(option 1)

Mosquito bite on my wrist:
A reminder that life along the
River belongs to a taxonomy that
Spells out a word much longer than

(option 2)

Mist draws
Away from the
Riverside as wrens
Signal dawn’s about to
Have her moment in the sun.



Every bird’s end is boring:
Another heap of hollow bone and
Rotting feathers just waiting to
Turn back into stone; yet to
Have flown sunward and sing
Even for a single moment of
All soaring means—to feel the
Veracity of life lived fully in
Eternal love with being—leaves
No corpse but a blessed memory.


We ride

In this life,
we ride the wild
horses of our bodies
through canyons
carved by fear,
over peaks
aglow with hope,
past temples
gilded by sacrifice,
across rivers
deepened by sorrow,
along shores
strewn with wonder,

carrying a map made of words
and a compass of desire.


To Be Free, Be like a Tree

So, why am I now posting on Tuesday, you may be asking, instead of Monday as I had originally planned? Because Tuesday is Týr’s day. Who is Týr?

To me, Týr is the God of the Tree. What do trees worship? They worship the Sun. Are trees male? Yes. Are trees female? Yes.

Trees represent the ideal state of being to me. They represent perfect balance. What else do they do? They grow Up. They grow closer to God.

And when they die? They sacrifice themselves to fertilize the soil so that New Life may emerge.

What do trees not do? They do not speak. They simply Are.

I’m going to switch modes with this blog now. So I am a woman in a man’s body. So what? That is one way to balance male and female, like a tree. Do I need to dress differently or make myself up differently to be myself? Maybe. Do I need to change my anatomy? Maybe. But for now, I just want to Be.

There is only way I know how to Be and to speak without speaking: poetry.

In my previous blog, I tried to come up with a new form of poetry called holoku that I could never seem to get quite right. Let me take another stab at it.

What will this form of poetry be called? Cruciform poetry. What is the purpose of a cruciform poem? To sacrifice a word by nailing it to a tree of passionate language. Sound sacrilegious? Fine. Go read whatever holy book you prefer. I’m done with them all myself. I’m going to write my own, new religion-that-is-not-a-religion, in which I sacrifice all the symbols of the past to generate a New Living Word for myself.