.
Because of the Sumi-e painting, I could select Japanese styles
or India gauze skits and tops would be arty…
unfortunately the free box clothes at the food co-op
mostly has worn jeans and slightly cleaner t-shirts.
I guess I won’t be changing my facade anytime soon…


Fred Astaire said: “The higher up you go, the more mistakes you are allowed. Right at the top, if you make enough of them, it’s considered to be your style.”


sun put up a closed sign
it was way past normal hours;
due to working overtime,
night gratefully descended.
starlight pricked the sky;
spring was shifting quickly.
summer crossed off calendar boxes
anxious to shine fully during its allotment.
everything was proceeding properly…
as properly as a season would
because perfection can’t last forever.



Guanshiyin © 5/11//2014 Nine Lives Studio

Another Mother’s Day

I try not to miss her.
Somewhere I read it holds the soul back;
Mom, forgive me if I have…
I really hope I’m not holding you back;
I will always hold you in my heart.

I’ve said it before…
I miss our existential talks;
we didn’t know what existential was then.
We’d work over life events
laced with mystery and confusion –
with or without discovering meaning –
so much of life, just happens…

Guanshiyin, divine mother,
grounded in compassion
you grace my spring garden
surrounded with Forget-me-nots and Cranesbill.
The bees are busy at work today…
another Mother’s Day has arrived.

Guanshiyin, I envision your energy coiling
around all motherless children
when you hear their unhappy cries…
May you always instill hope
in life’s darkest moments.


Guanyin is the bodhissattva associated with compassion as venerated by East Asian Buddhists, usually as a female. The name Guanyin is short for Guanshiyin, which means “Observing the Sounds (or Cries) of the World”.
undaunted derelicts…


heralded in space
wavering instability
the nondescript walk among us
they might be more in tune
than seemingly stable citizens
whose normal eyes avoid them

invisible sentient
smile inwardly
avoiding other’s disgrace
rain falls
sun shines
seasons rotate

their dance intimidates shoppers
who concentrate on window views
anything to avoid abstraction
one breath from destiny
they continue to grasp their reality
as if nothing will ever change



who are these people
walking on ashes so carelessly tossed?
cinders of past enlightenment
are handled with disregard; tenets
become wasted moments of inspiration.
washed away by soapy wringing hands,
wild minds don’t tarry on circumstances.
they race forward faster than wishes;
they race through consequences,
they race past warning signs…
the end is just another shortcut.




rabid thoughts
flows past lips
bubbling foam
dribbles down the chin
a concourse deliberately festooned
with fleeting promises
rank and foul
licking nervously
tongue darts behind lies
feet fall prey to complex rhythm
dancing with darkness
mental agility leaps ahead
to provide proper conversation
leading the weak to believe.



so much madness

the world’s askew
or I’m foolishly addled
to see blatant evil
corroding society.
Ignorance is normal;
peasants toil to survive.
Wealth is control.
Constantly mystified
by this inhumanity and greed,
where has love gone?
I believed John Lennon’s song;
I guess
I was young and foolish then.