Cut Off

The Cut

Cut off a right breast
Offer it up on a gold platter
A fatted calf to feed his holiness.

Pig feet fetish.

Dish soap for a dollar
Black market barter
Unblemished silly cows.

– Tanya


Hot Sea Glass

Sea Glass
Things little mellow
No pink cry.
Words to the sudden
Sea shell green
Safe jar.

There are blue
Bleeds that
Can swim red
Trees in the
Heart heron dark.

Grace me night gold
See between moon.
I will through fare
An earthy fate fight
Wormwind soil.

Hurricane salve.
Wait for warm summer
Tea leaves.
Can Soul cure
All a lifetime cloud

Honey sweet.
Last long into a star
Arms heart
Solace hold bitter peace
Blanket me space.

Sacred plea spoon
Red broken china song
Sugar cup.
Truth sighs a safe house
Blue willow deep bend.

Roots Ginger
On a forehead freckle
Cool fever sweat
Breath dress boardwalk
Stretch sand over toes.

Mountain leagues.
Voice whispers
Low singing sea lions
On a deep wave roll.
Rock salt, taffy sign, wine

And a fly fishing pony.

– Tanya

Library in the Window

Library in the Window

It’s story time and the little ones gather around her knee

On a soft pink rug for rugged knees in tattered jeans from too much playing at

escapist art.

The setting where we venture in some wild adventure into the land of man or animal or Buddha, maybe it was Geisha then,
or an Amethyst with a name

in the windowsill, or in the wood, or in the box, or in the wardrobe,

who knows, as our minds wander in the morning sun, warmed by the fire
of lost boys,
or girls or puppy breath,
or what’s next and then

the plot we know not.

This one stands for majesty, an oak of understanding or

Was it sparkle pump in the profile then, no

the Buddha girl with curly peppered hair who said a circle of friend, just one, with a little help from that book of music.

Oh how they mingle in the windowsill, branches touching in some unspoken meaningful array of

Cobwebs hanging on a wing touched by Oklahoma, no

A tortoise shell, I’ll tell you.

This one stands for then and that one stands for now passing on the mystery to some future girl of tiny gifts in a tiny town invited.

To gaze at a windowsill in wonder, swaying pines, newspaper clad artifacts, and handmade cloaks in closets above a green box of mementos more

I gather you.

The singing trunks in guitar tunes in the wind of my imagination singing Wagon Wheel over air plants two and two in blue clouds on glass.

Tears marching under the palm of that angel, little tyrants hell bent on a sugar compost high.

Oh and that one with football shoulders playing scrabble carrying dust to the sea anemone to the left of the quartz, or quarterback or

Was it a tick filled skull.

Ouch that hurts.

Dusting things with watered down resin.

I’ll carry that with me forever and you have a peach seed in your pocket now.

How did the story go tell me? Shhh. Let the windowsill speak of the circle of elders watching above a gnomes home in June.

Whistle whistle.
Girl in the Tree.
I’ll be there but I might not be me

Sporting gray buns smelling like bay leaves over
medicine smoke come
healing, loving,
healing, loving,
tall time tales.

Rocking back and forth in a fork of solace on the mountain where we met in apple picking days

stacked on the shelf,
telling children that never came, I died before the guests arrived.

– Tanya

God’s Mirror

Gods Mirror

The Steps that led to the showers were difficult to navigate

Not believing in such things

Two flying things in the monks shower stall

When the earthquake came

It picked up the one

Dashing it to its death in a powerful water fall

The second flying thing

Just watched


So courageous

I say the second flying thing had faith

In the earthquake

Do you want to know which one writes the poetry,

And which is the poem?

Ask the chanting monk.

In Gratitude


I wanted to leave a note in my room for housekeeping, thought I would write a thank you, which I did. Then thought I’d add a little poem about the earth. Opened the book, straight away to this one. Perfect.

Blessed be the works of your hands
O Holy One

Blessed be these hands that have touched life

Blessed be these hands that have nurtured creativity

Blessed be these hands that have held pain

Blessed be these hands that have embraced with passion

Blessed be these hands that have tended gardens

Blessed be these hands that have closed in anger

Blessed be these hands that have planted new seeds

Blessed be these hands that have harvested ripe fields

Blessed be these hands that have cleaned, washed,
mopped, scrubbed

Blessed be these hands that have become knotty with age

Blessed be these hands that are wrinkled and scarred
from doing justice

Blessed be these hands that have reached out and been

Blessed be these hands that hold the promise of the

Blessed be the works of your hands
O Holy One

– Diann Neu

A Poem and Special Moment Shared One Morning in Marion Woodman’s Rose Garden, Blossoms Bloom in the Fire


The small plot of ground
on which you were born
cannot be expected

to stay forever
the same.
Earth changes,
and home becomes different

You took flesh
from clay
but the clay
did not come
from just one

To feel alive,
important, and safe,
know your own waters
and hills, but know

You have stars in your bones
and oceans
in blood.

You have opposing
terrain in each eye.
You belong to the land
and sky of your first cry,
you belong to infinity.

-Alla Renee Bozarth

Reflections on Baby Chicks

Reflections on Baby Chicks

I’ve never smelled the baby chicks in their warming boxes, but I know the smell as if i had tended them in my youth, when love called, melting my heart in a saffron glow of feathers and high strung words, said low and soft, recalling.

Little yellow chicks in an Easter basket at Spring in the lazy Sunday Valley, just a skill to spin a yarn so aglow in downy dumb, dumb, dumb, pecking eyes like Shakespeare’s one day dream.

Wood in crate with a perch just so, preening green at Christmas for my love to carry you through the Crepe Myrtle trees to Whimsy, sun flickering here and shading there, and beaming like a lamp on warm beaks, and fuzzy berth water buckets.

A little slow down on the farm of future dreams unrequited, in twenty four hours of innocence, before the warming lamp alit thy sly plot.

A time bomb you say, traveling all the way from Frederick in another era, aglow, aglee, to show me some treasure purchased for a pretty wheat penny or three.

A curiosity, you say like some mysterious package wrapped up tight in another man’s cologne spilled on your black leather boots walking around me in circles, grinning with red painted lips not really but just as well.

The prized find, just a three headed monstrosity of mythology stuffed up right to impart a meaning now dawned. Nothing here, you say, no message for you today, but jesters play at remember Luther the chicken man, no, you wouldn’t know.

Your grotesque projection of some ancient chicken box cutthroat moment of yore, blind from all the pecking hens, so you cannot see the little rabbit sniffing Rosemary out back, beyond the house of chickens past, unmoved, not really but just a hare.

I dare a whiskered sniffle toward an empty nest and turn my long ears south to the land of Avalon’s poetry.

– TanyaBaby Chicks


A trumpet sounded, the first seal was broken and the scroll read…

Eikpyrnirs mighty hoof comes crashing down into the underbrush, standing valiantly, horns pointing heavenward.

And the pointed caps cry,
“Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla Lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”

And there in the green grass turned blood red, the hunter rests his head, a hoof print in the center of his forehead, panting, bloody tendon between his teeth.

And the robed ones shout, their voices rising, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”

The hunter will die by his own hand, on some fortnight in a dark moon soon, as his bow rings out across the forest, a boomerang arrow in his tainted liver, a quiver no longer needed that carries the old medicine home.

And the mystics sing, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”

And that mighty snorting Stag of red turned white leaps off into sun born woods a glowing with an orange sunset shimmer.

The priest and priestess raise their arms and chant, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”

And Eikpyrnir returns in the dreams of the Seeker to establish a new kingdom when and whence wherever an old one dies.

“Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”

…And the rivers rise again, swallowing up that dark Knight.

The hunter and the hunted.

And a low tone snort escapes my lips, and I raise my warm breath in the cold morning air to whisper, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long…live Eikpyrnir!”

And the man on the grassy knoll, ensconced in his conical white tent triangle chants, “Holy! Holy! The fourth is born.”

– TanyaEikpyrnir

Basket of Pomegranates

Basket of Pomegranates

It is a tragic experience to be able to see a Soul, so deeply, so clearly, yet be unable to breach the borrowed black mirror they hold up like a shield, which prevents reflection, when love pings the surface, too soft like an unsubstantial summer rain at the end of a long, dry spell, after the growing time has past.

An old woman cackled from somewhere, “He cares too much.” And I believe her, sacrificed a baby long ago, spade by spade, a silent little boy under hoary soil, and twigs, and cold fires.

I have pomegranates to spare, from who knows where, collected from a fence post one, and in an old abandoned boat in Scotland, and one offered up by a Mermaid, and another hit me on the head once in reverie beneath a fine sky at noon in the mountains gifted.

I’ll leave a basket on the porch and perhaps when the poison apple is spit, he will find them, the pomegranates, the gift long forgotten.

A snow white king stag sleeps under the burnt hawthorn branches, but I see a cinder there that does not belong to me, knowing fire is not my element, I burnt my hand to lift the antler to the table in Thanksgiving, and for that I am grateful.

Oklahoma Rose Rock

Oklahoma Rose Rock

Something, something, there is something here…something like, perfection, something like worth…and I find myself wondering how clean will be clean enough? Something like acceptance, something unconditional, something like so much beauty in what is real, which is not perfect, and then, no perfect lines in nature, and what is a natural line? And well, I hear some words drift on the wind from days of yore, she said, it was okay if my linen closet wasn’t perfect before the guests came, they would judge it so harsh, the in-laws, but I never, they never, white glove in the dust, and then, hotel options or else, and this morning I preferred to spend an extra hour in the morning sun with the dogs, they so love the morning sun. Or something like that, and that poem by Rebecca, “When the Muse comes to visit,” and I said, “Come on in and tea, you know.” And, how do you want to spend the time you have been given? And, well, not dusting, dirt is. When dust draws a line in the sand or a red Rose grows in good dirt. And we colored pictures that day, just sat down in the middle of the unpacked boxes, and made memories. The picture isn’t finished yet, and yet, yet it is a Perfect Rose. The tears fall at the end of the trail and our memories make rock roses that cannot be washed away.

– Tanya