Thursday, February 22, 2018

Always, the One Note: A poem from Easing into Druidry

Always the one note.
Here, plunged in deepest teal,
there, smelling of chocolate and brown sugar,
breathed out in perfect F#,
whirled in pounding drum-driven step,
flipped and settling in sheet and quilt,
bounding on canine legs
as she dusts the last cut hair from her jeans
laughing in perfect harmony with


Awen: A poem from Easing into Druidry


blue snows dust the murmuring
Sunflower stalks—
I hear you speak of brilliant sun,
of the moist creep of droplets
feeding fat seeds,
all of it spiraling and expanding,
the rude pluck of bird beak,
then OH!
Ripping up roots and letting
the wild song of

light in spread feathers.


Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Self-Punishment is Not Normal--Only Familiar: a poem

How do I sit and watch you
let ghosts and twisted shadows drive
nails in the palms of your hands—
hands that have created beauty,
held both lover and child steady,
guided the car on ice
in darkness, trusting.
Fearless hands,
so strangely eager to be pierced and rent.

God is not asking for your blood,
you poor, sweet soul,
and self-punishment is not normal--
only sadly familiar.

Slide your hand into mine, warmth twisting and pulsing, 
take refuge 
she who lies to you in church, over the face of her innocent child;
from she who tries to mourn lost love by inflicting pain;
from she who, too young for much that is subtle, casts out the little truths that
like tacks for your tires, skittering over the ice.
Little souls.
Sad souls.
Open your hand, let them go and be forgiven.
Because the truth, hard as it is to bear:
your pain will not keep them
from the harvest they will need to reap one day

alone with their own children,
alone with their bloody hammers and nails.


Thursday, January 11, 2018

Gloria!: A poem from Easing into Druidry

I have dug my toes into earth,
and understood the root-way, the insect tunnel.
I have lengthened against gravity,
tree trunk belly, sunflower heart.
I have thrown my arms open to the sky,
raven wings and star catcher.
I swish the ocean in my mouth,
feel the minerals in my bones-
Breathe in what the trees breathe out,

And Amen.


Saturday, December 30, 2017

May the Wind Carry You Home: A poem from Easing into Druidry

When she passed,
I clipped the obituary from the local paper.
I held it for a time,
recalling sitting next to her in third grade.
How fluent in languages,
how gifted in mathematics
how she could draw tears and sighs from
 the greying piano keys.
I did not want to hear a minister talk about her—
I knew her laughter;
the way her head tipped as she listened;
the warmth of her hand in mine,
walking home from school.
And so,
I wrapped the clipping in a tight tube,
wrote a prayer on a bit of birch bark
strung with wool thread.
In the soft evening rain,
I tied the little bundle to my wishing tree.
May the wind carry you home,
my friend.

May the wind carry you home.


Don't Tell Me What to Believe: A poem from Easing into Druidry

Don’t tell me what to believe—
for I have walked the winter snow
and heard the flakes whisper of clouds
and wild circling sky dances.
I have touched the birch,
reading her black scars like braille.
I have hunkered,
like the Bald Eagle on the tree line,
patiently waiting for the harrying crows
to depart.
I have bent and followed the sun
like a full seed-head in the autumn light.
I have spun and darted with dragonflies,
eyes casting a thousand rainbow sparks.
I have walked, stately and serene
across a newly-lumbered field
echoing the bear who appeared at mid-day
like a vision

like a muse.


Monday, December 18, 2017

Green for the Season: a poem

Come, love,
lay your head on my shoulder,
no, not as wide as yours, but strong enough.

The Christmas tree is lit,
still awaiting it's bling,
and the dog sits, watching us,
head cocked a bit, a worried whine
gurgling in his throat.

Let the great sobs come,
I can hold you--
Christmas past just brushing by,
expectations unwrapped
and naked somehow.

Why is it missing faces we always see in the foil?
Why ghost voices running counterpoint
to the carol?

How I tenderly love the depths you feel.
How I treasure this snot and shake.
No tinsel for you,
but the cut pine smells sweet
and will stay green through the season.