4B67CF69-D644-4047-AFE1-0D787F9BA851When will you start talking
about the things
you can’t talk about?

Not now, I’ve got rocks to collect.

Not tomorrow either.

It’s a busy week
and something else
(anything else)
demands my attention

Besides, the sacred wounds
will be there
when I get home.

Which home?

That’s not a fair question,
I’ll deflect it
and ask you some riddle.

It doesn’t work like that,
I hear you saying
in words I push in your mouth

While I chew on new willow buds
chew on your words.

When really what you said
was just what you said.

Sometimes we choose not to hear.

And then that awe-full echo
amidst the rippled silence
like always.

Sometimes I wish you’d
just raise your voice
raise your blood
raise your anything

and meet my winter-rivered
holy rage.

But you just declare:

All the foundations are there
Why don’t you put up walls?

This is a metaphor. This is not
a metaphor. This is not
the metaphor I want it to be

Not now, I’ve got work to do
got work to avoid.

Walls and a few windows perhaps?

You know I fear four-walled thinking.

But it’s not fear of walls
and windows
that’s stolen your hammer
and nails.

What are you talking about?

In order to put up walls
you’ve got to tear down walls.

Oh fuck. You devil
you angel. Where’s my sledgehammer?

That’s a good start.

Soil of Me

1086C44F-A6F7-4AE2-82FE-BD22E8362D71Do you think I’m done breaking down?

A forest floor this rich doesn’t happen in a season
and I’m still hungry for dirt—
that hard ground of pain
and resistance
is many a meal to me

If grief and growth are sisters
then I am their brother bond

It’s ok, all of us are split.
All of me
is half of a half,
and halves of those in turn

I’m filled with detritus
all the way down like turtles—
it makes of me many a continent
and the water washing over

Darkness doubles, enfolding me
into its pocket

I slip into it
not with fear
nor like a thief

But like one resigned
to the Great Seasoner

Always breaking down
and building up
until the soil of me can grow
the whole truth

I’ll keep breaking
again and again
until I hold it all.

Included in the new collection ‘Within the Cave Something Pulses.’ That and my collection of love and erotic poetry, ‘Wild Rose Hips’, my book of mystery poems Silence Begins Here, my polyRiverous celebration of rivers, mountains, and souls ‘Riverever’ will be out later this year. In the meantime, You can get RE-MEMBERING: Poems of Earth & Soul. and High-Cooing Through the Seasons: Haiku From the Forest through your local bookstore, on Amazon or Indiebound. Follow me for mythopoetic inspiration and @wildnatureheart on IG and for my heart-centered nature connection & 1-on-1 inner/outer wilderness work.

The Bees of Love Have Come

The bees of love have come—sound the alarm.

Oh, but what rampart have you wrought again?
how well you worked that stone within

Iron bound and tough beyond
which holds no entry to the throne at all
repelling any purchase on your wall

What sentinels on parapets posted
with fistly smiles and security boasted

Still you mute your extravagant heart?

The bees of love have come—sound the alarm.

Let the bells sound off:
Sing, Song, Sang, Sung!
Ring, Rang, Rung!

Ablaut! So loud! The bees are about!
They’re tickling
the castle east and south!

Abuzz! O bless! The bees are abreast!
They’re blasting the walls on the north
and the west!

Abominate with love your fear
dressed as noble knights in grey
and like your shadows at full noon
let the sentinels fly away

Once they’ve quit the realm
to move on to better positions
worthy of their vigilance

Let even your fifth throat
form an original conversation
with the open meadow

Letting the bees sip sweetly
your bold blood

Drunk on delicious dreams
in your throne room


In your uncanny orb of night, join these
Gathered ingredients of earth and sky,

Bold eremite of the winter season.
Blushing argent cheeks with ancient red wine

In the darkling hour of your silent
Transfiguration: Let the pot boil.

Hue with bodies heaving spells the spicy
Concatenation of your churning dish.

Accept the earthly shadow and resist not
The wondrous gravity of the moment.
With light and dark thy destined orbit’s marked.

Wax gibbous and grow a pregnant shaping
Of some image towards unfurled freedom

From that uncooked root called fear, a toxin
Spreading through the whole like soured liquid

And festering, sinks a sumptuous stew–
The more ingested, the more hunger too.

Now the lunatic transmutation made
Not by magic, nor with wand of wizard
But by channeled heat and moves cathartic.

Stir with patience the hearty blend within
Until all poison into sweetness changed.

Behold a new fruit, orb oracular!
Transliberating itself down the west
By and through and with that which holds it all.

A peach, vigorous belly earthbound bent
And bruised. — Merely emblem of its ripeness.

Pluck it from the sky! Break your holy fast
With holy hunger and greet the dawn with
A wild and boisterous jubilance:

Sun in one hand, the moon in the other
With nectar dripping down your canny face.

Down to the Skin at Last

F6493E87-7B38-4127-83EB-519B4997775BSplash of red, bring me a tortoise head.

Open the blessed spiral once again
and spread unguaged, unmeasured.

Weeds need not outgrow me yet.

The light with sweetness conquer
The dark, with song.

You can’t catch raven,
so join his club.

Not all your preposterous belongings
need a witness
but all need watering–Drink!

Holy, you there, the stone in you
inclined and breathing out the sighs unsized–
mark this moment, it heeds you well, saying:

Begin with wind, end with the sea.

Down to the skin at last.

So, Break

53F46132-A1F1-42BC-A68F-B8C9A894F569When you arrive at the end of one nation
and another begins, they tell you,
but where an old self ends
and a new one opens up

you must discover yourself
over and over
through vast experiments of trial and terror

The kind of terror that has you thinking
you’re floating untethered
away from the space vessel
and all form of things

Are you one who thinks you know
good from bad
when all the things seem to break?

When your earth cracks
and space comes hurtling
through your bones
unravel more accurately
and sink into your silence
robust and cunning

but then embrace the kind of terror
that has you planting trees
for the seventh generation
the kind that adds a layer of fat
to your empathic system

Part of you thinks all the notes come up black
and part of you wants to keep leaping
past the comets and make your own orbit

The part of you that, like a meadow of wildflowers
wants into the world so bad
it will do anything to make it happen
including turning indigo and flashing fuchsia
petaling upward umbeled and spiked

Do you really think that meadow arrived gently?

What of the ten million year preamble of terrible upheaval
anticipating the beauty before you?

So, break
break into the liminal space
with all the elegant pain you can muster

forget all the fine tethers, attractive and dead

turn indigo and break the earth
petaling your meadowed self
without restraint
until your chasmly scream, pure and unshackled
booms through all the worlds