Cliff Tales


 Weave the willow strands into ribbons

and thread them among the standing stones.

Crush the charcoal in your hands and paint,

stag and storm and sunken well.

Remake the sky, 

in shades of sable and shadow,

and etch your name hidden deep in the bottom of the rocks;

the scorpions will guard it…

Leave agates in the falcon’s nests and rose petals near the brambles,

as payment for your memories,

 and in gratitude for a new purse full of tales.

Fill your mouth with pebbles and

whisper to the waves rocking against the shore, 

of monsters with eyes of shell and pearl and seagrass,

and the turtle-eyed folk who loved them…

and watch the swell foam opalline around your feet as they wash back to hear the rest of the story.

Rest in the cradle of moon and morning,

in the changing of the stars, 

and write your name in the sand before you leave,

so the shores can carry it away,

a herald,

washing up on new coasts before you,

as you climb the distant cliffs…



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Happy (5th) Birthday to Meeeeeeeee

Chimera Poetry (blog) is FIVE YEARS OLD TODAY! wOw!


When I started this I never dreamed it would morph into…..well, this. You wonderful people who follow and comment and support and buy the books and like the poetry and Yes! even the critics… have made this what it is. I took a chance and showed my true colors here and you responded. This past year has been a rough one but I’m glad we are all in it together. I look forward to the next year with you. Thank you chimerically, poetically and all other lly’s.




The Great Figure

Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city. 



Whoever you are, where ever you are….

I bid you peace.





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Reaching For the Stars

I stretched, 

reaching for the stars,

as I was told we should,

and my face is still stings

from the slapping down.

The wounds of the reaching are tainted with poison,

and from that there will be no remission.


You hold that nugget of gold close to your heart,

in hopes that someday it would appreciate the warmth,

but metal is as metal does,

and warmth is not prized by those, 

who only love the gleam of brass and iron and steel,

and have no use for the softness of the stars.



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4th of July 2018

“Mr Trump will pass. Trumpism might not. The rest of the world should take that possibility seriously — and think and act accordingly.”  ~ Thorsten Benner

I would change it slightly – 

“Trump will pass. Trumpism might not. Americans, as well as the rest of the world, should take that possibility seriously — and think and act accordingly.”

Today we celebrate America. In all it’s battered glory. What a hard, horrible year this has been. Going from atrocity to atrocity until we have been punched so often we cease to feel it, as the newly coined phrase “outrage fatigue” sets in. But we continue to stand, to speak out and march in HUGE (bigly lol) numbers. The good must prevail. This stain on American history will be written of with the contempt it deserves, but I hope as a lesson learned.  

 She still stands… 

lady liberty


Whoever you are, where ever you are, whatever you believe – I bid you peace.




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The Final Fall

I fall all the time;

over my feet,

head over heels,

from grace,

and I stumble from one chaos to the next,

naming the streets as I get to know them,

one part familiar, 

one part nightmare,

sometimes falling into a ghost so that

for a time,

no one can see me,

except as a cool shadow

quickly blinked away.

My season of wounding has outlasted the blood in my body and

I stand bemused in a corner of an old song

and wait for the final fall.

No longer anxious,

no longer fearful,

no longer braced for the impact, 

not having to endure the intermission

before the breath is dragged screaming back.

I want to fall into that moment

and stay

  savoring the feel of motionless

for as long as it lasts…



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The Sun Set


They pushed her into the pool,
and the deep end grabbed her and held her,
and it was her fault naturally,
because water only gets into your lungs if you,
have no sense of humor and,
the children were sent to other pools,
but walls were glass and the water drained out,
leaving them in a box in the ground.
(but it’s not a cage so why are they acting like they are upset..)
And the rest of the life guards turned off the lights and locked the doors,
because they deserved a night out,
and the sun set.
And the newspapers were corrected and reprinted until the ink gave up,
and gunmakers wept and wrung their hands and their profit margins as bibles became the weapon of choice,
and in the next village people refused to wall themselves in
with the same bricks being thrown through their windows,
making a sound very like breaking glass,
and the sun set.
And the jugglers bravely tried to keep all the worlds in the air but finally fell
and cut their hands on the smashed bits as they cried and tried to gather them together.
And sleazy salesmen sold the thirsty water that burned the lips and belly,
then admonished the crowd for their unworthiness,
(there’s not a thing wrong with that water as long as you don’t mention it…)
and the sun set.
The sun set.
And the sun tried to rise but couldn’t find a reason.

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I'm standing very still,
in a room of vindictive and broken mirrors and 
they shiver,
fracturing reflections every time I breathe.
So I am quiet,
and whisper to my heart to slow its beating,
to keep the angry glass from shifting it's attention to me.
If I cannot go forward
and cannot stay back
how do I fix the brokenness?
How can I satisfy the maddened creatures
who demand my blood
but whose thirst is never slaked?
I call softly, 
scar to scar,
wondering if there are any other rooms nearby,
where someone else stands scared and quiet,
with a slow beating heart,
and open wounds that cannot be called defensive
if you don't know what you are defending.


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