“Astronomy for the use of schools and academies.” Joseph A. Gillett (1882)
Oceanus Procellarum
His eyes the hue of all Earth’s oceans tossed In tumult (spume, spray) churn infinitely Her heart, the oceans of the moon, ensconced In basalt magma mares laid anciently He senses love and feels it coursing through Her ever-present depth, the seat of grief Conditions both are now accustomed to By life’s relentless quest to find relief Yet, love and laughter fill their atmosphere A world where they alone can live and be It saves them from an epoch of disaster– A home, a space, a place—this you and me New woven in this moment learning how Their love gives import to the here and now
Sunset over Utah Lake. (February 2025)
Sea of Scorpio
Darling, I haven’t yet told you How beautiful your eyes are Like the ocean’s depth, a sea Moved by primordial currents, dark, Yes, below the surface, but there Beautiful, almost infinitesimal Flecks of ochre, golden troves, In the rippling rich blue that Remind me of the entire universe Contained in that chasm, which Is to say soul, kelp ribbons Amber stones, acorn barnacles, Brittle stars brought to surface by Maelstrom. Sign that all the Depths you’ve fathomed where You learned through excruciating Joy and wracking gladness, an Abyss rife with life and pain, Eternal you, there laid bare Inside your beautiful eyes
when fall begins to crystalize, like any change, the first real storm front moves in, the leaves which scudded about yesterday are frozen to the sidewalk, gathering in browning-yellow scrolls, little edicts of what is to come, they thaw and scatter again across streams and gullies where the thin water still wants to feed the living thing before being silenced in ice, or leave monochrome sepias on pavement, the Hunter’s moon, high and bright illumines the grass, reedy wisps along the midnight walk, the dusty path where the air cools, snappy, crisp, that breath of winter’s coming, flora seized red in its death, clinging to branch and vine, each day more dried and dead, ruffled and flurried by immediate breezes, sounding like Japanese paper fanfared by a round and excited toddler, portents of the next season soon to fall in golden droplets of summer’s dreams the ocher aspen leaves, in sheets and flakes of fiery autumn light dazzling and freshly disconnected from their source right before they meet the dust and decompose
Sun, Sky, Beach, Life. Oregon Coast. Image, my own.
Strength
Growing is a season of its own, one of loving kindness rooted in faith one of far-seeing vastness, while standing in sacred spaces. For whatever waves, winds, and ways that will ever-continue to toss and take their course, stand in your gifts and rest in fullness, plentitude. Delight in bounty and abundance. Move from ire to the rich roundness of the good in all living things– circles of true compassion and empathy which connect all creation– human, animal, plant, living, all animate with atoms as the entire universe speaks the soundness of its existence, the tenor of being, the voice of living and the lived
Ocean, Tide, Tree, Coast. Oregon. Image, my own.
Point
when i am in my brain and heart i realize this is the goddamn point
Woods. Oregon Coast. Image, my own.
Conscious Living
What is it to be alive? In the rich, abundant world A sterling jay’s deeply Decked sapphire feathers crested head nestled in the magnolia bush outside my window the air as thick as dew, yet moving as if on an unheard music suspended by the wind’s unseen breath
and ocean spume, spurl, churn TO be part of Earth’s respiration tide, current, wave, flow, coast where Earth’s breath meets land-sand, rock, tree, stone every piece of physical particulate of the confirmation of all alive and breathing beings, being moved smoothed, rocked, waved, rolled over and over in the sea’s bosom
Stones and Seal Carcass. Oregon Coast. Image, my own.
Ocean
I used to think I wasn’t an ocean person. But these rocky, cliffy, craggy knobs of sea-shorn trees, smooth stones and crusty conglomerates crab shells, jelly-fish skeletons, strips of kelp carcass, and clings of driftwood really wrap me into the rhythm of the tide
Coastal Sunset, Falcon Cove, Oregon. Image, my own.
No Phone
All this connectivity Search engines and Social media, email Severs and direct Message platforms Every app, it can Certainly feel Exhausting to be so very connected to each other, yet Barely involved with One another, Bodily, physically, Beyond productivity Trackers and fitness Bits what happens When you are Cabined away In the ferns, Sitka Spruce, magnolia, and Dogwood of the
Oregon Coast Magic as the mist rolls in from Cove Beach and you Stretch out on a Carnelian settee to Watch the fog billow In and congeal on the Picture windows and Back-bone of Driftwood lying in the Long grass Gray-white skeletons of the Ocean made Manifest to Remind that Everything has Source, spirit, purpose You put some Peace Piece, Bill Evans On the record player,
But eventually let Everything fall silent Once again because The treasure is the Stillness, the disconnect The quiet hum of the Needle across vinyl Being dampened by Swelling waves perhaps Yards away, the mighty Roll of the Ocean speaking that sometimes being Whole means being Havened away, un- Reachable, no phone, SOS, airplane mode, Out of service Out-of-office Elsewhere, gone
More sunset, i. Oregon, Coast. Image, my own.
Slow Dance
Slow dance with yourself on a Sunday morning Take your hair down and grab one hand in your other Life your spirit onto the raw wooden floor of the Little house you call home, hickory scraped by thoughtful Hands, where you live, sway to the beat of your heart, love In time to the pulse of your quiet longings, smile in self-solidarity, spin, circle, so that you see where you are, grounded, so that your heart senses that every part of you understands that you are the only one who can inhabit your soul, your spirit, your life, your love kiss your own vitality with a gentle nod, your body, your mind, your essence, well, whole, perfectly safe. Let the music take your shoulders and hips in the rhythm and stride or two, of just you, slow dancing with yourself
Beija Flora, Cove Beach, Oregon. Image, my own.
Yes
Yes to me Yes to life Yes to ocean Yes to mountain Yes to lift Yes to love Yes to change Yes to work Yes to nobility Yes to learning Yes to risk
Sunset, Oregon Coast. Image, my own.
New Mythologies: Achilles
I’ve needed new mythologies For a long while now, in fact, I remember stating this bluntly When heading out for a swim Around the long arm of a lake With a friend, and it turns Out that the inception of these
Tales and tides save(d) me from both pride and envy, boredom and bliss, these mythologies had already begun to Take root in my life, some of them recently, and some Long, long ago
Achilles was the son of Thetis And Peleus most strong and noble Soldier of the Trojan War who was Dipped in the River Styx by his ankle His weakness, you know it, Because it becomes the place of his Death, pierced by Paris’s arrow
But my achilles is the only thing that Was saved when I fell free Climbing, ten feet, and my foot was torn from My ankle nearly off, but for the tendon, the achilles, which saved me– my ability to walk, to run, to ambulate, to Be in the woods and rivers, canyons And valleys
How important then, that all that was Holding my life together actually was My hubris, my weakness, my ineptitude The irony wasn’t lost on me, and how Weakness is in us all, and thereby A crucial part of every life And maybe our downfall
But may actually become our very Strength as I learned the gift of Living, of understanding difference And ability across many fractals Was shown and learned to show Others empathy in their need, In their frailty
I was dipped back into mortality By my wound, by my heel, By my maiming The weak point The place of mortality The pinch of imperfection Made into strength
Noordwijk, Netherlands; North Sea Shore. January 2023. Image, my own.
Regret
I stood in the tide of the North Sea and I should have dived in. I should have stripped off my clothes like an overgrown baby and screamed and squawked into the surf
I should have shrugged off my care for my friend’s husband. I’m sure he would have politely turned around if I’d asked. then I’d have had to contend with the flotsam
on the beach, but that wouldn’t have mattered, half shells, stones, sponges even the cuts on my feet would have been worth it if I’d boldly yawped into the bubbling spume, a signal
to the universe that I knew, I saw what was coming next (which is a lie) but in that moment, to prove to myself I was animate, to confirm I could do anything, to beat my chest at the
edge of the world, to be alive, especially if I had known everything that would begin– days later– the layers of dreams I’d have to divest, the altar I’d have to burn
in sacrilege, the pain that would engulf me, the end This is important because now I know that my jaunt into the North Sea would look pale, naked, unfeathered in comparison to reality
and it really wouldn’t have changed anything. the tide would have rolled, salt-gray, rhythmic, unforgiving, over me as the lanterns burned brightly in the beach house but it’s one thing I may always regret
Flotsam of the North Sea. Noordwijk, Netherlands. Image, my own.
Ghost
You never think That someone will pass through you Like the ghost of who they once were Like the spirit of a person you once knew
You never think That it could hurt so badly to unravel Like every color of who they were was in you Like each thread that stitched you all together was undone
You never knew What death while someone is alive feels like What saying goodbye without saying anything means What one body of pain can experience
Until you knew
Tide. North Sea, Noordwijk, Netherlands. Imgae, my own.
Comfort
sink into the folds of an oversized chaise tuck your body between the seat cushion and english arm rest your head on the soft folds of the chenille bolster, squish and knead yourself into the billows of down fill rest all of yourself in there to see if you’ll be safe from the storm
Directions. Noordwijk, Netherlands. Image, my own.
Celebrate
listen, don’t you forget that even days of sorrow can be days of celebration that’s the paradox we were born for this
My House at Night. Noordwijk, Netherlands. Image, my own.
Spoon
if you bring your thighs right under the nook of my knees and the bulk of your body right into the curve of my hips and your chest flush with my back and wrap yourself around me all night, I may remember what love, and safety, and sighing in peace really feels like I’ll be home again quiet, delicious, hazy jazz you’ll quell my longing
Jazz Café Alto. Amsterdam, Netherlands. Image, my own.
Relentless
sometimes this existence can feel so heavy so weighted and wearisome so relentless
Refined + Rugged 