along the gap road
wattles are sprouting their blooms
bright yellow baubles

our sisters in poetry
aren't seen on the site's pages
do you recall them

the loveliest gals
ever welcoming of heart
our Nagi and Winn

we miss their presence
they really knew how to write
and were wonderful

We must give more then what we take
Learn to make
Her gift to us is letting us stay
Then we take all of her gifts away
It did not take us long to forget
Now she will collect on that debt
She does not make idle threats

piqued into a new glowing,
I strain at my bonds
shake the slick ribbon
of doubt
from around my mouth
sit on my hands
to keep from shaking

A storm is gathering within
my center
the hot pink light emanating
from between my thighs
fuchsia slicing through
                         moonlight
I look up
and drink in the milk
of the stars

I am ready.
to break through
time and space
mini-novas flying
'round my head
like spinning angels
iridescent dust,  
rising in slow motion
dragonfly confetti
in my hair
eyes a-light from
aurora borealis

Vulnerable by choice,
I stand my ground
push through rope and burlap
without mercy, for
burns do not matter
                       anymore
explode up and out
my soul's entry parts
wide open
I welcome the universe
letting the growing
inside, taking force
having its way with me
spidery vines twirling through
my ribcage
around my spine
the seeds I have planted
now pushing flowerbursts
through my heart
a bloom
for each beat
reflecting magenta

I had been sitting there
way too long
bound to this chair
my arms pinned harshly
by the wire
now I run with
my private wolf
head back
howling like the
wind,
hair wild
like the untamed
               journey
of my
                  soul

Weathered of snows and rains and smokes and fires,
Veteran of storms and gales and floods and squalls,
Seasoned of winters and summers and frosts and thaws,
The tired tree, unflagging, rests not.

Stripped of twigs, bark, and even limbs to dry for fueling men’s fires,
Leaves inhaled by ants and the young of every moth and butterfly,
Sweet sap, sylvan life’s blood, drained to gild the breakfast plate,
The giving tree, robbed, remains no less generous.

Gnawed alive by armies of tunneling insects in their divisions,
Bark scored and gouged with signs and graffiti and lover’s initials,
The heart of the forest smiles, the woodland holds no grudges,
The dying tree, patient and immortal, grows on.