Dragonfly !

Weeding at
 six forty-five
A.M. and already
I am perspiring.
Little rivers tickle down my back and face, mixing with the citronella I
bathed in,  before venturing into mosquito territory.  There is a sparrow
in the cherry tree, serenading  early risers.  I sweat and remind
myself that  all this bending will keep me young, allegedly. I spot
a dragonfly
on the bee balm
right next to my leg.
Breath skips out
of me.  Now
he flies,
as a
on a
ever it
is a


Published 7/14 –  Bards Annual 2014 – a Poetry Anthology 

Joy Ride


think how your body moved down the avenue of fourteen
hips swaying into tomorrow and the next day

how you curl your tongue around the idea of chocolate
consumed by it even as your body consumes it

how your eyes connect with other eyes,
locking you into that inevitable, unforgettable dance

and feel how your body shudders and utters delight
when you share its secrets

how Beethoven ravaged, savaged your heart
invading, vibrating a joyous ode across tiny ear drums

how your skin felt like silk when you dove into the ocean,
and the salt-flecked water blessed, caressed and ate you

how your body worked to roll out another and another body,
sweating and pushing, pushing and sweating you bore them out

then swooned at the scent of brand new-born
pouring into every open door your body owns

how you are stunned when you rise from a daydream
and your eyes run across the sky, immense, intense with clouds

how you glow when a little boy stops playing
to touch your cheek lightly, politely planting a kiss

 how a river of pleasure runs through your nose when a rose
shrugs off its holy fragrance

and oh,
feel how your heart pumped as you jumped on your bike
willing your eight year old legs to ride forever

how you soared, when you stopped on the road to Yosemite, awed
and had to lie on the hood of the car to keep from falling into the stars

and how your heart sings in time with the birds
when spring arrives to banish, vanish winter

your body convulses and pulses with laughter,
tears flowing, you fall down on the floor

when you think what an impossible joy-ride it has given you
ever since you climbed aboard at your naked, gasping birth.


Published July 2014 –  Bards Annual  2014 – A Poetry Anthology

April is National Poetry Month!

April is National Poetry Month and everyone who reveres poetry celebrates in some way or another. Some people read poetry, others carry a poem in their pockets.  There are readings and lots of events to promote poetry.

A few years ago National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) came into existence with a challenge to poets  to write 30 poems in 30 days during the month of  April. There are prompts and lots of bells and whistles for encouragement.

I am participating for the first time this year.   I decided to throw my poems into the ring so I could enter my 30 (or more) poems into a contest sponsored by a small press called Local Gems Poetry Press.

The first, second and third prizes include publication of the  winner’s poems in a chapbook, with 25 to 100 copies depending on which prize it is.  My plan is to submit a book of haiku, senryu,  haiga, tanka and haibun.  My theme is Japanese short form poetry.

There is no requirement to use the daily NaPoWriMo prompts unless one finds them useful.  Perhaps I will be inspired by my daily walks, my meditation and prayer practice, NaHaiWriMo (haiku prompts),  The Music in It: Adele Kenny’s Poetry Blog, and anywhere else I can find a poem!

I plan to post my poems as I write them – revising as I go along. Any comments are appreciated. Thank you for your encouragement and support.


muse and I.jpg


spring workout –
taking to the woods
with the muse


Six Mercies



an introvert,
not the type…..and yet, 
she is the fuel,

–lord have mercy–

be easy woman, 
don’t force your lover
to guess.

–lord have mercy–

 children  –
they list your failures
double or nothing.

–lord have mercy–

 heart song
a baby triggers spasms
 of forgiveness.

–lord have mercy–

no assaulting strangers,
they are everywhere –
find them where they live.

–lord have mercy–

 so old
her body…. her cage
she begs for peace.

— lord have mercy–


For Sunday Whirl -#150
For Poets United – pantry

A Double Whirl – With Esther

girls didn’t leave home until the wedding in those days,
still,  Esther was bound for the city
watching the darkness gather outside the window,
her body relaxing as the train sped along,
the droning of the wheels lulling her,
she grasped the last bit of light ringing the horizon,
plucking an invisible flow of memories
streaming across her awareness, one by one,
she made a list – a gutsy plan,
not at all her usual routine.
 she saw it as her only way out,
 wondering, would her father see it her way ?


 when she entered the hospital
walking under the old fashioned door frame,
Esther felt safe,
  courting bravery until it became second nature,
her only wages were the tricks she gleaned
and the support she sought while she learned her art,
never mind failure, she threw all-night parties cramming
chemistry, anatomy, physiology, biology, psychology
and all those other ‘ologies into her mind
and her heart,
 bitten by this  virus,
and smitten by a
 strange desire to comfort.
much later, she wrapped herself in white
and fell in with a band of Nightingales.


©Wabi Sabi 2014

More Esther poems here and here

Sunday Whirl – # 147, #148

Poets United – Pantry

In The Time Before Dawn



In the time before dawn
the sky is another  country,
all purple and windy, 
with a strand of pink haze
 wrapped around the horizon,
embracing the morning star,
 snuffing out her beauty
like a candle tilting in the bruised wind;

the gulls write their story
across the snow clouds,
their crying captures a word- juggler
in time’s lonely aspect
sustaining her in the warp and weft of the storm.

The poet planned an epic tale,
woven out of the fugue state of winter
sent by the devils of the night,
but her meager notes mention
only that the sky is still another country,
all  purple and windy,
even after dawn.


©2014 Wabi Sabi

For Sunday Whirl -# 145

For Poets United – pantry

Winter Question



How is it possible that,
 on a morning when the clouds,
curling back upon themselves,
and  giving up only momentary corridors of bare sky,
on a morning when those maddeningly small tokens of blue
taunt and tease a rain-weary,  fog-weary heart,
how, I ask again,
is it that the sighing wind,
 bending toward the naked oak tree,
can carry a burst of bird song
through the myriad layers
of a morose winter morning,
piercing the frozen edges of  a january nap
prodding and poking me out of  my
january nest?

By what miracle does a Carolina wren,
the tiniest of wintering birds,
on the gloomiest of winter days,
sing in the only voice
the universe gave it,
an April voice,
conjuring up a stunning moment of spring,
and bestowing a blessing
on the rain besotted morning,
 anointing my eyes and ears
with the chrism of its winter anthem,
just in time to save my dispirited soul
from the depths of winter silence?


©2014 Wabi Sabi

Wren at the Feeder ©2014 WS
Wren at the Feeder ©2014 WS
Carolina Wren ©2014 WS
Carolina Wren ©2014 WS

Inspired by Alice Keys ‘ Morning Song

For Sunday Whirl -#144
For Recuerda Mi Corazon – postcards from paradise
For Poets United – poetry pantry



The Dreamer:

Awake, my child 
come out to play with me
in the universe –
we can laugh at the gurgling brook
and sing with the mockingbird,
I know you heard my owl last night
you took delight in the hooo…hooo…hoo -ing
even as you slumbered on…
Did you know, I took delight in your delight?

The Child:

Oh Dreamer! Let me  drop everything
to come out to play with you,
show me every star in every galaxy,
I want to  fly through the sky
with the birds and the bees,
roll in the soft cool grass
and cover myself with cherry blossoms,
What a playground you have made for me!
Am I awake or asleep, Dreamer?

The Dreamer (laughing) :

It doesn’t matter, my child,
because, awake or asleep,
you are a dreamer,
just like me.

©2014 Wabi Sabi

Her Whispering



Her whispering,
meant to poison,  

will find a way to be heard,
with her infinite capacity to distort
the precise moment of my weakness,
pounding it with her fists full of words
and innuendos
 into an altogether new creation
emitting a pulse of lies
with a sly rhythm I cannot bear
to witness again.

The invisible reality
 is buried in the woods
some distance from her childhood home
and I must kneel in the soft loam
 digging with my bare hands
until I hit the hard
edges of my own truth.


©2013 Wabi Sabi

For Sunday Whirl # 133

For Poets United ‘poetry pantry’