Shadow Bones


I see you there in the shadows pretending you don’t see me.

I’m not there to hurt you, but to love you without question.

To you that may seem an impossible task because “Who’d love you?”

I’ll take out my soul light, holding it high in the air dissipating

The aura of unworthiness, the wall of hostile protection

The child that feels as lost as I have felt

I hear your cries in the dark as the nightmares scream

I’m not there to harm you, but to comfort your fears tenderly

That may feel unlikely considering the state you’re in

I’ll hold up my soul light, filled with love so the dark can’t have

Your rebirth into fruitfulness, your abundance like pomegranate

The child that screams with a voice now heard, like mine.

I feel your heart fighting as fiercely as a cornered animal

I’m not here to defeat you, but to support your victory

You believe you are broken, but I see the power of your will

I’ll offer my soul light as your shield as you fight for you

For your dreams, happiness, love, peace, your very spirit

That child that is frantic to stay safe knows me

I can’t offer redemption. I can’t even offer you a path.

What I can give you is my deepest support as you traverse

Acceptance of your divinity, your understanding of love

Your worthiness of compassion, your gift of kindness

I offer my soul light so you can find your own.

That child knows I am free, release the regrets

Bloom into the garden of unique flora and fauna.

Here, have some of my seeds.

Where is the Mayor?

I lost my identity. I lost the part of me that was so rich in gratitude, steeped in spirit that I rarely questioned my faith in love. I didn’t have to. Everywhere I was, love existed in abundance. Not because of me but because the light of people loving and giving in service to one another is a glorious testament that we are all one.

Then, I died. That sounds melodramatic, probably because it is, but it’s so terribly difficult to figure out my role here when I grieve the gift of support, encouragement, and guidance from some of the best people I’ve ever met. I know I was meant to find them so I could get past being mad at the Universe, so I could carry on my mission.

And yet, here I sit, a year after being ripped away from whom I thought I was, returning to the place I ran all over the country trying to refuse my roots. Not only am I back in my home state, but in my home town in my own house. I should be happy that my dreams have come true. My material blessings match what I had spiritually, the sense of blessing so deeply entrenched that I rarely felt poor.

With my news and social media blowing up with violence and hatred, it hurts to think or breathe. I can’t know what melanin enhanced people truly go through, but I know silencing their voice is like slut shaming. I know what that feels like. The humiliation and condescending superiority of those in power creates a resentment towards their injustices, but likewise any human that would harm another with violence is hurting more than a quick probationary period.

I want to give. I want to serve. I want to celebrate and love life like there’s no tomorrow, for we aren’t promised that. I fearfully hoard hugs. I avoid serving. I avoid living my life because I’m terrified of losing it all over again.

“I’ve lost my identity.” I told my husband while I choked back sobs. “I don’t know who I am.”

“You didn’t lose your identity. Your people know who you are in Tennessee. The trick is to figure out how to get the people here to know your name. Show them the Mayor Mare magic.”

He’s right. I can’t find my tribe while hiding behind my front door. I need to find something to do. I’ve been lax in prayers and meditation. Perhaps looking inside myself for guidance would help. I’m tired of feeling lost. I need to hear my calling.


The air gets caught in a panic
Choking my breath
Watering my eyes with fear
Trepidation freezes my movements
Halts my escape
As if I became a (dear) in the headlamps
Exposed to the arid drought in my mouth
Clawing inside my lungs
Drowning in an onslaught of sharp
Flying needles, depth of shock
Crumbling my foundation
But a grounding touch offers a glimpse
A tentative bond, ever so fragile,
To a world where tangible, tactiles
Demonstrate stability of inhale

Radical Gratitude


What if we gave everything we received,

More notice than a checkout clerk gives

To your weekly grocery order that happens

To click, beep, clack, whir, and push its way

Birthing into the cocoon of recycled Christmas trees

Or reduced trees that once held dominion over Oregon.

What if we examined every aspect of our day

Giving more attention to the opportunities

Written on billboards, bumper stickers, back alleys,

Cardboard box fragments held by sunburned bits

Of human scattered at the exit ramps like accident debris.

But, there are no accidents. Life doesn’t live itself.

It must be championed, battled, chewed up,

Swallowed whole-heartedly with passion to fire it up

To the blazing hot necessity of burning away

The unnecessary baggage that we all carry.

Let us practice enthusiastic radical gratitude

For laughter

For joy

For peace

For balance

For opportunity to try again tomorrow

Radical gratitude for being able to witness this moment

This creation that we’ve all been gifted

That we all share with beating hearts filled with awe

Peppered with wonder, wondering why we’re here.

Love Lives

The place that is welcoming

is the home where love lives

Not only where love is,

but where it is cherished

nurtured, adored, revered,

but most of all,

given fertile soil to blossom

overly abundant blooms everywhere.

Curtis C.

I felt it before I heard or saw it.
A wave of hostility colored in anger
darkness creeping over hearts
while the warm sun kissed the peaceful.
“He’s white!” I hear her scream.
The grandson, after exchanging
the pungent presence of racism
committed to his violence
flailing at the seat-belted man
Releasing his hatred through his fists.
“STOP! STOP!” I yell at the assault
I bring the confused woman and her beau
water in plastic pink cups
The sun should be clouded over
with the bitterness of repulsion, but it isn’t.
The moving van waits
The ministry van drives away
The cops come, take names
forget it even happened.
My stomach is repulsed by the waves
still emanating from the gathered group
still aching from the pride fallen dead
in the gutter littered with foul words.

Wisdom Seeker


The ancient wilds have reached into her spirit

elevated her to endless horizon

Baltered in rhythm with the tides

shrieked, pranced, dashed, danced

Arms raised in worship to the Dark moon

Skyclad but for the whimpered light

of that which compeled and sent her breathless

willingly swathed in the darkness

re-birthed from the warrior to the Wisdom Seeker

the preparation transitions from mother to crone