Catching Light


She knew beauty from inside out

flaming life with gentle sparks

When death like cancer found her heart

beauty breathless cried for help.

She died too early for spring’s warmth 

beneath the surface broken, hurt

with hopeful lilies by her side

and dreams of color catching light.


-For Janice.

Let’s Dance



They call it a march for  a reason. A military maneuver really. 

I am not inclined to walk in such a way.

But I would like to stand gracefully aware in defiance of a body politic. 

In truth, I prefer to dance.

Moving in rhythm with cycles, life cycles–Unashamed and unharmed. 

I prefer to dance.

Leaping with full turns, legs stronger than his arms.

I prefer to dance.

Stepping high above the platforms built by sad battles. 

I prefer to dance and be captured in full swing by the pulse of divine love.



The story deep in the marrow of my life betrays the simple touch of air to skin. Blood-spilt memories lay unheard, unknown but pulse with my breath and soul.

The stains of love and hate look the same in me and equally reflect the tragedy of my fears-

and I pray for reconciliation.


Photography courtesy of Ginny Hunt

1st position

20160607_slt4529-197nikCicadas fading hum meets the cool morning breeze

with a call and response litany among the usual flight of birds

except geese in formation against the wind directly pointed

while the lutheran’s sanctioned bell begs their ordered migration.

It is Sunday.  

It is the day the trees dance in 1st position to know Sabbath’s touch. 


photography via Stephenltyler.


Tales in Time

Holidays always carry an energy of remembering.  This season included table talk with my mother, the heroine, of many sad and ugly tales…her memories of life from a darker side of life.  I know few whose life embodies “survival” as hers does.

The tales, however, have left me grieving a heritage of pain.  I am most sickened by tales of my middle name. I learned I am the name sake of a Jane who guised humiliation and murder with postures of rescue and embrace. I am that Jane who battled for a baby not mine by stealing from a mother in a court of law, that Jane who arranged a drowning at birth to hide the shame of a holy seed in a less holy womb, that Jane who welcomed only to the basement the lesser ones in the unsanctioned family tree.

I have asked myself this new year, “who am I really?” What does the power of my name speak in the circles of life?  What part of this heritage have I carried to daughters and granddaughters?  How can I redeem time in my life as Jane?

I will start by saying I prefer the name Lolly.