PPP – Peace Poetry Postcard Month


February is one of my favorite months.

Valentines Day. Imbolc. And the World Peace Poets who usher in their Peace Poetry Postcard Month.

We sign up to receive 28 names and addresses of other poets from across the world who will write one poem a day in February on a postcard and pop it into the mail to a different poet each day. And, of course, the theme of peace flies through the universe courtesy of the mail systems. Ahhhhhhh, a beautiful way to spread peace and art and magical words and intentional creativity.

I am late in posting. It is already Day 6. Today I shall catch up. Then post one a day from here on out. I promise.

Bring forth
Be at cause
Realign my extent
Turn around

Revolutionary Evolutionary Being

My gambol in




genus Convolvulaceae

Bind weeds to strangle

Morning Glories, family, too
Bright eyes in morning sun
Blue as Mar Pacifico
“the peaceful sea”

Two sides of family

Revolutionary combatant
Evolutionary halcyon
Beings conceived in parallel


Good Ancestor

I reach back to you,
Good Ancestor,
embrace your peace,
your walk with me.

I reach ahead to you,
Good Ancestor,
divine your peace,
your walk with me.

I walk my day,
an open vessel
to shine out your peace,
Good Ancestor To Be.


Milky Way
It all came back to
why she dyed her hair.

She wasn’t at peace with
who she was.

The Milky Way
gently nudged her

genius loci

The spirit of place that is.

Architects, the good ones,
the ones who know
and nature
and things created
must reside in peace,
and weave the genius loci
into its right
nd honorable space.

(Dedicated to Daniel Libeskind, architect of the Denver Art Museum, after hearing his interview on Colorado CPR)


In February’s stolid chill
roofers crack open early morning peace.

Rhythmic nails shutter out
weather’s purpose.

June’s hail storm




Author’s Note:

To my lovely followers I must apologize. I want to let you know why I haven’t posted in quite a while. I’ve been busy on this project.

Another apology. This post is loooooong. However, if you have the time, I would love for you to stick with it….

After two months of writing every day – Poetry Postcard Month and National/Global Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo) – I finally feel comfortable sitting down and writing every day. As a matter of fact, I miss it when it doesn’t work out. I even get a bit grumpy. Not that all the work is good. That’s not the point. I am finding that the more I put down, the more I see. And that is good.

To continue to challenge myself, I am taking a class called Play It Forward sponsored by Tweetspeak Poetry. It is a twelve-week course to help shake me up a bit. I’ve been looking for new inspiration lately. I feel I’ve gotten too serious, or am on the edge of the nefarious “writer’s block.” And I thought this would plunge me into a deep cool pool where I can splash and play and see through some new lenses.

I was right about new lenses. We do play, but the work is deep.

We have weekly themes and an array of resources to experience. Also, taking an “Artist’s Date” weekly as described in Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way is mandatory. This playtime has proven to be rich and fun.

A few weeks ago, our theme was “extremes” and after an Artist’s Date to the Denver Art Museum, I began this project. I plunged into the extreme of the Moon and her cycles – it was a full moon when I started – and my relationship to Spirit. I soon hope to have an Artist’s Statement to accompany the piece.

It combines my photography with my poetry, quotes and definitions. It combines science with Spirit and art. It is done in pencil, ink, and images are manipulated in PicMonkey. It is on recycled drawing paper sized 18’x24′. Framing TBD. I know what I want, but it is a bit larger than when I started out and I need to adjust.

It’s hard to explore the words from the photo. So I below are the images which my poetry encircles, and the definitions, quotes, and labels.




There are birds
at four thirty am
and I am beckoned
from my
deep colorless
to join
in their raucous
anointing of


void. I
begin there and
I hear you.
From nothing, a
beat, infinite pulse,
our indissoluble


In balance
I step hoop’s thin path
like a circus act
where there is no net
only balance
around I spiral
from center
to eternity
our parity


Coming near
closer with all I am
all I own
in the aloneness of being
in the amplitude of that
which enclaves me
I find you
where you’ve
always been
not out
but within


and we dance
to the rhythm
that hums and
chants our constancy


Breath of Life
When we are born,
YH, our first breath.
When we die,
WH, our final release.



 plural noun: foci

  1. the center of interest or activity.
  2. the state or quality of having or producing clear visual definition.
  3. one of the fixed points from which the distances to any point of a given curve, such as an ellipse or parabola, are connected by a linear relation.

An apsis is an extreme point in an object’s orbit.

An equilibrium point is a constant solution to a differential equation.

A differential equation is a mathematical equation that relates some function with its derivatives. In application, the functions usually represent physical quantities, the derivatives represent their rates of change, and the equation defines a relationship between the two.

For any satellite of Earth including the Moon the point of least distance is the perigee and greatest distance the apogee.

-gee Origin of the word: Gaia

Equilibrium, mental or emotional balance; equanimity

apsides, either of two points in an eccentric orbit, one farthest from the center of attraction, the other nearest to the center of attraction.


They live in wisdom
Who see themselves in all and all in them,
Whose love for Spirit has consumed
Every selfish desire and sense craving
Tormenting the heart…
When you move amidst the world of sense
From both attachment and aversion freed,
There comes the peace in which all sorrows end.
And you live in the wisdom of Self…
The Bhagavad Gita

“There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. 
And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. 
The world will not have it.”
Martha Graham

We each have a tone or note that combines with the notes and tones of the rest of life to create a universal song.
Sandra Ingerman

When we surrender the need to figure it all out and cultivate the ability to let it all in, then our Earth walk becomes a sacred dance of healing service on the planet. More than the world needs saving, it needs loving.
don Oscar Miro-Quesada



In Thanksgiving

DSCN3871In the hush of early morning light,
step into this new day with a grateful heart.

Remember you are our Beloved’s gift to the world.
Don’t be afraid to share you.

There is a smile or helping hand, laughter or a wink,
a word of encouragement or a hug not released
too soon, that is needed today.

You are what love is. Release your glorious self
into this broken world to heal, even if what you tender
seems so small so as to not make a difference.

It does.

In the rush of this day, amidst piles of food, in games
won and lost, emotions bumping into attitudes,
reach inside to your gentling, where sweetness
and gratefulness are paired.

Be thankful for you, see the gift you are, only then
can we be fully grateful for one another.


Soundless Music


He likes birds, she whispered
in recognition unaware of my

presence. Yes, he did, women
and birds and constellations.

Simple shapes, expansive canvass,
bold strokes tell a story. Forms

give birth to other forms, constantly
changing into something else.

Great movements in my mind
are provoked not from overflowing

forms, shapes baptized in gold,
salvation dogma. Any accident

will do. There I am given birth,
freedom in a moment that may

take years to form knowledge –
I am alive, I breathe. In eloquence

of silence, I – a woman and bird
and constellation – am happy.

He likes birds. Yes.




Author’s Note:


Woman Entranced by the Escape of Shooting Stars (Femme en transe par la fuite des étoiles filantes), 1969. Acrylic paint on canvas. Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía. © Successió Miró / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris 2014.

A trip to see the Joan Miro: Instinct & imagination exhibit at the Denver Art Museum offered up some surprises for me.

I was aware of Miro’s work but have never seen it in person. It was not an overwhelming exhibit giving too much. Much like Miro’s work, the exhibit attempted to give space and simplicity an opportunity to speak. And it did, along with some of his philosophy.

His journey later in life allowed simple shape, subject and color to change and grow in his painting and sculpture.

He quoted St. John of the Cross referring to the open expanse of what appeared to be a plain white canvass on some of his work calling it soundless music.

Art brought me once more on my journey to the importance of silence, listening, watching, and trusting change.

Her Beloved is silent music

In that nocturnal tranquility and silence and in knowledge of the divine light, the soul becomes aware of Wisdom’s wonderful harmony and sequence in the variety of her creatures and works. Each of them is endowed wíth a certain likeness of God and in its own way gives voice to what of God is in it. So creatures will be for the soul a harmonious symphony of sublime music surpassing all concerts and melodies of the world. Thus there ís in it the sweetness of music and the quietude of silence. AccordÍngly, she says that her Beloved is silent music because in the Beloved she knows and enjoys this symphony of spiritual music.

~ from SPIRITUAL CANTICLE by John of the Cross thanks to Gav Grissom


Lea sat criss-cross in front of the bookcase staring down at the Persian rug underneath her.

The small round rug was in the alley behind Roe’s apartment the night Roe cut his wrists. Lea tripped over it as she ran home after the ambulance left. She kicked it and the rug unrolled itself a bit offering a glimpse of intricate patterns woven into a thick pile. It whispered to her in the throws of painful bellows. It was soft, and surprisingly clean.

She picked it up and held it close to herself and walked the rest of the way home.

That night Lea placed the rug in front of the bookcase. It made its place there for when she needed sit to center herself, or remember Roe.

Now, all Lea could do was stare at the rug.

She didn’t understand why these things always happened to her. Why was it when things started going smoothly, like with Roe and their two years together, that blackness always seeped in, blackness like tar oozing from a pit that snared unwitting dinosaurs on their journey.

This morning Lea decided it was time to scrub away some black tar. It was time. Roe was gone now. Summer was waning. Lea needed to say a final goodbye.

Her photo of Roe and herself sitting on the horse standing on the big red chair in front of the Denver Art Museum once sat on the bookshelf. That space was cleared away the Night The Rug Came Home. That’s what she called it. The Night The Rug Came Home. It was easier to say that instead of what it really was. The bookshelf was ready.

She bought a new candle at the carniceria. It had a picture of Jesus with his large red heart in the center of his chest surrounded by a ring of thorns and light coming out as if it was a red sun. That’s how Lea thought of Roe’s heart, big and shining but circled in pain.

She still needed a vase. The ARC store had just what she was looking for.

It was bronze and it was beautiful sitting on a rose-patterned scarf draped over the glass case filled with old jewelry. The lines were soft, round and smooth like her belly. Swirls dipped freely down from the rim curling around the vase much like her own hair around her head. But tarnish had made it less desirable. The vase was a lot like Lea.

The lid on the vase sat firmly in the rim, remarkably like the knitted cap she was wearing. Lea wore the cap all year round. She liked the feeling of a hat grasping tightly around her head. It was almost as if it pushed her into the ground so she wouldn’t float away. There were days when she wanted to just throw off the cap and fly, but she knew the time wasn’t right yet.

Lea bought the vase, even though it was much too expensive. She would deal with that at a later time when bills needed to be paid. It was one of her gifts. She never had money to spare, but she always had enough for what she needed.

On the way home she would go past Zara’s house. Zara, the old woman from Russia, always allowed her and Roe to pick flowers from her garden. Zara would tell the two what the flowers meant and how you could use them as medicine or for tea or in love potions. So they always made a point of choosing new ones each time they visited. Even though the two friends had been picking flowers for two summers out of Zara’s yard, there were always new species with new meanings and purpose each time they visited.

Today, Lea would let Zara pick the flowers in memory of Roe. She didn’t think she could do it. Zara would probably insist that Lea choose them, but Lea would be strong and say, “No.” Zara would understand.

And that’s how it happened. Lea entered her apartment with an fist full of forget-me-nots.

She set the flowers on the kitchen counter and proceeded to fill a pitcher with water. She grabbed some matches, the flowers, the pitcher, and proceeded to the rug.

Lea arranged the items around the rug and sat down in the middle, legs crossed, hands cupped together in her lap. After several deep breaths, she began the prayer from the Sutta Nipata.

 “May all beings be filled with joy and peace.”

Lea lit the match.

“May all beings everywhere,
The strong and the weak,
The great and the small,
The mean and the powerful,
The short and the long…”

She lit the candle and placed her hands around the belly of the vase.

“The subtle and the gross.
May all beings everywhere,
Seen and unseen,
Dwelling far off or nearby…”

She picked up the pitcher ready to pour the water into the vase.

“Being or waiting to become…”

Lea pulled off the lid and began to pour.

“May all be filled with…”   “Fuck!”

Water streamed all over the rug mixed with a black gritty substance.

Lea sat criss-cross in front of bookcase staring down at the Persian rug underneath her.


They were someone’s fucking ashes.




Author’s Note:

Today our Wednesday Afternoon Writers met for lunch and a bit of writing. The wonderful thing about a writing group is not just the writing but the fellowship that grows out of it. Thank you writers, Niki, Dorothea, Shelia, Sandy, Gracie, Crystal, and Diane. And we were serenaded by Wayne on the piano while sipping mimosa and eating food to delight all.

My prompt pulled from an envelope:

At a garage sale, your character buys an antique urn she thinks will look nice decorating her bookcase. But when she gets home, she realizes they are someone’s ashes.


Flip the Spin

IMG_2928 IMG_2930 IMG_2931 IMG_2935 IMG_2936 IMG_2938

Sometimes I wonder
if I see the world
upside down
or in reflection

Is your smile a
transcription of mine
or mine of yours

Is what I see that which
clearly hangs in front of me
or rests looking up
in the sheen of introspection

If I could look through your eyes
I’d flip the spin
and fathom why
you don’t just walk by

Hot Sauce

She was speechless. It took a moment to comprehend. And then she started to laugh.10385557_10205326826514457_1262671781860478947_n

Gina wasn’t an artist. Well, not the kind that would be in art galleries or museums. She created, but in her own way. She was a writer, mostly. She loved to create stories and poems. Sometimes she made jewelry, stringing beautiful patterns of handmade beads into bracelets to encircle her delicate wrists. And she took photographs, on her iPhone. She gave up her big camera with the interchangeable lenses for a big digital camera after she could no longer buy film. But even that seemed too much. The iPhone was always in her pocket or purse. At a moment’s notice she could capture an image. She liked that. Capturing images.

This was one image no one should ever capture. Her laughter rang through the empty rooms of the art museum. She couldn’t help herself. Who in their right mind would think a bottle of hot sauce sitting on top of a toilet paper dispenser could be art? Not only art, but art in the biggest and one of the most honored art museums west of the Mississippi just east of Utah.

But there it was sitting proudly in front of a blue wall that must have been taken directly from a restroom somewhere. Art. Her laughter swelled.

He didn’t say anything but silently stood beside her glancing at her and then to the hot sauce and then back to Gina. She snorted. That’s when she noticed him.

She could see he was smiling. He was taller than she was. Well, almost all men were taller than she was. His blue eyes sparkled and his grey hair caught the canned light from above making it seem like silver curls capping his head.

Gina looked a bit younger than she really was but that was because she dyed her hair and inherited her mom’s genes for good skin. Also, she never sat in the sun. When she was young she was always pasty white, but she hated the hot sun. It gave her a headache. Now, at fifty-eight, she was glad not to have as many wrinkles as most her age. She didn’t know if that’s what made her feel young, or the fact she never had children, or the fact that she just liked to be happy and silly sometimes. But she knew, even if he didn’t, they were probably about the same age.

“Oh, I am sorry. Am I too loud?” Gina looked into his eyes. They were smiling at her.

“No. I just wanted to see what was making you so happy.” He turned away to look back at the hot sauce. Gina turned the other way and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. Every time she laughed hard, her nose ran.

Gina looked at the tall man. He had a kind face. He held his arms clasped behind him. He wore a blue sweater with grey stripes over a light blue shirt. His jeans were neat and sharp and his brown shoes polished. He was casual, but dressed with care. She liked that.

He turned to catch her eye and she quickly looked towards the hot sauce once more. It was the wrong thing to do. She couldn’t help herself. It was such a ridiculous image, she broke out in huge guffaws. Grabbing her waist she turned to find the bench behind her and sat down.

He followed, this time joining her in her sentiment. Laughter ensued between the two of them to a crescendo that almost shook the blue wall behind the hot sauce. Gina reached into her pocket and pulled out a packet of tissues offering the stranger first pick. Then both wiped their eyes and then blew their noses.

After that, both took a simultaneous big breath filling their lungs, a slight pause, and then equally large exhales. Surprised, they turned back to one another and at the same time started to introduce themselves.

“I’m…” They both paused.

Starting again, “I’m…” and another pause followed by another smile, big breath, and exhale. They just looked at one another for what seemed like blissful eternity.

It was a moment Gina would remember years later as she packed up the bottle of hot sauce in bubble wrap followed by the toilet paper dispenser which she had taken apart and carefully placed piece by piece in the shipping container. It was the last remnant of that wondrous afternoon in the art museum and the last memory of the artist himself, the man with the blue eyes and heartfelt laughter following the cold but lovely rainy day ceremony at Mt. Olivet Cemetery.




Author’s Note:

Thank you to my friend, Sheila Lepkin, for the inspiration for this piece. The photo belongs to her. It just charmed me and I had to use it as my writing prompt tonight.

The Science of Color

law demands that opposites glow
the science of color
place yellow next to blue
tufted fields bending under the sky
but we don’t start there
we can’t begin with the glow

slowing down to begin
strikes and strokes
pencil adapting harsh lines
under candle light
where muddied hands
lift potatoes and tea to cracked lips

you are always dusty
you exaggerate the law
with extreme clarity
drawing me according to
your own principles
adapting the masters’ strokes
strokes of thick paint
paint laid on paper
defying the law
painting me into eternity

it is not impulse
the almond branch
blossoming in a glass of water
your grey hooded head
pressed close almost
touching the canvas
mouths murmuring in reverence
I cannot be
without something greater
than myself

Where do the words come from?

I ask myself this.

I understand that when I begin to write poetry, I begin in silence. I may have words, quotes, or over-heard conversations randomly scribbled in front of me, this time a photo with a quote from WordCandy.

I may have an event in mind, this time a visit to the Denver Art Museum‘s exhibit Becoming Van Gogh with words from the artist.

With this help, silence leads me to images that begin to flow like water in my head. Soon the images connect the words and the words become a found poem.

But it is silence that draws me in.

Today is my first post as a part of TweetSpeak‘s Sweet Bloggers Project. I am using their new app, WordCandy, for inspiration. Please stop by WordCandy and pick some up for yourself or a friend. I might even be sending you something sweet.

For the next six months I will be posting a poem once a month that is inspired by some WordCandy. So please let me know what you think and certainly come back. I usually post a piece once a week or so, but NaNoWriMo starts today, too. Who knows what will show up here?