She pricked her finger in the
ancient story and fell
into a swoon, golden haired and fair
maid of the forecasts, it is I who come
to tear you from the grave, knowing all
is as is destined.
Her slumber scoffed the winds away,
the forest grew of thorns and briars
but still the blood-red needle wept
to be so bereft of work and spin,
to cast about for tales to tell
with none awake upon the hearth to hear.
But true love’s kiss, they say, is what
woke her to the perfect day, wedded bliss,
promise of subservience under him
and riding these four square walls when
once she had threaded herself to sky
and danced the moonlight away
But this is the storm that broke the sea
and this is the heart she dandled on her knee
and this is the blooded needle on finger's tip
to warn her that eternity’s price
and fairer isles can be bought only with
her gifted mind or slight of hand
Performance Artist, Poet, Writer
Waiting for the Miracle
San Sebastian del Oeste
What I did for peace today
Queen of Diamonds
What do women want?
The real reason We Sit Together and Breathe
Camping at the Chama
Home for the Holidays
review of Ceremonies of the Spirit
interview on blogtalkradio
How to get your copy of transparencies of light
In the Shelter of Words begins its journey!
Am I drunk or just dreaming?