Handmade Shoes

down to Earth

Month: April 2015

  • Secular, or No-cular?

    When I was five, I found out my best friend, Felicia, was Jewish. I was a WASP in the first degree, able to trace my roots back to Captain Miles Standish and the Mayflower (though I didn’t know that at the time). But I had been told about my privileged place on this earth, as one…

  • Goodwill Hunting

    Warm weather has me searching for clothes~ Loose, cool, natural fiber, Cotton is best. I walk in slow meditation, Hand outstretched, Gently playing duck, duck, duck, duck, duck Through the whites Yellows Oranges Reds Blues. I smile at azure, cerulean, indigo, Eyes drinking in the shades. Green Tags 50% Off Today. I have in my…

  • Vessel

    What does the bear carry on her back? Me.  She  carries  me. We are looking for my soul. We     are     gathering     bones And watering them with blood and tears. Grandmother carries me on her back, Out my front door and to the stars, Into the cold northeastern night Where four brothers dance And the world…

  • Foreplay

    We’re in the bathroom performing bedtime ministrations–he’s brushing his teeth, I’m sitting on the toilet. I wonder aloud, “Has anyone ever written a song about Bartleby the Scrivener?” and he grunts, talking toothpaste like I understand. Then I’m brushing my teeth and he’s on the toilet, and he says, “Barbeque This Prisoner?” and it’s lucky…

  • Assumptions

    I assume help will be given. I assume we give because that is the law of Nature. I assume I will pass on all that has been given me. I assume love is the quantum field from which all arises.

  • April 2 (2003)

    Yes, I’m breaking out my handmade shoes, and they are patched together from many things.  ∞ ∞ ∞ Nothing to it but to do it. So many thoughts pouring through my consciousness, the way the streams are flowing across the land. Watched Waking Life, a film by Richard Linklater, last night and again today. It…

  • A Poetry Reading in Honor of the Right to Protest As a Patriotic and Historical Tradition

    Manchester, VT February 17, 2003 The people here are weathered and beautiful. There is a man in a maroon wool cap, big bushy eyebrows, gray beard, well-worn corduroy slacks. He carries a book of Emily Dickinson’s poems. People’s faces are open and excited. A feeling of community pervades the atmosphere; we are smiling at one…