Dog Dreams


Photo by sergio souza on


are better

than daydreams

Even though

dog dreams

are limited in scope:

a ballsy rabbit

someone else’s pee

or poop,

a panoply of scents


Daydreams tend toward

unfulfillment, a lack of

or deep need

Sometimes awash in

memories, sometimes

rehearsing the future

reimagining the past

They float the dreamer

away from now


Dog dreams

anchor to the present

a sprightly chase

after quarry that is

possible to catch



Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on


Once I was a nun

And more than once


Once I lived

in a wattle hut

and heard Her voice—

not the harsh voice of

the one who pushed

with impatient hands—but

a bird-sweet voice of comfort.


Sent to the convent

as soon as allowed

subtract one hungry mouth from home

the youngest postulant

I lived out my days between stone

scrubbing, peeling, sweeping,

never colder or hungrier than in the hut

keeping the ember of Her love.

Prayer, silence, obedience

until a grave pestilence

took me to earth.


And once again I was a nun

choosing the cloister over

an abhorrent marriage

with no regrets, no longings

for tapestries, brocades, or roast swan

Oh, the freedom to revel

in great books, spirited discussions

and the solitude of

my own bed.  The silence,

the discipline,

the peace.


And once again I was a nun,

living the vow of poverty

among the tenements

with the old and the sick

hanging rags on clotheslines,

scrubbing vermin from scalps

until the fever found me

I was but flotsam when it left

palsied, blurred eyes,

but able to sing the offices.


And this time round

I am not a religious,

having detoured into a maze

of mandates first 

a childhood void of catechism

older, but no wiser

a lost seeker somehow turned

to a life of service

no wimple or habit needed

to surrender

December 4th


Photo by Andrew Neel on


On a coffee wind my mother sighed

wreathed in the smoke of small fires

Tart orange was her voice


Peppermint and Chanel Number Five

A kiss of red lipstick rubbed off

Light comes in through bamboo shades


Danish modern table, ladderback chairs

the Sunday crossword falls to ash

Coffee wind swirls around her head


Beneath a blooming lemon tree

eucalyptus leaves shaped like dolphins

spin along the ground


The cremated genie hides in her bottle

Her eyes were never more hazel

than reflected in coffee at dawn

When I Write


Photo by Pixabay on


his eyes crawl up my back

probing, asking, pulling

I am pinioned by want

tacked–a common insect

stuck through the thorax


all that is, I am


driven further inside

by this ever-present audience

avoiding the vacant stare

keeping my eyes on the screen


through me, for me, as me


a kind heart beats

while a mind fades

eyes watch what moves

he asks for little

he needs so much