where the writers are

July 28





I know how to put my hands together, but I am unable to clap.  It’s not that my palms can’t locate each other; it’s that I cannot find the beat.  I sing; lilting rhythms rolling from my tongue.  I keep time and drum the tattoo of jingle dress dance songs, but when my hand comes against its mate something is off.  Faltering nuance plays havoc with my exuberant desire.  I want to join the crowd in syncopated applause, yet my brain drops out.  Because the gap is too far to leap I must walk around to the other side and by then I’ve lost the moment, the world has moved on without me.  I used to think I needed to run my routine a little faster, but now I realize I need to learn to leap the gap and trust the beat to find me.









Engender your actions with optimism






Just because I own pointy boots

Doesn’t mean I can corral the cows.

I have in my possession many things

Of subtle intent but they can’t transform me.


The wings from Halloween don’t make me an angel.

The Big Book on the shelf won’t sober me up.

Nothing holds the magic to change me.

I can only change with help.


Action, action and more action

Is the magicians slide of hand.

It slides my hand from glass to grace

I don’t need to pull a rabbit from my hat.