thankful i am, for the swell of the wind, the glow of the atmosphere, the billow of branches — grateful i am, for your little cupped hand, how it fits into mine, the warmth of your eyes as you look in to mine, how your mind keeps growing, how your words keep sharpening, how wonderful it is to speak to you, to hear your thoughts as they get thicker and thicker, as concepts and creations take hold in your imagination, as your consciousness touches the new horizon, and then the next, and the next — grateful for my little home, for the way the leaves framed it with yellow and red before they fell to the ground; for the earth and the wind; for good stories and warm tea; for my ability to create, for the willingness of my art to keep coming; for the space between the sky and the rain; for all the things i can remember and all the things i cannot; for heating and warmth and the energy within my body that has not dimmed; for love and hope and the hope that refuses to die

paper boat

november has slowed to a soft drumbeat — i hear the old songs twirl in the leaves, i always think about the tribes slipping through the breaks in trees at this time; the wild land, the languages lost to the forests, the wisdom lost, the courage laced in the bark, the names of places we have covered over with our brutal words, our blunt hypocrisy, our tall tales, our spinning ships, our tumbled stories that find our way onto placemats and cutouts — 2d drawings of a simple pilgrim’s hat and a feathered band around the head — the only distillation we can swallow, the small, fast print-out of a history thick with complexity, lax with truth, thin with answers — the full-bodied resonance of a bonnet fleshed out of new cotton; something that was so much more heavy than the thin sheet of pressed paper we want to cut out with our tiny scissors; chop chop, snip snip, history is a folded diorama, (you can glue it together at the end — fold over the parts you don’t want anyone to see — as long as the boat floats, as long as it holds water,,,, as long as the boat floats, who cares if it’s made of paper)


Cascade of blue, we fly down the coastline, wiping the map clear of our fervor; our rage and our hope; our joy flies about the streets like a sickness we are all willing to catch;; like the fever dream of a coming future we had yet to imagine; the future splays out to me in different colors now:: different sounds I hear, echoing back now, different snippets of songs :: the future looks brighter now, bolder, older / The world is still thick with corruption, with greed, with illness of morality; the world still sinks without values and drills into the arctic and bombs without care;; there is no but :: there is no excuse ; there is no explanation ; there is only the reaching and reaching and reaching towards the beloved community of tomorrow that we must build ;; there is only the healing of divides, divisiveness and hatred that we must build towards ;; always and always reaching towards the supremacy of love only :: I don’t know what the future holds but I know that it must be guided by love //

day of the dead

Today I crack the door open to all my ghosts; to all those wandering inside the roots and cracks in the stone , the piles of dirt between the plants, and their tiny wishes ;; the veil, the rim, a blushing bride ;; the courage of us all, to keep going even inside of all this darkness and all this death; today I greet the ghosts I do not know, today I think of you, of course, my friends, my dear friends;; I think of grief and how it begins to settle in you;; how the cement begins to set, with all your fingerprints in it;; I think of the coming season — my bones have changed shape just since yesterday; everything rattles towards winter:: towards my fear of it; the long strokes of anxiety that fill my muscles;; the season of golden light replaced so quickly with the bluster and glare of November; of grey and wind whipped streets;; the coming herald of civil war and unrest // 

And then I try to pull that golden light towards me once again ; you wrapped in purple and yellow fabric ;; a glow with a certain kind of smile only candy wrappers can bring // prancing your little feet in boots you’ve had for years now; running through the streets decked with all the human spirit you can imagine ;; inside of all the skeletons and corpses there is the glow of the human spirit trying not to die ;; fiercely reaching towards one another through a mask or a costume or a pipe or a rope and pulley ;; the long glaze of yellow grass, the dotted sheaves of colour sprinkling across the brick; the wide verandahs, the ornate and pastel trim on these old victorian houses, and still your feet dance faster & faster // we pick up speed as you spot this house that one and then the next and then the next;; you tireless joy warrior, proud, and spinning in your frock;; your face in a pile of fallen leaves ;; the street lantern glowing auburn as the light trickles out of this beautiful month for the last time