The Sailor

The boy and his father set sail out of the Port of San Diego, California, on a perfectly warm, blue seventy-eight- degree day. The wind, though slightly calm, would be just enough to fill the sails, balloon them up toward the blue sky. The boy couldn’t wait for that moment: the sails puffing and gusting up, full of air’s energy , its natural speed. For now, they chugged between the white and blue and red crowd of docked boats. He watched for a moment as the boats all rolled and lifted in unison with the pattern of swelling waves.

The boy looked out ahead, west. There was only one small stretched white wisp of cloud and the occasional white cap of a wave to contrast the blue, the boundless light blue of sky and the dark blue of sea. The boy’s father pulled back the throttle and slowed the boat, then cut the power as they escaped the marina. The rumbling din of the motor quit and they were accompanied only by the flapping wind and waves. The man glanced at his son with a smile. He gestured toward the wooden wheel which he held.

"She's all yours, Pal."

The boy took the helm with a strong grip and a dazzling grin. His heart swelled with the wave of adventure, and he pointed the bow toward the open ocean.

Redwood

Towering giants surround you
The wind whispers to you
You lay down on a bed of leaves as soft
As the down from a mother goose
The wind whispers to you one more time as if
Trying to tell you a secret, you fall asleep

The Balloon

Jess sat on a slatted bench
on Pearl Street
to wait for a friend, when:

a girl sailed past in a skip,
a red balloon
bobbing in beat above her golden head.

While her parents took leaps to keep up,
she paused to feel
the gentle push of the wind against

the swollen and stretched red rubber.
Deliberately,
she let go the string in curious wonder.

The father, well-practiced at things
such as this,
grabbed the balloon in his fist

as it floated out of reach of the small
outstretched arm.
Giving it back to his child, he said:

There now, hold on to it tight.
Hesitating,
she took it and looked up to the sky.

Jess, knowing the heart of the child
said (to herself)
No, let it go, watch it fly!

WHO I AM.


Who am I you ask?

I’ve admired the tombs of Ancient Egypt,
Was born in the untamed wilds of North America,
Lived in the seas of sand and wild mountains of the Arabian Peninsula,
Traveled refined and classical Europe,
And set foot on the burning plains of Africa.

I spread my arms to the sky in a thunder storm,
The lightening like the light of Inspiration,
The thunder like the pounding of horses hooves,

The pulses of New Age music resound through my body,
As the lyrics of popular rap confuses my mind,
And Celtic Romance long forgotten trembles through my soul,

I am the Mysterious Blue Haired Girl,
The one called Mae,
Born a love child,
To parents who care so much it hurts,
As they tear themselves up inside over a disease that steals all reason,

I was born 10 years to the day of the Twin Towers fall,
In a cool forest on a log cabin porch,

Miles away from a grandfather who would come to love me,
Play a father role, And see me as another daughter,
Who would pass to soon for all who knew him,
And never see the woman I would become,

I’m the passionate cook who learned an art form,
From her grandmother, her mother, her father, herself,

The Brilliant writer of fantasy,
Who never stops reading,
And hopes for a career writing,
And fills cases and shelves with the books she spends her time and money on,

Painting is my first and only Love,
For I am the aspiring artist with big dreams,
Filled to the brim with her enthusiasms,
An eccentric teen with a thrift shop wardrobe and a personal look,
Who prowls the small shops in her hometown,
And in other small towns every chance she gets,

I’ve learned the hard way how far my families love goes,
I’ve pushed my self to my limits,
Fought through tears and heart ach,
Missed the ones I love,
Shaped a unique view on life, reality,
And the world we live in,
I’ve fought for the right to be me,
I’ve struggled for every inch to grow,

Yup that’s me,

I am Martha Dakota,
Meaning Lady Friend.
I am who I am,
With all my differences and diversities,
A study of colorful contradictions.

I am who I am,
And I’ll be who I’ll be,
I am the young woman who is so many things,

But above all… I am me.

Colorado Song (Previously My Colorado)

the driver's side
of a jade green convertible:
the latticed prairie
(starillions of yellow flowers
and dusty shrubs)
greeting a sky
woven of white and

the boundless blue of your eyes.

a sun flower
sage brush spray, laced
with curdled perfumes:
cow shit, dead skunk, and
the warm, aching stench
of your cologne
seeping from Jade's left seat—

you sat here only just days ago.

the mess of stone
and chasm, of aspen and pine;
powdered pieces of
your twirly, chaotic stardust
are growing mountains.
The land lifting out of plains
is a song you taught me and

I still know it all by heart.

Why on Earth

did you leave Tucson?
they’ll ask,
and I usually say
it was just time.

Really, though,
it’s just a long story
I save for those who
care to understand.
You see, I had to

ditch that bright, beautiful spot,
where cactus-dirt crept between my bare toes,
every grain of rock whispering of eons;
eons we humans will never have.

Then one day,
Once upon a rock,
someone
told me that we do.
Have eons, I mean.

One day,
we’ll crumble down, too,
sand sifting off the stone,
we go so damn quick
back to the rock.

Remember that one scorcher in May
when we spread ashes on Mount Wasson,
when we returned you to the rock?
Some dust blew across the city to the Catalinas.

To Pima Canyon,
where, even now,
you sing of coulee and rock:
the wind flaring up yellow
behind the elms, your song.

It’s quite a story you tell.
Perhaps you can see
why, when they ask,
I usually just say that
it was time.

Breath

Numb fingers unclip the rain fly
In the dull cold of sunrise,
Wave it into the horizon like
A desert flag, sending crystals
Of frost glittering into
The pink and purple sky—
Our mixed breath, condensed
And frozen, some kind of
Small gift to the arid soil,
Some kind of temporary jewelry
Worn briefly by a prickly pear,
And then forgotten.