RITUAL


Rituals intend to confront a specific life issue with the purpose of bringing about a desired change, vision, or transformation. They are enactments of the myths. They are bigger than ourself and challenge us to action. Rituals are distinguished from dance as entertainment, dance as spectacle.  

     - Anna Halprin                                                                             
                                                                                                               

ring composition #2

twisteveryvertebrae
upsidedownalign
spellincantationprayer
invocationchantmantra
humansong  equinoxsun
elemental oaknests
groundletter
writepowerpowerpow er po w er powe rr poh or pohwe e r 

I create

Standing
      Squatting
 Leaning   back

          Slimy
Sticky
             Hot

On      a    pole
    With   breasts 
In your  face

I create

MYTH




Myths evoke our long buried and half forgotten selves. They are answers to the inherent need to evolve a community expression that reflects the emotional and creative needs in society. They give us the permission to go into the unknown. To explore, discover, and arrive at a new state of consciousness.
                                                                                          
     - Anna Halprin


ring composition #1


magenta sky 
                     copper 
                     memory
of full
                     arch 
spectrum
I breathe 
                     color
untangle 
                    bones
                    be born 

die and be born 
again and again
 an  d  a  gain
comelatewind
arousebeloved
beyondancient
a  wildpatience
underwateragain

and again
turquoise 
                  hem
apricot 
                   linen
                  dream
I breathe
                  color

I won’t sing America


Re:  Langston Hughes' I, too, sing America
& Walt Whitman's I Hear America Singing


The flag that flew over the Occupation of Alcatraz 1969-1971, designed by Lulie Nall, a Penobscot Indian

I won't sing America, a villanelle

I am the white daughter
Told to mind my manners
Sit pretty and sing America.

Marry and have two kids, drive down
Streets lined with asphalt and concrete,
So fortunate to be the white daughter.

Pity the poor and ignorant: buy a gown,
Drink wine for charity and for me, drunkenly.
Why won't I sing America?

After all I got out of the kitchen, kind of, but still bound.
I dined with the company, abided his abuse and neglect
Rather than come clean: I am the white daughter

Photo'd with a smile at the lynchings in town.
(Wills signed and bank accounts prove it.)
Oh no, huh uh, I won't sing America.

Hold my hand. Feel my heart pound.
Don't pine away in fear and sorrow.
Say I am the white daughter and
I refuse, I won't sing America.

Retro 90s part 2


Cigarette butts
I walk city streets daily and see those butts everywhere: the number one item collected on coastal cleanup days that are so toxic to wildlife and the land and water. Someday (hopefully soon) tobacco users will have no filters or reusable filters or pipes only.

Here's a poem I wrote back in the 90s that helped me to finally get off cigarettes, after almost a decade of smoking. It's been on my mind lately...


Cigarette Still Life
in six parts 


I.

You of French spelling in packets of twenty: 
I   am   lured   by   your  co - lo - ni - al   charm 
like in the Hollywood movies of the U.S. of A. -
I am seduced by Bogart and Bergman in Morocco, 
and Hepburn on the Amazon.  I   am   hooked 
on your gold band and leopard-like filter. 
I dig your rising smoke in its swaying style. 
You are oh so sexy. I aspire to your power!
See me on my hands and knees praying 
for your most highest, precious grace...


II.

You got me Marlboro man, pioneer, rugged 
individualist. Won't you come on down 
from that billboard and take me away, 
far away, from these harsh city streets 
and sirens...


III.

Nah, I want to be the tough and fearless martyr. 
Joan of Arc must have smoked. There she is 
in the center of the city on her galloping horse, 
a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from her lips.


IV.

Cigarette Still Life look at what you've done: 
I wanna be working class and buy cartons on sale 
and chain smoke inside with the windows closed, 
the air conditioner on and watching my daily soap. 
Fuck you, you're the best with booze and dope. 
Damn you're cool in pool halls and roof tops.


V.

Oh, this suffering poet needs you my friend, 
my comfort late into the night and early or 
just about any time. Life would never be the same 
if you leave my side. Only a few bucks a day and 
I am filled with pleasure and contentment.


VI.

Cigarette Still Life: you lied to me in dying, old, 
addictive ways. You’re conniving, capitalist greed  
who  told  me  to  smoke  for  fun  and  adventure 
yet   you    are    the    same     boardroom     topic 
for targeting teenage girls. The same tobacco 
of The Slave Trade. The same arrogant asshole 
who smothers Indians and Mexicans. You are 
petroleum by-products, the freon and fiberglass. 
You're that creep on TV with the perverse smile!
You are the murderer of millions. You are death 
hidden behind a cloak labeled "freedom."