E Minor

Balls deep in the disarranged bacchanal of domesticity with a strong urge to pick up the old nylon-string, tune it down and everything/one else out, and play Domeniconi, improvising when it gets too technical. Read More



Photography by Justin Dodson

When we sat on the chalk cliffs overlooking the Timberron basin and lightning in the indigo sky, it started to rain hard, though far from camp with one poncho between us. It threatened to wash away our ground but somehow, Read More

What the Heart Desires

I came into the room to see my six month-old daughter chewing on a ladybug and listening to Hare Krishna Hare Rama.

I never wanted to be a mom. I’d look at mothers around me with their horde of messy faces and lost shoes. How it took all weary-long morning just to get out the door. And then they’d go around telling people every little cutesy thing their kids did that day. That kind of life repelled me. Where was the depth? Read More

Valley of Maternal Wonder

Victoria asked for a haibun about dusk. I couldn’t help but feel the connection to my birth story in which dusk revealed the colors of knowing birth would be that night, and paved the way for my little Oriahn, who was born just before dawn and whose name means “dawn’s light.”


The greening grass sweeps the valley from riverbed to pasture as the crepuscular haze to the west Read More

Mountainous Birth

Driving back home the hour from the grocery store and a quick visit to my midwife’s home, I noticed a few minor contractions about twenty minutes apart. But mostly I was aware of the greening grass sweeping the valley, the crepuscular haze to the west making the Wet Mountains appear colossal, the rays of the sun braiding themselves with cloud and wind. Wahatoya. The ‘breasts of the earth’ with their veins and mammaries radiating all around the nipple peaks, and I once again was overcome with blessed gratitude that I’m given the gift to mother in such a place. And now give birth in this maternally dressed valley.

Wahatoya, Ute for ‘breasts of the earth.’

I wrote that previous paragraph after a candlelit shower at 1:30 in the morning, Friday, April 13th. While the hot water soothed my aching body, I asked God for labor to start and visualized a psychedelic bloom of oxytocin receptors in iridescent colors multiplying in my limbic brain and in the fundus of my uterus. While lying down and trying to write more, I felt a small snap and was sure my waters were being released! Holy God, the poem/prayer worked! Just earlier the previous day I had written a poem, Rain Dance, about poetry’s power that included imagery of the amniotic skies setting free their deluge, in hopes of summoning my body doing the same thing.  Read More

Preface and Grace

Painting by Eileen McGann

I am touched by this shining soul who has written a piece in response to my journey of rape and forgiveness. Honestly, I feel embraced by God after reading Lona’s introspective narrative and poem — a supernatural support I suppose I’ve been seeking ever since writing about that nightmare, the maddening twelve-year healing process, and releasing it to the world; maybe even back to the fateful night itself. I, just one more lost sheep under a fractured and beautiful sky.
So much love to you, Lona Gynt.

Scattered thoughts made a little more random

in Memorium_001 Sometimes the very angels weep, perhaps that is what they mostly do.

Editor’s Note:  (meow) This post starts pleasantly enough, but I need to warn you that it might be a trigger of sadness or anxiety for victims of abuse, assault, or rape.

Preface:  Hello this is HarveyCat, Lona’s sometime Bodyguard, Conscience, Accountant, Therapist, Public Relations Coordinator, and Editor.  On a late night this last week I was somewhat discomfited because Lona was about 2 hours late in delivering the usual ration of kibble.  I know I give her a hard time about not rendering the proper obsequiousness  to my regal presence, but she really is pretty reliable with the victuals, so even I had to turn my head away from my favorite toasty warm avian surveillance post and see what is going on with her.  (This is not easy to do in the springtime, the air has been filled with…

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The Medjugorje visionary saw Mary, Mother of God hovering above the couple’s marital bed years ago, on which we now all solemnly, humorlessly — the Catholic way — procession in and toss rose petals, strategically set as the climax of this strange retreat, hosted by the couple.
“And now, without further ado…”
Blessed be this holy site! Heal me from what ails me!

Miserere Domine!*

…In a nauseous wave I’m moved to clear the air and run out of the incensed house, myrrh potpourri and Advent boughs, perfected confectioneries and stained glass donation jars, into a southern December dusk where woods laugh but take my offering: Read More

37 Weeks, Rings and Pens and a Beautiful Orb

35 weeks/8 months pregnant

Probably my last pregnancy update, but I promise there’s a treat in this post for you poets too!

Well, yay, I made it to 37 weeks which is the full-term gestation that I would personally be comfortable delivering the baby at home. I forgot how UNcomfortable the last few weeks can be, but I’m not complaining as I know it could be much worse. I’ve lucked out and have had good blood pressure, very minimal low back pain, and absolutely no edema. I definitely have a oompa-loompa waddle and I’m pretty much saying “c’est la vie” and letting housework fall by the wayside as I’m just too exhausted for the constant bend-overs that are part of daily life with two kids under four. I’m looking forward to labor but a little worried about if the baby’s a girl because we have no viable first name choices. If any readers have suggestions of a name that fits these, send them my way:

– three-syllables
– different and melodic
– preferably Hebrew (but open to any origin)
– does NOT begin with letters A C J K Q S

Yeah we’re, uh, particular. I also have quite the pregnancy brain and here’s a little senryu to illustrate:

Lost my wedding ring

At least I still have a pen

(Somewhere around here)

That’s not to say I put writing above my marriage, but I definitely would rather be stranded on a desert island with a pen (and paper) rather than a bejeweled tiny circle of precious metal. But poet friends, that wasn’t the treat. Here it is:

Cartoon by Peter C. Vey

Haha! We’ve all been there.

And lastly, here’s just a little touching moment I want to remember. Read More


Once upon many a callow night I would make myself lost amidst the darkness of the Rampart Range ponderosa pine forest. I romanticized the mystery I exuded and the closeness I felt, alone, to the towering trees and the midnight pin-pricked vault above. “Why did she suddenly run off like that?” new friends would ask around the campfire, its hallowed light. Read More

Quaking Aspen

“Aspens in late winter” by Michael J. Lynch


I didn’t resolve to kiss Christ on the cheek until my 28th year. If years were days it would be one full moon cycle that I needed to live out every phase in order to trust in God, as I was at enmity with even the idea of there being one. My own lofty ideals of Man and self had to first fall.

S l o w l y.

Yet, waxing or waning, shown full or fully shadowed, the source of love and life was always there and now, I shudder in the warm tenderness. I am in awe. Read More