Peeling the spoiling fruit

Writing poetry is a way to answer the questions you have of yourself. This poem started as a wondering why i was feeling closed and distant and irritated. The process of writing the poem was a noodling out of the problem and coming to the answer. The answer then lead to the cure. Whew…all better now. Here’s the poem:
Peeling the spoiling fruit.
Peeling the spoiling fruit

Fruit so juicy,
so vibrant,
so delicious,
turns on a day of
over stimulation.
Begins to sour,
begins to fade,
begins to smell acrid.

I pierce the mystery,
the thick peel,
the cultural should,
the illusion,
the romantic notion,
the headdress
to reveal the flesh beneath.
Naked and raw,
real, vulnerable.
Holding the seeds
that are my truth.

I tweeze into the soft flesh.
It has turned mushy.
Searching for the answers,
the hard seeds,
the genetic code,
the source,
the answer to why.
Why does romance
have an expiration?
Why does it dissolve
like a cloud so plump
and high and beautiful
becoming just fleeting mist
when it sinks to earth?

The rain is my comfort.
It is me.
It keeps my energy for me.
Keeps touch and warmth away
when I have had my fill.

Is my vessel for touch so small?
It craves a small and frequent touch,
bubbles and laughs
and sprouts the seeds.
But the sprouts quickly turn
when the vessel is over full,
saturated, soaked,
wanting no more.
Do not touch.
Do not breathe on me.
I can no longer laugh
but go into my shell.
Need the rain.
Need my energy for me
not stolen away
and rotting.
Is this my fate?
My struggle between
alone and surrounded,
between lonely and over stimulated.
Is there an in-between?
A happy middle?
A perfect ripeness,
a fruiting?

It is to love many
And to hold the significant place
for myself
keeping just enough of my energy
for me
through poetry,
through solitude,
through sleep
And sharing the extra
with the many I love.
Spreading joy.
Sprinkling the energy I can share.
Sharing that excess
of magic and healing.

The answer then
is “many.”
Love many.
Love many
after I have first
loved and cared for



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The moon ain’t no pizza pie

A poem that comments on health, nutrition and romance all couched around the moon…Dawn must be in an interesting mood. Read on my dears…
the moon aint no pizza pie

The moon ain’t no pizza pie

Super moon
fat on green smoothies
shining in his perigee chair
knows I had too much beer
at the pig roast last night,
and why is it we eat so much meat
and white flour bread?
The moon lives on regurgitated sunlight
which is really what a vegetable is too,
combine sunlight and water and
voila, an asparagus shoot,
to shoot the moon
with your partner in romance
and a bit of balsamic vinegar.
Note, and this is important,
your romantic partner is never your dog.
So, gaze at that glowing hunk of organic dirt
ellipting around our celestial heads
and bring on the champagne and strawberries Darhhhling
cause Super moon means super fruit, super veggie,
pleasure harvest
with grapes so ripe they are ready to fall off the vine.

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Michigan green

I had the fortune to take a work trip to rural Michigan and back this week. What a beautiful drive with some beautiful real rain. Here is the poetic tribute to the thick green forest during this adventure…
Michegan green
Michigan green

Rain thrown against the windshield
like transparent bugs splayed
with eagle wings
then wiped away
off into the ferned roadside.

Rain must be the secret
to the Michigan green.
Thick forest,
dark as the Pantheon,
an oculus in the canopy
lets heaven stream down
lighting verdurous dapples
into the harbored wood.

The road a glistening path
edged by the green.
One path,
a yellow brick road
wandering to and fro
emerald small towns.

Driving through the green
the trees lean aside
to show the way.
Someday, when man is gone,
they will fold back over the road
erasing all trace of the traveled path.

But for now, they politely defer
and wait at road’s edge
crossing only by seeds in the wind
and patting us lovingly
on our tailgate
as if we are silly children
running through their long legs.

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The Long Trek home

Long Tred Home photo
The long trek home
from Oregon to Wisconsin

The little ’96 Honda
purring down the road

through the deep green gorge of Oregon
glancing at kite surfers
who flip over white caps
as the windmill dotted cliffs look down.

through sun scrubbed hills
and irrigated wheat patches
with only cell towers for sights

through a close scrape
with a pinchy trucker
as the road narrowed
right in front of a Sheriff,
thank you officer eyes peeled

through the mountain ups and downs
from the sparkly blue-blue of Coeur d’Alene
and long neck of Idaho
into the bumpy half of Montana

through the perfect mix of trees and hills
and elk filled fields,
past darling slick-roofed log houses
like Lincoln log creations of childhood.

We share the road with ambling campers,
pesky big rigs,
a sunburned convertible,
a candle-apple red restored Ford Bronco,
and revved yellow muscle car
mixed in amongst the generic SUVs.

Montana continues
out of the mountains
into practically cattleless cattle country
with its trains of weathered fences
and the road like high-speed taffy
stretched out over the rolling whoops,
rollin’, rollin’, rollin’
keep that Honda movin’

the majestic mesas appear
like scenery from a Western hoobog
expecting Louis L’Amour’s Chick Bowdrie to come
riding across the plain
with his wide brimmed hat pulled down
low against the sun.

The largest mesa,
an Uluru,
like giant’s toes
abruptly interrupting
the pastureland;
keep your eyes on the road Dawn

and your nose in the wind
for Montana is the land of big sky
and big smells riding on the coming rain.
Smell the pungent sage, the sweet wild flowers
and the vinegar fresh rain.

A two day state
Montana turns from cattle to grain.
The land flattens out
studded with hay bails
and round grain bins
and the occasional flash of antelope behind.
The landscape is like Scottish highlands,
treeless green with crumbling rock escarpments
hanging on the verge of a steppe climate.

Barns for Dawn,
weathered and leaning,
stranded in the vastness.
A one-legged wooden grain elevator
and a ghost town stubbornly
rooted in the rocky soil.

After hours upon hours
of driving through beef country,
a hunk of meat is in order.
Podunk Jordon, Montana appears
as if in a mirage.
The Hell Creek good ol’ boy Bar
is the choice of two places for a steak
(or any food for that matter).
The cattle brands embossed on the wall,
quart sized frosty beers,
and a 14 ounce perfectly grilled steak,
puts us in cowpoke heaven.

With over-full stomachs
and smiles as wide as Montana itself,
the rest of this sage brushed panorama
slides by easily.

North Dakota greets us
with landscape art of color and sculpture
and funny place names.
We drive past the town of
Home on the Range
where the Painted Canyon
and Camel Hump Lake

The land fairly pulses
with history
even though Buffalo gap
surely hasn’t seen a buffalo
for a hundert years.

Abruptly following the Painted Canyon
the history and art
give way to the green yawn
of flatland agriculture
and a smattering of oil pumping rigs
that cause a twinge of guilt for
the carbon the little Honda
is tooting into the choking atmosphere.

It is not only death
that is the long nap,
it is the Dakotas.
You can hear the land
snoring as it lays down grass-belly-up
as far as the eye can see
which in truth is comfort to me,
it feels like home.

It’s the way home for sure
when Salem Sue comes into view.
Standing under this 12,000 pound Holstein
is a tradition we cannot pass up
despite the too hot day.

North Dakota seamlessly
and sneakily becomes Minnesota.
As we drive north,
the beauty and coolness
of the thickening trees is oh so calming.

In the land of 10,000 lakes,
we stop to peer at the greatest of all,
Lake Superior
like a small ocean
hiding the Edmond Fitzgerald
in its cold, deep bowels.

This largest of the Great Lakes bridges
Minnesota with Wisconsin on its south shore
and oh Canada on its north of course.
It is not just the stolen Gnome
making the trip with us
who is excited to cross over the bridge into Wisconsin,
the promise of our home state
rallies these wearied travelers.

Heading toward middle state,
which to Wisconsinites might also be middle earth,
resort towns give way to
sleepy small towns whose names
spring back from formative years’ memory.

Giving up a fruitless quest for
one of those memories
in the form of Patty’s Pies,
we opt for mediocre food
and sinful ice cream malts
in Spooner, Wi.

Welcome home to the land of fatty food,
meat and fries, and potluck dessert bars
all made more palatable to a now ex-Oregonian
by the friendly, hardworking, trustworthy,
family-oriented people of the Cheese State.

These wonderful people,
the trees and the seasons
are what has brought me back
across the long trek home.
This is home.

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The Universe loves love

The Universe loves love
The Universe loves love
from Princess Aurora
dedicated to her Dear man, David Ellis

The universe loves love,
fairly drips with the stuff.
Courting birds,
and blooming flowers
and rutting bucks,
and private shady spots
to picnic with your sweetie.

Lead with your heart’s swell
and let love puddle out of you
spilling onto all friends
and fellow dear hearts,
suspending judgment
and assuming love intentions.

Practice the craft of love
we know as romance.
Love is presence
and patience,
a soft kiss on smiling lips,
and a gentle touch
on the arm.

Romance is walks in the woods
picking a wild flower bouquet.
It’s thoughtful surprises,
endearing nicknames,
and holding hands.

It’s candlelight
and moonlight
and firelight
and the sweeping sky color of the northern lights.

Fill your heart with another
until you feel it might burst.
Speak your love in words and touch
and thoughtfulness.

Make love a priority,
make love time,
moments shared,
moments treasured,
moments that feed your love soul.
Moments of love that
radiate out into the universe
reflecting back love 20 fold.

The universe loves love,
feeds on love,
expands on love.
Love grows peace
and connects the cycle of life and life
making death only a transition
that rides on a wave of white pure light.

Be a part of the light,
choose light, choose love, choose romance,
choose to adore each other.

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We are Sea

We are sea
We are sea

Standing at the mouth of the ocean,
who treated me with a gray whale,
I let the waves flow to me,
touch me,
bathe my feet
in cooling water.
Salt and water,
energy and motion,
the structures of life.

The sound and the sun overwhelm me
yet I stand captivated
knowing ocean is where we began.
The sea still lives in us,
the salt, the water, the waves,
the rhythm,
the boom.

Sea to eternity
to horizon
touched by the green flash
of individual life
and the constant waves of collective life.

I am part of this whole,
this constant,
connected to all
by the salt water within us
and sea around us.
Connected to all,
to peace,
to David so near
as an ocean away.
The ocean in me
speaks to the ocean in you,
a love story eternally recreated.

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City Moon

City moon
City Moon

City moon so bright, so imperfectly round
dotting the “i” in the “we” of the steaming city.
City moon whose steady light
makes the attention-seeking-child, Times Square, ridiculous.
“It’s not the wares you wear,
it’s the heart you bare,” says moon
whose ancient wane
feeds the wisdom of poets
and old connected souls
who look up from the falsehoods
of the city’s sheep.
Get off the rude subway
and walk,
walk hand in hand.
It’s not the place you are in,
we do not need to land,
it’s not the place you are in
but the person you choose
to laugh with
under the city moon.

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