the chain

“An-Mei: You think he sees this pie… now he’s so sorry take you for granted. You think this, you the foolish one. Every time you give him gift… like begging. “Take this. Oh, sorry. Please forgive me. I’m not worth as much as you.” So he only take you more for granted. You’re just like my mother. Never know what you’re worth. Until too late.    …

An-Mei: I tell you the story because I was raised the Chinese way. I was taught to desire nothing, to swallow other people’s misery, and to eat my own bitterness. And even though I taught my daughter the opposite, still she came out the same way. Maybe it is because she was born to me and she was born a girl, and I was born to my mother and I was born a girl, all of us like stairs, one step after another, going up, going down, but always going the same way. No, this cannot be, this not knowing what you’re worth, this not begin with you. My mother not know her worth until too late – too late for her, but not for me. Now we will see if not too late for you, hmm?

Ying Ying: Losing him does not matter. It is you who will be found–and cherished.”

– The Joy Luck Club



…And so it goes, this way and that,
where endings birth beginnings’ cry
pierces the night, signals the day
holding the next dream captive, lying
there, your arms wrapped ’round so
small, the rocking chair in the corner, your
mother’s hands and how they combed
your hair, washed it all away once and now
comes back this day and smiles knowingly
as stones in the road fill your shoes, the
crossing marks the starting line, passages
to take on again and again, back and
forth continuing, illuminates the bread
crumbs that line the stony way.

in the midst of it

there, there, right there in that corner
that’s where it was kept, my burning held
dear and close to these things that line
the walls with photos, brings soft music
to the night with finger tips, minted kisses
the roughness of your hands, the low
and mellow tones warm my skin
like Santa Ana’s breathe in summer
where palm trees meet mesquite thorns
the tears of those things lost, found again
lay upon the cottons of this bed with
tangled legs that beg for dancing days
and you there in your solid blues
turn an eye upon the moment to stop
Pan’s playing leading toward meadows
seed with poppies golden happiness
sway with breezes scented with Pacific
mist that crawls the hills, hides my fervor
burning now together in the midst of it all.


finding peace

“The self-controlled soul, who moves amongst sense objects, free from either attachment or repulsion, he wins eternal Peace.”
– Bhagavad Gita

“If you try to deal with the external environment and all the negativity from others, it’s impossible to find peace.”
– Dalai Lama


– Things Within

that small space
between pages turn
another time then
her small hands held
pieces of green
delicate dancers
distant birds call
as dandelions smile
walking the mesa’s edge
where the Rio runs
early evening speaks
graces the edges
and softly descends

swept away

in the passing these things came to be
what would be found had escaped
shadows trail the traversing paths
meandering green overgrown with time

thinking always outside yourself
those pieces lost along the way
outward glances and gestures made
such foolish blindness caressed

there beyond the edge of sky
fly perceptions held dearly once
delicate borders your world had kept
captured in buried silent web

something dark lurks the morning fog
hunts the one that struggles and brawls
sweet defeat the day had swept
and lowly she laid her love down



Fill your lungs
sing the water
washing over
sing traversing
the course
filling hours

just because 

to hear

your voice 


you with glee.


to break 

illusions that

from another


the beautiful 

in thought
grace elevates


Rises Hope

Chu: Eat, drink, man, woman. Basic human desires. Can’t avoid them. All my life, that’s all I’ve ever done. It pisses me off. Is that all there is to life? 
- Yin Shi Nan Nu

If you lose hope, somehow you lose the vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you go on in spite of it all. And so today I still have a dream.
- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Life without idealism is empty indeed. We just hope or starve to death.
- Pearl S. Buck

Birdee Pruitt: Childhood is what you spend the rest of your life trying to overcome. That’s what momma always says. She says that beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it’s the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning. Just give hope a chance to float up. And it will… 
- Hope Floats


In Which the Green Shall Turn

morning showers
patter the sill
the walk
dancing notes
and melodies 

rouse the sleeping
tousled head
pools reflect
the mottled sky

ruptured storm
captures thought

rests upon
brush and loam

brings with it
her lonely song
yet hidden beneath
amber waves

that carpet
the forest floor

sleeping lies
such subtle

in which
the green
shall turn