Needles in the blaze—
pines precarious
as lamb’s fleece—
furious the forge
of a warrior’s heart.

What’s after butterflies?
Fierce filigree flying
curling embers golden.
Another spirit passed.

Feast of Waters of River Nile in Egypt — June 16, 1989

Isis— What is this fire in the womb for whom there is
no water?

A water spirit, a river goddess, seat of the throne—
receptor of rays of sun, knower of Ra by his own name,
divinity maker of Egyptian pharaohs from my blood

Soma-like ambrosia called sa— a red ankh amulet
buried with the dead— specifically prayed to Isis
to deify deceased with magic blood—

The vulva of Isis— Jasper, carnelian, red porcelain, red
glass, or redwood carrying the redeeming power of the
blood of Isis

Moon dew— world’s most dreaded poison— A girl’s first menstrual blood—collected during an eclipse of the moon—embracer of land, producer of fertility

Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

The Site Cleaning—Tunitas Creek
June 3, 1989

Blackened redwoods wept grey mist—
noontime sky—went blank as we pulled in,
juggling brown paper bags of groceries,
stumbling down the charcoal weary bank
of dust past the motley neighbors gathering
shovels, axes, hoes in hand to help.

Charred aviaries now planted in squash,
zinnias, strawberries, blue bandanas —
bent backs of Meg, Maria weeding
inside the wall of blackened wire.
Whir of wings replaced— low, constant
pleading— the child, mother’s rhythmic stall.

Behind cages, scorched cinder tumbled
from the house, studio to disarray the creek.
Among wild iris, clover lay tennis shoes,
dappled tea kettles, grown mossy— sleek
to delight my jaunty daughter and her friend.

They hoisted brick after brick from running water
to the hands of those who stacked them on shore,
piled them in steel buckets to haul in the borrowed
pickup. After water play, girls unearthed treasure,
sifting through heads, arms

Carved in bone— Day of the Dead candelabra, blue, white
chips of hand-painted Italian crockery, shards of red
goblets, splinters of colored paper, torn posters of Irving’s
surrealist paintings. All the while, neighbors hacked remains
of the foundation, removing cement, glass, wood.

Focused on fine debris that needed to be moved, my
friend caught in mourning—his marriage cannot clear
his eyes to see what rises from the ash. Hella will plant
a garden there. A short distance away— a yellow ribbon
wavered, the perimeter of the planned new home.

The short Greek neighbor roasted lamb on a spit,
laid out wine, fruit, salad, bread— called us smoke
and song of early summer. Hella faced rebuilding—
receiving dancing in her eyes as she caressed
a crescent moon against her blue sweater.

Next to her lively and petite, Irving smiled, his painter’s
hands folded and said he was pleased. How peaceful
he looks six weeks after open-heart surgery, wondering
“Why don’t I take better care of myself?” Snowy hair
against a tawny face bespoke a life of work, of art.

“It wasn’t surgery that hurt,” he said, ”but healing. To write
now is like no time in history—to tell what is like to
be alive in the last decade of the twentieth century.”

Tiananmen— June 4, 1990

Last night dreaming of cobblestone blackened of walking through an ancient oriental square behind a yellow woman
with a single plait of black hair running down her back—
ruins— how the statues of loving couples writhed.

The evacuation was taking place, dark police on shiny
horses. Planes were flying low. Even now, it has become
a ritual. Nightly, at six and eleven, we lean on cushions in
velour robes dazed by the electronic spectacle. By day,

The students’ fervor burns— by night, heat electrified by constant lamps in the square. Daughter, when you were
four, you asked, “Where is the sun going every night after it leaves us?” Televised and bleary, images wafted in and
out of our vision like courage in our hearts. On steps of

The Monuments, students beg to surrender their weapons.
We yawned in pain. The soldiers refused. Before midnight,
the warnings, within the camera’s view, the students took
apart 23 assault rifles, assorted explosives, poured
gasoline at the base of the steps of the Monuments.

You are sixteen— like these students. Do you remember
we answered, “The sun went to China to wake up children
and panda there.” We poured hot tea over ice in our
tumblers watching it crack and sizzle. At 4, loudspeakers
issue forth the call— “Clear out!”

The light is lost until the red flares shoot into the sky.
Squadrons of soldiers advance in camouflage wearing
helmets and gas masks. The erection of 10 machine guns
right before the Monument to the Heroes. Soldiers prone,
their backs to the Gate of Heavenly Peace.

The commitment of students is an act of trust, of giving
over. What is it? What is this fire for which there is no water?

The soldiers move forward with electric cattle prods and
rubber truncheons to break up the groups and surround
the students. Workers, students attack the army with
sticks. Three thousand students escaped.
They wept— weeping they ran.

It’s too early for the solstice, the days get longer. Let
darkness heal them. By 5 a.m., anyone who escaped
had done so. Women stripped off all their clothes for
bandages. Many were trampled.

What kind of womb is this? Honor them with jasper,
carnelian, red wood. Is there no redemption in this blood?
By 6:30 a.m. soldiers collected corpses in plastic bags,
piled one on top of another, covering them with canvas.
They prevented the Red Cross from getting the bodies.

Children, you have seen the light so early, have received
the rays of the sun and known freedom by its own name.

Palo Alto City Hall
December 31, 1990

Abandoning hibiscus, chardonnay, cabernet in the back
seat of the car, my daughter and I park just off Hamilton
and hurry.

We join others bundled, straining to understand the urgent
voices disembodied, unamplified in front of the square.
A pasty woman proffers a sad smile—

Her corpulent mouth, lamenting eyes—nearly hidden
by her floral babushka. She carries a cardboard box
strung around her neck—

Distributes thin white candles, little paper coasters to
protect our hands from wax tears. We grasp tapers,
join others huddled around a park bench—

Complain of lethargy, denial in husbands, friends— talk disjointed. Perhaps it is the blue moon, perhaps the sight
of our children grown to killing age that unnerves us.

My daughter, newly 18, greets several tall ones home on
one of the last days of vacation. They are celebrities to her— returning warriors.

They speak quietly of draft counseling, of mutual buddies stationed in Saudi, old mates from grammar school,
high school plays, church choirs.

My daughter wants to sing. Candles are lit one by one.
The names are read— 82 dead already. We remind
one another of the size of the force, the age—

Youth certain of immortality— fumbling around, heavy equipment. It’s like a small city. I reminisce. A friend
blows frost, leads my eyes to a young boy man—

Not yet eighteen— any time with long golden hair,
dangling ominously in one solid wave over his candle.
He hears no names— leans over, religious,

Touches drips, rolls fluid fire slowly between his thumb, forefinger. Minutes passed as names continued. 4
Johnsons in the list, 3 Browns, 2 Smiths.

Sounds scatter. Light disperses with the crowd.
A few remain, walk around the block, bearing
the flame in an unsteady procession of hope.

I cannot find my daughter— encounter a man whose son
and grandson live in the Middle East. We see his daughter
and mine around the block in another square.

An old couple transfixes them— he in a pea green beret
and coat places a hand on the long grey hair that covers
her right shoulder.

She waves a placard— bearing the words “Peace and
Justice.” We finally sing “We Shall Overcome.”
My daughter is satisfied.

A youth from Earth Day coalition, blond, fit in California— perfection—curls— phrases about alliances in April.
A matron takes the bench, speaks of an underground
network in Germany— harboring GI deserters.

One gorgeous man shakes his dark curly hair
And twice begins anti-war rap, interrupted by
an ambulance. A World War II veteran, with long
greasy grey hair tells us to listen to sounds

Frequent now in Saudi. We hear not injuries—
but death. We pass flame back and forth.
Cold wind threatens to extinguish it.
Our car is near.

My daughter’s blue grey eyes, long blond hair
illumined within, holding both candles—
tendrils of desire, upon her lap.

We drive home where our passions burn in peace.

For H. Bosch, painter, Paul Feder, pediatrician, and Steve Waltcher, green doctor

I.
Hear now — the fire tenders!

II.
The tenders create conflagration,
know just what hell looks like,
keep mournful memories of

Destruction— infinite inflammation—
who commemorate madness,
broiled in the ovens of Hades,

Who see beauty in transformation.

Once a twelve-year-old boy, away
for a day, watched his city burn
utterly. Yet still another time, one

Young foot soldier marched to end
the last days of cruel conflagration
called World War Two.

And a gentle doctor built a yurt in
a central Californian forest, only
to find himself fighting a mighty

Fire— first alone for hours and hours,
then with newfound friends for days,
nights, joining to hold back the line.

III.
There is resistance to flashbacks—
fear of flying into the realm of
desolation, growing darker still.

Yet, they are ones who would die to
go deep, who bring up infernal Earth
energies, who warm writhing Spirits

Of others’ cold, trembling with fright.
The tenders have seen challenge
with awe-inspired authenticity.

IV.
Tenders take relentless responsibility.
Knowing relief of grief — their tears
a reunion with the passionate child

Lost in guilt. They find their
hearts in sorrow,
their joy in loss.

V.
The tenders hold the birthplace
of art. Beauty leaps forth there.
Horses gallop and their hands

Emerge to praise trees,
flowers, to capture time—
revering life’s purpose.

VI.
The tenders hold unconditional
love, like mothers— cherishing
their mothers— questioning

Their daughters— treasuring nature—
no shame, no judgement. All alone
within the cycles.

The tenders nurture, sustain
the lives of lives of children,
adore artists with generative

Persistence, like mothers.

Tenders sense synchronicity of
heat and drought, of dry lightning,
of the wind, of wells and pumps,

Of ash and smoke, of being alone,
met by others with no schooling
in fire fighting, or in mending

Wounded hoses, awakening
night, dampening the embers.
Suddenly, tenders fall free.

VII.
Held in cosmic arms of love,
they cannot forget the dance.
They have grieved the loss

Of youth, yet are attracted to
sing in the elders’ rhythms.

VIII.
The tenders move multitudes,
make marches, blaze towards
unity with generosity and curiosity,

Forging the authentic path to change.

The 2020 Fire in the Santa Cruz Mountains

Sunrise

Question: Spirit of fire? How
does dry lightning affect your

Vision? What terror unfolds
between midnight and dawn?

Answer:
At sunrise, my body burns.
What once was verdant,

Sizzles, falls, and chokes
even over distant reaches

Of the newly jaundiced sun
whose beauty is now sullied,

Thwarted by unending heat.
Hissing as tree tongues roll,

Black and orange leaping
mile after mile. The canyons

And the ruddy, wooded hills
crackle in hot vengeance,

Hastening towards the sea
what has begun as smoke.

Morning

Question:
Why does Your smoke explode
into wind, flames, and ash?

Why use Your breath to deprive
the trees and grasses of thirst

To morning’s brutal end?

Answer:
What has begun as smoke —
My sacrificial soaring spirals

Transform into undulating flames
sweeping the bristling brush

Into glowing cinder then hot ash
swirling hot air into my breath.

My wind reeling — at a livid pace
with devastation certain to

Erase dry dusty grasses longing
to sip in my once golden fields

Red parchment of cinders is left
along with shadows in burnt trees.

Sometimes swaying, then standing still,
Ragged, weary, snagged by awe.

Noon

Question:
Where does your body go
with the trees and branches
to get a drink?

How does beauty survive?

Answer:
Ragged, snagged by wonder,
madrones stripped of foliage

Singed, desperation is in reach,
bare branches mingling red, blue

Forks ascending, dancing in ash.
Awe is made from and returned to

Fertilizing measures of sweet fragility
fizzled in full light—the forest floor

Interlocking in the rhythm of creation,
its wizened mate transcending all.

In beauty, it begins what never ends.
The breathless wait to find what the

spark of life ignites, what it quenches.

Sunset

Question:
Where in your spirit body lies
the endgame of refugees of fire? How

Will water keep the forest’s body alive?
Will kelp survive, much less feed soils?

Answer:
Sky orange, diving with the pelican,
the once gentle waves descend

Into sea’s silent depths, sudden
dusk swallows each tiny particle.

Gold dust burns until it levitates,
shapes the sway, whirls above

The road of glory smoked in citron
against the rugged cliff whose steep

Blackness stands staunch, shadows
that sharp speed, stopped still forever

So a craven awkward beak can
lunge into the charcoal scented

Tide where sustenance finds wings,
in the night flame, and fiery branches.

At dawn, the body burns.
What has been its moist
red ground for decades is
going to disappear. Desert sage—
cut, dried, prepared to bristle,
sear, smoke— incense for the sun.

Outside, the hoot of an owl—
the sun rises. The mice relax.
After the rains, the fertile land
will be given up. Nests of songbirds
harvested, gone. Tree of the last virgin
offered up— the flower of her mother.

The bunch grasses of all the lovers,
offered up in the tule fog of morning.

Coyote was scorched, Raven fell out of orange
sky. Hummingbird melted, all burned and broken
stood around the altars: each of the elementals.

Mountain Lion, Wild Boar appeared, four legs
soaring in orange air, Bears, hungry, seeking 
lost berries, stumbling, pawing in depth of ash, 

Heads low, breathe out omnipresent smoke, dig 
for earth with increasing despair in black trunk of
redwood circle where mule deer, having failed to 

Find green fir, stood amongst others — end to
so many. One era has bent its arc towards
a new world— never like the past.

“Wherever you stand, be the soul of that place.”

– Rumi

We called Ben Lomond mountain our Mother
Home. For nineteen stunning years, we loved Her
Connection to the great blue, grey, green Pacific.

We were grounded by bedrock, by our knowledge
of Her refuge for us from this dark, unsafe world.
Every year, the pink mimosa tree blossomed.

After the garden grew its newly planted greens,
we walked the labyrinth in stones of triple spirals
teaching us fortitude, while dusty trails meandered

Their mysterious ways through the tall redwoods,
amid the spring sourcing to the Felton watershed.
Then we took our shovels into the dirt, imagining

A project now and forever, a change. We had felt
a change as perception informed our lives, but
what could we do but recognize how certainly

Our judgement was always in the dirt? Our lost
discernment would go when we failed to use it,
always wisdom coming forth from eternal ground.

Insight was from the soil where we used it well,
crawling in the muck. Wrapped in our good
senses, hurtling towards splendor, laying under

The Tree of Life, the shadow side of glory loomed,
as criticism arrived, seeing us tumble, detached from

The victory of superiority. Our souls let judgement
be grounded forever in a pivot, while we chose to
breathe, with Mother Earth, internally winding us

As our feet set roots in the dry mud, we felt strange
intimacy with the soot, connecting with puffs of dust.

Appreciating our souls, we grounded there in hand

Of Spirit, in the heart of Mother. Breathing in,
cherishing ourselves, breathing out love of
She who would never let us know Her sadness.

The fires have exiled us from our mountain.
Authorities say we cannot return for months.
Yet, we connect with the land we belong to.

So now, we are embark on the way of journey.
Although we cannot now be on the mountain,
it is time for us to reunite with the help of Spirit.

Find the path to wounded land awaiting you.
A stairway beholds a step for each generation.
Walk up and see the portal with a violet door.

Open it: an area like the inside of your home.
You see an atrium, a stream running through,
and open skylight with golden goddess rays.

All along the stream on either side are violets.
A tiny rabbit appears to be drinking water after
being greeted, and suddenly makes a run.

You hope to see Mountain Mother lion, listen
to the croak of a frog, or wait for a rustling bird
settling on your left shoulder. Without sound or

Odor, Mother Mountain lion caresses gently,
your hair and face.Turn your head, make
spiral motions. The is indeed in charge—

Matriarch of the hurting land. We are here
to serve Her. We are here to communicate
to let her know we want to make up for

The messes we have made. She sits on
her haunches, saying wild ones here
long can stay. There are no guarantees

For safety. Know it is dry and very hot.
The lions and wild ones need water.
Make altars for us where you are. Ask

Firefighters or rebels to put out water 
each day.
Eat vegetables.
Avoid meat.
Care for the trees. They help us breathe.

All humans have been told to leave our land.
Do so when called. What offerings can there
be? Make my image. Move your torsos.

Mother Mountain Lion knows We are caressing
Her. She walks outside and disappears. Retracing
steps, opening, shutting the violet portal, walking

Down the seven stairs. The land says Mountain
Mother has spoken. Follow her instructions.
If not, suffer the consequences.

We travel on the wings
of the wind. We cover
you. Part of us flies.

Part falls. You cannot
Ignore us. We come
From the soul of fire.

We are the remains
Of your civilization,
Of your obsession

With the material.
You cannot shoo us
Away like you would

A buzzing whirring
Yellow jacket.
We are all over you

And inside you now.
We are white. We
Are grey as elders.

We are the particulate
Of what you thought
You owned, possessed.

You touch us and we
Cling to you insisting
You remember Earth

Is home to all of us
Not a burned house.
We are flying. We are

Falling from the winds of
Caprice in the ever arching
Smoke. We make it hard for

Any one to see. You must
Look with your third eyes
Into the worlds of Spirit.

We infiltrate eyes, lungs
With the toxicity you have
Let loose upon our Earth.

We make it hard to breathe.
All the creatures feel the weight
Of us although we are so light.

The earthly beings sneeze
And wheeze. We are the
Remains of the fires. We

Travel on fickle winds, reminding
You we are all connected. We
Cover your cars, your windows,

Your benches, your plans, your hopes,
Your dreams. We are Star Dust.
We are Ash Mothers. You can write

Your life and death on essence. You can
Choke on our redeeming power. You have
No choice but to touch us and to receive

Our path. Follow us. We are returning
You to your beginnings. We are taking
You to your endings. We are all the Earth.

You think we are disposable. We are that
Of which you were created and to which
You shall return. We cannot be undone.

We cover you with the essence of all
That has been incinerated. We are what
Remains of the humans, the animals

Fleeing the fires, of the insects humming,
Birds singing, flowers blooming, grass
Waving, coyotes howling, pumas lurking.

We are telling you be ready. Admit we
Are witnesses bound together in grief, 
fallen from the sky, blanketed with love

Landing on Earth, signaling rebirth.