Posts Tagged ‘Fear’

Poetry Curriculum

Monday, January 18th, 2016


After a poetry workshop with Eileen Myles


I was afraid of poets:
(scary scary)
bishops’ hats on lances
declaring red ink.

Eileen said,
“fucky fucky–sitting with god”

Yeah, I was sitting there
scared of a dumb god.

Look, pens are
death and birth and sex,
see their vulvic fountains?

Fill them with any color.



Prayer for a Girl-Child

Friday, November 2nd, 2012

Remembering on this Dia de Los Muertos those who, in their lives, encouraged love and peace…and my  own  spiritual freedom.
To Charlotte Harrison, Paul Raccah,  & Micah True. RIP.


Well loved in a world of

well-loved children,

and of fathers who do not die

holding guns,

A child is unaware

that no stone breaks her glass

no blood floods her milk

no light fades from her lamp–

that her sons may live,

without armies.

No one ever doubts

she belongs everywhere,

to be daring and safe


What will she do with so much peace?

She will create without creating possessions,

paint her visions on unlocked doors.

When we have forgotten

the ancient religion:

of fear and war.




Newcomer Hiking Outside the Village

Monday, July 12th, 2010


Between fenceposts to high desert trails
is a gate of brittle juniper sticks and sagging wire
to public paths on the henna-powder mesas,
the mesquite-meal lomas and the chaparral.

Beyond the cottonwoods just over west,
gunshot pops on the sportsmen’s range.
The dry land in between bristles at leaning fences,
at toes inside my huaraches.

Neighbors know it is tame enough
or they have faith enough, under wide skies.
Women like me, with freckled arms, walk out here,
willingly meet eyes with ocotillo blossoms
and dawn coyotes.

At the gate, I look back to crossroads
for approaching trucks,
for sunglass glints, glances from souped-up cars.
To be unseen. To be alone and unseen.
I can, its likely true, outrun you, imagined one.
But not your bullets, nor a blade from behind thick tamarisk.

No one sees me…

Below the first hill, a rash oasis,
a wash mosaicked with splintered glass,
the widespread tesserae of bottled beer.

At the second, a frame of rusted bed springs stands,
an upright grave marker for a sun-eaten engine
on a sere battleground littered with latex viscera.

The third, a downslope scatter of blue cans,
and red, that gave-in to hard heels of old children,
oh, how they gave in.

I hope no one sees me.

Here, fourth hill, is a vantage to green-gray grasses,
to ridges watched by natural spires.
This trail, now, chuffs softly under my treads,
sprays powder and pine duff up onto my legs,
out here, where pinyons drip incense sap in dry air.

Your air, old children who live in town,
who ride low, and high,
of whom I am afraid.

Loma: little hill