On Injustice

I write because the rules of the game were never meant for us.

Struggling to flourish on this earth…

our voices marred by systematic and ideological forces

we, the many, outweighed by the few.


Told that there is not enough for us

food, water, shelter—

they have divorced us from the very means of our own power.


Witnessing the theater of the politicians

who make speeches but speak no words…


they make spectacles,

they build stadiums

and stages.


Dazzling illusions

to distract us from what we really are—





Immortality and



We are

the change, the courage –

the force of transformation

the righteous anger and the fury.


I lend my voice

to the many—

all deserving to be heard.


Capable of choice,

I believe in humanity.

I believe in our collective ability

to bring harmony and justice

to the inequalities of this world.


The powerful tell us

that we cannot make our own decisions,

that we are uneducated, unaware…


and yet even those who went to college

cannot afford to eat.


The majority are not

provided for

in these unjust systems,

but the few who benefit from the scheme

claim there are no alternatives.

There is no justice—no sense to their madness.


There is no retribution

nothing guaranteed

in a game with unjust rules.

Greed and selfishness, aggression


material wealth rewarded


success… defined by material excess…


There are those

whose parents suffered, whose grandparents suffered

at the hands of the system

and are further punished,

because they are not fit the image

of who wins in the system

by proxy: they are not a part of the system.


Those who ask questions,

are barred by unspoken terms,

outcast, and silenced

by manipulation



into notions

of nationhood and state—

they make tribes of us rather than

a fellowship


a wild underbelly

of exploited people

feed the glorious machine,

colonized and colonizer

go on…


we are punished

because of where our parents were born,

and whether they were born into money


they say

it is the only way—

but I say it is their way,

because I believe in the human imagination.

I believe in our potential.


I am enraged

at the abuses charged onto the many.

“That’s just the way it is,”

they say.


We are bound only

by our self imposed limitations,

by the cages we create for one another.


I have felt trapped.  I have felt despair.  I have felt caught in a series of ideological forces

that do not favor me.  They do not favor my family or my friends.


I am told that there is no other way.

That poverty, struggle, and mental illness

are simply a way of life.


And yet

I look around me,

at all human potential.

I wonder

why there is no free energy?

How food and shelter and safety

are not guaranteed for everyone?


How can decency be only given to the few?

For all our technologies, our advances

we cannot provide stability,

we cannot provide security, a sense of

peace and well-being

to all peoples, to all sentient beings?



I am limitless.

I am infinite potential.

I am one with the all encompassing creator.

I am one with all beings, one with all creation—one with the limitless expanse of space.




I am

experiencing myself in six billion pieces.

I am

the fractals, dancing in consciousness

I am the material world.

I am the body – the universe of the body.

I am every organ, every tissue, bone and blood.

I am nothing.  I am space.  I am the SILENCE

the Silence that pervades in all things.

There is no separation

between me and the infinite,

I draw all to me in limitless expanse.

I am

the stars, the galaxies, the implosions

the pulse and the rhythms of the dance:



crossing my mind, crossing my heart

dear beloved, he comes

in the ashes of before:

dance, dance

across my heart, dear beloved,

come evermore, into the expanse…


I am the rose.  I am the lark,

I am the warrior, the sword, the spear…

I am all time, I am all places—all things,

I am one with the limitless expanse.


Invincible, indestructible, flowing with all creation—

all knowledge, all time, all beings

all expressions—

the moon, the sky, the rose, the lark

singing in the glory of my heart—

Hallelujah, infinite



She followed the symbols drawn across his spine

tried to count them but they were infinite

“what do they mean?”

he could give no answer

his lips curved but there was

no answer


she traced the symbols drawn

across his spine with her subtle hands

moved to weave

herself into him

she pressed herself into him


joined with the rugged curves

of his body, he was there.

More than anywhere, she found him there.

Still So Much I Do Not Know

The days roll on

and I wonder at their meaning


why are we here?

what are we all doing?


in this vast disconnection,

this fragmentation from ourselves…


I wonder about the journey home.

I wonder if I am home.


Did I originate in the stars?

have I seen other universes

and I just don’t remember?


for some reason

incarnating in this

space and time?


Perhaps I do not know it.

Perhaps I am home.


I wonder if I have created God,

or if God created me…


I suppose it does not matter

because I am sitting in the womb of all.

I am alive.

very much alive,



I am the breath.


and spirit



I hear

the dancing sounds

of the rain

pitter patter


I see the naked trees,

the frothy cover of wintertime.

Spirit of the Trees

I see now that you

have a face and mouth

hands and many eyes

peering from the depths

connecting me with something

far within myself


your arms reach out

long and wide to embrace me

you hold all in your hands


sun and sky and earth


in your gentle majesty


I place my hands upon your bark

my light cascades into the ground


I can feel your roots

and the roots of your brothers

your sisters and your kin


bury me


I hear the sounds

of your slow voices

I sense the spirit within


the spirit that guides me



you have stories to tell.

I will listen.

Let a Woman Learn Quietly

Her lips were tied with



she couldn’t loosen the cords


before the mirror

she tried to undo

that delicate web


of dreams and fears

family and commandments—


the ghosts of memory

snapping, weaving—