The Silent Life

Not too long after squeezing out of the womb

encountering the first of many inferred admonitions

my proferred alms became assurances

“I’m just here to observe”

My blankness thus ingrained, designating me negligible and safe


Yes, I indivisible-ized myself

choosing residence in the shadows

abiding in my multiple sanctuaries

facilitating a minimalist social repertoire

in a life of frugal mercies


Banking facts, figures and ideas

my stockpile of interactive fuel

aided by ghostly guide dogs for the tentative and unsure

quiet reading, yes. silent viewing, okay. thinking (to myself), affirmative.

expressing feeling? danger !!! danger!!!


What about questions?

is the stone to be polished or rolled away?

as if I knew anything about either

fleshing these bones — a step too soon?

for to speak is to create a real me

The Musical Saviour

Maria birthed herself a baby named Jesús

José was pissed, “he don’t resemble me”

an outlier was the blue-eyed, blond hair tyke

“I’m so much more than my looks,” he said

yes,  Jesús was on it early.


“Mamá and papá, I’ve been anointed to think big”

José rolled his eyes, Maria just smiled

“I’m bound for glory beyond these sands of Sonora”

“I am willed to start a mariachi jazz band”

“we’ll charge nothing and fill the plazas with the future”

“I heard a messiah complex is spreading rapidly,” said José tongue in cheek

“so be careful, you know there’s no vaccine as yet”

“don’t you upset the cartel,” warned Maria. “Pilato is extremely protective of his gold, myrrh and frankincense trade”

“is your plan to live fast, die young and leave a good-looking corpse,” deadpanned José

“No,” said Jesús, “But my licks will last forever”


José and Maria tried everything — conversion therapy, military school, a vegan diet, even heavy doses of amplified Lawrence Welk music

however, Jesús was not to be sorted out

you believed in him, or not — he didn’t need to reciprocate

a calling is a march forward, no slowing, sidestepping, or deadliest of all, explaining


in succeeding years, Jesús’ trumpet licks sharpened and his lyrics enlightened

however, naysayers still taunted, “hey snowflake, can’t you find a halo that fits?”

but fans and a few groupies mostly stayed loyal especially sold on the wine and fish produced before the concerts

“we are sound to the deaf, sight for the blind, food for the soul” was the band’s mantra

yes, Jesús and Los Discípulos (Juan, Pedro and Pablo) were vested


“selling what people can’t buy is the worst of all business plan” snorted José, “hire a consultant”

“I’m a not for profit prophet,” answered Jesús

periodically,  Jesús also misspoke

‘time heals all wounds’ sometimes came out as ‘time wounds all heels’

in his late 20s, Jesús developed a tick of sorts, visibly shuddering whenever anyone in his company exclaimed, “nailed it”

even the best doctors could not reach a diagnosis, much less a cure

one wizened, elderly physician called for an invasive history-ectomy

“we must remove that part of his brain foretelling coming events”

but nothing happened since Jesús could never meet his deductable


soon the federales began taking a harder look at Jesús

his riffs badgered for liberation versus the status quo

he and his ragtag crew expanded to an international following

his lore galloped past that of even Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata

then, avant-garde Jesús suddenly disappeared

the musical revolutionist joined the many thousands, especially the students, women and campesinos, who vanished forever, the desaparecidos who were never to be seen again, be it due to government or cartel forces actions, or, as some say inexplicable predestination


A few natives swore Jesús returned shortly afterwards, as a proprietor of a nondescript bath house specifically designed for washing feet just outside of Juarez

as such, the holy infidel mocked authorities with one last act

he charged nothing

try bastardizing that gospel.

Testing … testing

We are tested many times everyday. 24/7/365 (366 in certain years).

Likely not in the manner of Job, Abraham or Donald Trump’s many wives but every test is indeed a challenge.

It arrives early: Do we rise from bed or succumb to the beckoning siren of more supine time?

If I say chose the latter and later detailed to my wife and later my boss that I simply selected the more spiritual option of the moment and didn’t make it to work, would that be honest but doubling down on malformed decisions? Politically incorrect in a proletariat/bourgeoisie paradigm or blasted stupid in lieu of having 20 years remaining on the mortgage?

Plus that later I ascended to a celestial establishment and rubbed elbows with various heavenly beings, partook of religious libations, heard angels crooning — quite the holistic religious experience — and then — my, my — it was 5:00 p.m.

Consider my options: dragging myself from horizontal slumbering, getting semi-presentable utilizing the never fail no smell-no foul clothing test, contributing to global warming by plying along the roadway for seemingly forever in our 10-year-old mini-van, cutting off a white-haired, older lady in order to nab the last parking spot (receiving a gnarled middle finger in response), plopping myself down at my desk and attaching the ball and chain for yet another uninspired eight hours.

This versus brushing up against the divine?

It is often said God works in mysterious ways. Who am I to argue?

— inspired by a poetry writing class prompt about tests

Not All Who Wonder Are Lost

A one-act play


(Older woman enters from the right, sits in a chair facing the audience and loudly exhales)

Ever have one of those days when you can’t decide whether it’s better being Girl Friday or Boy George?


Or maybe Girl George or Boy Friday?


Most of what I am about to tell you is true, some are tales. You decide. I spent my salad days in Chiggers, Idaho. Living life hollowed out, locked and loaded is not for me.  We all deserve better than being prisoners of war in our own skin. You can be different there, but it has to be the right kind of diversity, like muteness or perpetual genuflection.

In Chiggers, we have the devout, the future burn-in-Hell hoi polloi whose mortal sin is not ranting every blasted second about Jesus and the Aryan Brotherhood. For the longest time, I truly thought the latter was a gay group,  sporting all the leather, the tight jeans and such.  I remember chatting with one not-so-bright new recruit, convincing him that he could only eat the beef of alabaster cows, that all other bovines were of mixed race and therefore forbidden. He looked at me kind of funny but then mournfully asked about the origin of chocolate milk.

Oh, I must confess that, yes, I was once a Calvinist back in my famous potato state days. Those rants about total depravity and limited atonement were attractive for a while in a punkish sort of way. But Calvinists run a very tough sect. Anyone who would complain that Jesus was a showoff, well…

Then I had a Catholic phase but it was too much of the saints and the aints for me. Plus, the fixation on metaphoric cannibalism gave an eating disorder.

Nevertheless, I got out alive and headed to New York City to soak up the cultural life. Manhattan was the land of museums, libraries and educational opportunities which I desperately needed.  It was time to learn and smooth my rough edges.

Initially, I had to do a bit of everything in order to get by in Manhattan. Now please tell me why there is a laudatory response when a guy says that–

(imitating a deep voice)

“Oh, he’s industrious and hardworking”–but conventional wisdom translates such a phrase about women into she’s Jezebel-ing spread-eagled in Times Square.

Anyhow, early on I wrote a novel titled “The Brotherhood of the Traveling Boxers.” when I pitched it to various publishers, there was perpetual confusion about whether I was referring to the underwear of gay men, pugilism unity, or a pack of peripatetic dogs. I later found out someone lifted my concept and got rich after making a few changes. When I gently inquired about the possibility of royalties coming in my direction, well, so much for talk about the divinity of sisterhood, Ya-Ya or no Ya-Ya.

Soon the musical lure of Greenwich Village was calling my name. I met Dylan, Baez, Dave Van Ronk, you name it. One time, Bobby dialed me up and said he had writer’s block and couldn’t shake it. I told him to move

(laughs again)

No, I sang him a verse from a song I was writing then

(pretends she is playing a guitar and sings extremely nasally):

“My ass is on fire and I’m peeing blood
my doctor is babbling like Elmer Fudd
so forgive me Father if I have sinned
noshing at the breast of Heather Prynn…”

Bobby stopped calling after that.

And yes, I did marry once. It was to a man named Dooley Noted. What attracted me was dear Dooley possessing the ambiance of a Puritan circumcisioner and that’s a rare trait in the Big Apple. We soon had triplets: Hickory, Dickory and Dock. Yes, we shortchanged out middle son from the get-go. Dooley had quite the thing for Mother Goose. Back then, reading him nursery rhymes was the literary equivalent of Viagra, Cialis, Thor’s Hammer, you name it. But at age 45, Dooley ran smack dab into a mid-life crisis and came to an unfortunate end after a long fall off a wall.

You know the adage that with age comes but I don’t think that’s necessarily always accurate. Some people seem born thick and refuse to shave it down. Others are crushed early and never able to heal their wounds. Here’s a little something I worked up decading the typical life span:

“At 20, you have a certain je ne sais quoi, a spark. Life is a series of imaginary vivid starbursts about masterpiece achievements to come. The possibilities are endless and each is phenomenal. You dive in headfirst to a mix tape of “Climb Every Mountain” and “The Impossible Dream” and attempt to better the world.

Come the 30s, it’s life on hold if you have a kid or kids. Or if you, ahem, married one.

As for the 40s, settling settles in. Too often what once was so important recedes to a distant, intermittent crackerjack.

In your 50s, it’s “what the hell happened?”

The 60s, oh the 60s. It’s a prelude to the battle for satisfactional supremacy between bowel movements and naps. Mortality begins taking repeated punches at you and, unfortunately, some connect.

Yes, life begins so promising amidst striking colors–bold magentas, marigold yellows, entrancing blues, even in Chiggers. As time passes, our elasticity declines, and pits and cracks appear. We begin to perceptively fade, with grays enveloping us and our original bulb of brilliance dimming. Desperate to break the aging encryption, we fruitlessly thrash about, trying this and that remedy. Last comes the panorama of complete white until the light goes out and what is individually us becomes extinct.

Fred Rogers co-wrote that last part with me.

And afterwards, so many seem to want to be boxed up and deposited underground. Not me. We live in a box, drive one, and work in one–that’s enough hemming in. My late friend Dottie was ambivalent but eventually chose a casket although first she donated her brain to science. Dottie always had a knack for thinking…outside the box.


While I’m not Hindu, when I’ve bought the ranch I’m going out with a funeral pyre in Central Park, a Burning Woman Festival of sorts. I can already see the local Fox News headline back in Idaho: “Former Chiggers Heathen Burned at the Stake.”


Now my paramount resentment is others thinking they must be gentle in my presence because I have some decades on me. We should honor facial lines, bless the gray and celebrate the sag. I’m not fragile. I’ve survived so many knockdowns with the scars to prove it, and learned from them. I made an effort to educate myself with classes and lectures at the 92nd Street Y, the New School, and the New York Public Library. and I’m going to keep doing so until they have to prop me up.

I’ll leave you with my long-time mantra: a taut stomach is fine but a taught mind in better.

Settling into Wendell Berry’s “Enriching the Earth” Bliss

I grew up on a family farm so many years ago
putting seeds into soil, the planting cycle ruled our life
harvest time the payoff but only if God graced our crop
but I ran away at my first chance, taking me a city wife

We were kids, unprepared to be bigger than our age
it failed ’cause I didn’t care which way the wind blew
then Uncle Sam asked me “wanna be in my family?”
not knowing much of nothing, I upped to start anew

I called my Daddy, telling him I was now a GI Joe
he was surprised I had chosen such a row to hoe
one of taking orders and being at others’ command
but with clarity of kill or be, it’s just you and your foe

So I settled in for 20, a long and stagnant run
a time of chasin’ women, tryin’ somehow to connect
always knowing I was bound to beat myself
living out the ancient lifelong birth defect

Now I’m out and as purposeless as my younger days
more pillar to post rambling, just like I was before
but I’m wiser of late on the basis of some written words
a book loaned, a poem read, a striking at my core

So I’m heading back home to work on the family farm
Dad needs some help, what with his older, slower ways
the tiller and the tractor faintly pulling at my memory
furrows in the fields and now spread all across his face

What I’ve come to see is a connection blessed be
the farmer and land being bonded in seasonal symmetry
connected to one another in a way I couldn’t see before
it’s a thread of timeless truth woven out of viability

Mother Nature, some call her a most fickle mistress
but so much less than any bastard land dominionist
I’ll hook my wagon to her and be grateful for the ride
aware of what my head and heart so heedlessly missed

The Continuum

From a simple loving act
the three seasons passage
a consciousness unleashed
unique,  unlike no other that will ever be

Tabla rasa
said, done, felt, thought
existence ripples in infinite reciprocation
as life’s communion transforms and transfigures

Beware the insidious siren song of self
exacting penance at the innumerable stations of the cross
but beckon not the weary spirit nor the calloused heart
to our leased vessels and transitory costumes

Polish the inner mirror–the revelation of insight
change takes but an instant–the dance of metamorphosis
the promise of providence blossoms outside the fortresses of our fears
that distant glimmer below the exalted and above the woe

Such salvation is our constant north star
as we slave in our pilgrim’s progress
but our journey need not be a labor of Sisyphus
for the pathways are many on destiny’s spectrum

Weave a gentle fabric of sustenance
nurture love as your redeemer
for it is the most powerful sanctuary
in harvesting the transcendent self

Secular Alleluia

Would it be north of the Ganges?
Or south of the Pecos?
As three Sisters of the Wisdom sprouted out of Gal-veston
Their destination?
Well, they never were much into following, directions or otherwise
For anyplace was now truly their place
Or soon would be
Paris, Texas equaling Paris, France in the larger cosmos

These daughters of the American Revelation had quieted their internal fires
No more emulation of The Furies
Not that they would ever go gently into any night, good or bad.
Their newly adopted modus operandi:
Polish their rough edges of survival,
Continue seeking truths despite its varieties and beckoning detours
Solve the conundrum why karma is always a bitch and never a bastard.

After persuading the Four Horseman to turn the other cheek
Thereby choosing instead Win-Win, Peace, Cornucopia and Everlasting Life
The trio entered the modest state of Whimsy, population: depends on the time of day
A few residents milled about.
One, a mangy man adorned with a carpenter belt crossed the road
He began distributing cards reading “I build bridges, not walls.”
Loaded down with paper files of a sort, another male approached and asked
“where might be the court of public opinion?”
Over in the corner cafe, the literati argued fervently over the divinity of the Brothers Grimm versus the Sisters Bronte,
It was not Kansas. More like a Bohemian rhapsody

One street over, the wise ones noticed a burned out hulk bobbing out in the water
A gnarled man stood before them
He said, “I am Noah and some say I failed miserably
I faithfully acquired two of each but with ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ how was I to know?
Nowadays, I meander about awaiting further instruction, grabbing thunder in order to quiet the constellations.”

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning exploded in the sky,
resurrecting scarred voices to the threesome
prayers unrecorded in formal history books,
plaintive outbursts from humanity’s collective unconscious,
debts of horror neither dollars nor words could repay or repair
all burdens borne by the innocent throughout the ages.

This was followed by the appearance of a wagon train
It emitted a vibration of cosmic energy
A townsperson mouthed “It’s truth or consequences time”
But what did that mean?
Call it a reckoning:
Those exhibiting predatory predilection
secular or otherwise
would be rendered into a void
a suspension into ever-present miasma
before eventually returning as those they harm
unless and until getting right with the purpose of life.

Facing the wagons, the women spoke in harmony:
“There is no glory in bombs bursting in air or any rockets’ red glare.
For this we know, the very hard way.
We have heard you are of true emancipation.
and not another corrosive ball and chain that poisons the magic.”

There was no audible response.
The crocuses silently continued their dawn-to-dusk interpretive ballet
Caterpillars quietly sang and butterflies winged it
The wise trio continued: “What guides us?
Enlightenment as a springboard towards grace”

All remained silent
Finally a puff of white smoke emerged from the lead wagon
The women said “yes, we were once but now are not who you seek”
That they weren’t.
Because, nevertheless, they had persisted.