Friday, December 11, 2009

Being Theseus

-for my sons

Give up on everything,
and snatch back the meat that matters -
this journey only requires skin.

You inherit a convoluted path
built on generations of dreams,
carried all along in the palm of your hand.

Free will is destiny when you follow it,
luck is the family hound
leashed on Ariadne’s thread –

The minotaur waits in your belly.
If heart lead your feet, best walking is slow –
moment brings moment.

Your quest, living this labyrinth
can feel like trudging shoeless into winter,
working naked through June –

you’ll make mistakes
but say yes, it’s the right answer.

Friday, December 4, 2009

The Ariadne Passage

for my nieces

enter matrimony Wide eyed
how delirious love may start
hold Spring in your belly
keep summer in your Heart

sleep with earth and heaven
what fills the space between?
your lightning and your thunder
or the Satisfying rain?

making Mate a Mirror
we see what we project
the lake looks up into the sky
the clouds and sun reflect

remember Ariadne who
held Tightly to her thread -
tethered it to Theseus
to help her Keep her head

somewhere in the Middle
a monster greets his kin
you’ve dreamt this Passage countless nights
met the ancient one within

it’s not the pink and comfy times
that give us fullest measure
bonds born among Insufferable days –
emerge like Sacred Treasure

and any woman who’s labored long
to have the sweetest child
knows deep love comes of Beastly times
when hearts ring out so wild -

Maybe marriage is a maze
indeed a risky venture -
so pearls come from irritant
and honey fruits from labor

With some luck – you find your Self
the golden apple from the start
there is no Better legacy
in matters of the Heart-

now be the river singing
a rill so long and clear
be the stream bed – hold your line
be strong and loose and here!

Monday, November 23, 2009

Being Ariadne

-for my nieces

Given all things

marriage amazes -
tap root pulls up legend, Apple in its belly -
a Minotaur at its heart
(google Greek legends – King Minos)

coupled with earth and heaven
you dance amid Thunder, dodge lightning –
rain soaks, kernels swell – what will Grow?
(explore I-Ching - hexagram eleven)

a convoluted path Rises to meet you
feels so familiar – maybe you’ve dreamt it -
carried it all along in the Palm of your hand.
(meander the maze)

already Ariadne – you can Sing out for Theseus -
fathers seek Heroes for daughters – even if they’re not around
your strong line is more Reliable then cake crumbs
(google Greek legends again – Ariadne’s Thread)

luck lingers within each fold of a labyrinth
when feet follow heart, best walking is slow –
in time you understand, moment brings moment.
(stroll as one in silence)

we wise women savor even Insufferable days -
like pepper in soup, and our love blooms deep
in Beastly times – wild hearts yowling to the moon.
(dust off Lord of the Rings)

maybe fairy tales end badly and wonderful -
pearls grow out of Irritation, honey comes with a Sting -
be blessed with the Struggle that makes you strong
(make a month of reading Mists of Avalon)

It’s true, this Passage can feel like walking
shoeless into winter, like basking naked in June -
so you’ll make mistakes but say Yes - it’s the right answer.
(study star charts, see yourself)

Sunday, October 11, 2009


"Light can be obscured, but you can't hide gravity,"
--Dr. Heath Jones.

Preoccupied – no, not like a stone, yes, like a river – silent or singing;
on thoughts that convey him like Solomon’s great green carpet, he goes.

His track is a Silk Road, rippling along a steady dimension
where travel is light and payload only pulse and breath,

There are days, just past Asimov or Heinlein that drift among Ursa Major and her cub.
There are nebulae, he climbs, of brain chatter, accreted like caddisfly cases.

There is current that carries him through blustery rhetoric,
then breaks into A minor 7th and eddies in with a morning crossword.

And there is gravity in memory that tugs his stories back to tighter orbits,
dragging tails full of dust, salting old family constellations.

He believes in angels, makes sadness the seraph of wind and rain;
makes joy the blessed kin of April sunrises and fireflies.

Sometimes he broods with the sagging fruit of summer,
gathering ballast from pages of Frazier and Foote.

Then as faithful as Persephone to her dark husband’s bed,
he returns to the Cherokee and General Lee’s Army.

Sings to bear and Wayah Mountain, smells the blood of Pickett’s Charge.
feels the sting of frost and nettles on his tongue. He confides,

How sweet to be disturbed with mental commotion soundless as snow -
how savory to be satisfied with what meets deep desire.

how fortunate to find Gödel’s Cone of Light - to explore
the Seven Sermons to the Dead*- to ride them like Zeno’s arrow -
ever on along a melon slice of space and be home.

* Septem Sermones ad Mortuos by Carl Jung 1916

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Thick and Thin

Her market shares dollars swung wide as a neap tide in May,
and like a Ruddy Turnstone on the Chesapeake
following horseshoe crabs and squid,
she began to splash through the thin waters
along Wall Street, hoping to glean
enough nourishment to make the long flight home.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

The Fat Woman's Ball

Come October mountain flanks
sing with the high ambers of summer,
and blush deep as old love.

Brimming with color
empty leaves can fall.

To cross the forest floor,
we crunch out a raucous trail
throwing echoes to the heart of the world,

and on crisp mornings
when giant elk surrender
we survive another winter.

Around and around
life folds into death
and comes back again.

Like a cat eyed marble
rolled between fingers and thumb

the season invites us in
to a fat woman's ball -

our grand tarantella
of harvest and flight

tangled with rainbows
swallowed by heaven
soon, breakfast of dreams.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Wedding Pantoum for Robyn & Melissa

Remember this moment - yes, the one in this breath,
pregnant as a peach orchard with your hopes and fears.
Remember this taste on your tongue, so expectant;
savor the tang of robust family, every part proud.

Pregnant as a peach orchard with your hopes and fears,
we know we are the blessed ones.
Savor the tang of robust family, every part proud.
Remember this tremble in your heart.

We know we are the blessed ones,
this moment spins old notions into new thread.
Remember this tremble in your heart,
surrender to it like sweet butter on warm bread.

This moment spins old notions into new thread.
Give worry a roost to rest - its stillness, our peace,
surrender to it like sweet butter on warm bread.
Your refuge is here in our laughter and tears.

Give worry a roost to rest - its stillness, our peace.
Remember this taste on your tongues, so expectant;
your refuge is here in our laughter and tears,
Remember this moment - yes, the one in this breath.

--rm mist 2009

Sunday, August 16, 2009


"There is a number hidden in every act of life...numbers screaming to tell us something." - Paul from 21 Grams

If it were only a matter of numbers -
five hundred and seventy seven
minus one hundred and fifty, leaving
four hundred with a little margin for error -
would that be enough to stave off
that one deva who divines calamity,
calls it a sacred door?
Intrepidly blue as the Arabian Sea,
my worries drift on crimson petals,
each envious of the nautilus chambers,
beautiful raft of Fibonacci numbers -
one, two three, five, eight,
thirteen, twenty one.
But still the world cracks open,
flooding us in a feast of breezes
filled with squirrel chatter,
who don’t care if we’re counting.

If it were only a matter of numbers
would it be enough to divide a year into
seasons, days, and hours, littering walls
and tables with the couriers of
our imperious fourth dimension?
The mist that curls my book's cover
is an ample almanac. And even
if our whirl-a-gig minds press for
meticulous rhythms, there rests
within the pulse of a peewee call
that perfect balance of time and place.
You'll recognize it in twilight
when, passed along a string of song,
each countless moment finds its mate;
much like toddlers lined up along the yellow curb –
one piece of day delivered to the next,
welcomed with the opening of a chrome handled door.

Saturday, August 1, 2009


Last August as barometers fell
and skies spun their pewter webs,
we dreamed of rain.  Watching
thirsty Sourwoods  blush

Before the light shifted,
we presses that buxom summer
to fill our shelves with bottles
stacked high in bread and butter pickles,

spicy salsa and home brew.  Those
dog days courted fat winds out of
Alabama, teased us to seventh heaven
and hid downpours in fox grapes

and persimmons.  That year we looked up,
sought safe haven in a farmer's almanac,
and days sailed toward summer's end
within the graceful orbit of Earth.

We prayed like refugees
for any clever idea to reunite
land and sky.  Patience sweltered
in us between line dried sheets.

We believed sun-dogs were omens;
that we could pull them apart
like wishbones and find water.
Instead our oracles hid in flowers.

still tucked up in the dry soil
among the warts of a mother bulb.
Come April, they swelled open
right on time - each lusciously wet

and brilliantly blue. Yellow anthers
shivered Jove offerings
to the bees' knees.  Now August,
we wake to cool mornings

pregnant with thunderheads 
that burst like ripe plums most afternoons.
Our gardens yield a casual bounty;
bullfrogs practice swallowing the pond.

We wish Eden weren't so capricious,
but our wild hearts know better.
We are the fickle ones, and
Paradise meets us here.

-revised 11/17/2013