I Follow The River

I follow the river through steep mountain slices warped like sparks in my soul but this time the river runs seemingly uphill and the gorges roll on unperturbed instead of obscuring their interior. I follow the river unsuspectingly until I find it, my spunky sense of youth where days of play stretch on and on … More I Follow The River

In The Beginning

In the beginning I mostly prayed for the Transmilenio — the bright red behemoth bus — to arrive marginally on time. “One minute. Let it come in one minute.” And it always did. But later, once I learned the ebb and flow of non-existent schedules, and that the flashing letters listing “7 min” really meant … More In The Beginning


During a trip on the Main Salmon in Idaho, my friend Prester and I did some collaborative art. He watercolored the view from our camp, and I added text. Enjoy!  We hugged the bend today of crooked rocks and rain-dream skies, letting sand envelop our uncertainty. Contortions are not just for the river as knotty pines … More Contortions

I’ve Never Loved

I’ve never loved the way I love the desert, except maybe rocky mountain rivers and deep jungle creeks that put to shame the very idea of water streaming through sand. And I’ve never hoped for anything as much as I hope for the desert, unless of course you count my hope in the glass concrete … More I’ve Never Loved


While floating on the Main Salmon River between Jim Moore Place and Bucksin Bill’s, I wrote this poem slowly in my head, waiting for the river and landscape to whisper to me.  The validity of river is only a question of time and time has nothing but river to soothe its wily mind. Sticks and … More Validity


I’ve been quiet for the past month, scribbling lines of ink as I chase wilderness and water. Over the next week, I’ll be sharing thoughts and poems inspired by the rocky rivers of Idaho.  If God is a God of truth, she is a mountain. And if God is a God of peace, she is … More Holy 


Our portion is empty our fields used up our hearts loaned out to a far-away chance, a spittle of spirit. We wrestle in the dregs clinging to hope to survive; survival to hope. The slightest shade is an infusion of oxygen, a dearly desired breath of the potent revelation: perfect love drives out all fear.

Red Lip Classic

Note: I deviated from my typical place-based writing this week. A friend led me to the poetry prompts from Poets & Writers, inspiring new form and function. We used this prompt: “Beginning next week, a collection of Marilyn Monroe’s personal possessions—including handwritten notes and receipts, an address book, lipstick and cigarettes—will be displayed on a … More Red Lip Classic


Fire skies rumble as legions of angry clouds fill their bulbous brims with crimson screams empty of rain. The dryness crackles through the air so indifferent it doesn’t even pause to consider the green lung of the earth where trees are more than wisps and do more than dream of moisture, moisture that doesn’t proselytize … More Here