La Obscura Luz



Mujer de Los Acantilados

Where there is a seaside cliff

†here is a woman standing 

Watching and praying 

Crying and drumming

Commanding wind and tide

face carved by sunrise blaze

nest of moon beam upon her head

For the Eagle’s watchful prayer

She stands

Calling Butterfly

From across the waves

Sending Butterfly

Across the waves

Holding vigil at the portal

Spinning and weaving

Wailing and singing

For the holy souls 

Shedding crucible of Caterpillar

Unwinding from limb and ledge

That once held protection from wind

The most tender of wing

Mosaic of Earth and Heaven

When unfurled by thirst and longing

Withstands every torrent of Storm

Real transformation flies 

Inside the veil between Sea and Sky

No fear of the drowning deep 

And fire of firmament

When guided by cliff song 

Hymns of resurrection

In her whispering and chanting

Praising and raising the good name

Until all Her children fly 

The Ocean’s trail of tears

back home


Never before now

It could not have been

Genius rules over pushing

Force creates resistance – implosion

A cascade of lessons fall upon me, necessarily

when I project my will upon beauty

shaping itself according to natural law

Leaning  into is not the same as domination, and it is not passive

A softening with a posture rooted in faith

A rising from womb to womb to womb, born again, and forever

My mental body always searching outside, never to find You

The mind exhales when given permission

to release a role given by coercion

Returning to the heart requires wings. 

Wings require remembering the song that sings light alive, first in me,

so I am full enough to sing forth that tree, upon which I will perch.

Patience is in the ways of the wind

My seed song adrift, hovering above home,

until my vessel is clear for immaculate conception.

An arm of air lays me down into fertile soil, the blueprint calls forth

the synchronicities of Life to bring me alive in alignment

with the One they thought they could erase from me.

This Holy work can take lifetimes for the winds of change

 to lift my wings, to flower forth in perfection.

This is the lifetime my ancestors tell me

The prophecies could not have been heard any time before,

from any other tongue, in the way I can display

Love to those who have lost their way. 

I land firmly in my skin and embrace the gift.


When I am in postures of devotion

Writing you

Tasting you

Bleeding you

Singing you

Praying you

I am whole

And the hunch that my presence 

with your treasure, dispersed 

to the people

by the golden glint in my eye

and curl at the corner of my lips, this

loquacious laughter

reclaimed from sorrow, this

full lament of my tears

cleansing where I have cracked

so more heartbreak fills me with light, this life

rendering the silky smooth truth

that rises only after being churned proper 

in your dark womb,

I understand that above all these holy postures,

breathing you is enough.

I will no longer be quiet

and hide this inheritance

This wealth


This more

And how did I live so long any other way?

Never again subdued

My voice

These erotic desires

My righteous cleansing furies

Not when it is Your Song

I carry inside

 telling of each story, Star born

that flailed itself towards You

To become this 






Love Letter

~I have tried to write you a love letter but that would make you real and everything real disappears. 

I don’t know if I can stand another shattering of the Holy before me.  

You tell me not to worry, to keep expanding gently, one word at a time.  

“Take your time” you say.  “Patience is a handmade quilt that will wrap your life in faith. 

When you force your heart through your throat it shrinks.  No wonder you are hungry.

 You give away your feast before you yourself have been satiated.

Until your toes are full and your dance becomes a sacrament to everything your words cannot express.  

Your voice will birth itself by tending the third sacred thing given you at birth.  Your life,

is the house I live in and your entrance is showing up 

with ripening, red mouthed lips from sipping my nectar.  

Quivering lips with the names of all your once forbidden friends. 

We know you love Her.

Every morning birdsong, Sundrop in the ocean, desert tundra mirror of your longing,

every fecund jungle rendering you feral, the river winding salmon wisdom through your bones. 

And you are that river. 

But know you are only as wide and deep in this Life as you allow your edges to soften and mix with Her clay.  

Be molded by the same benedictions you sprinkle upon the Earth each day with your tears.  

Keep following the bread crumb trail we placed together for this journey long ago.

 It will lead you down the path towards the proposal to surrender your lonely hand

and take the One you have been forever searching for.  

Lay down the pain of trying to give as much as you have received.

Your radical self love is the only gift that comes close to the blessing

that can shift the imminent griefs you fervently try to heal, into a salve

that heals Her scarred flesh

And yours.”

Morning Muse

Full moon floats in morning pink streaks above the sea.

The blushing sun courting Her back to the night

as dawn cracks the east sky. 

Today She lingers on the west horizon

to be seen in equanimity before fire dominates the day.

Fresh born waves crash themselves high upon the rocks stained

 by the patient salt of Earth- 

spraying themselves towards Her as if competing

to fill the slate silver craters of wisdom 

from which they poured forth.

One lone white crane lands at my feet to witness this

full fledged reenactment of the first marriage.

As though he was just flying through

and an arm of shoreline reached out and pulled him to the ground.

Because this morning, this moment 

needs the symbolic presence of a white wing.

Precious metal rich black sand, a backdrop for the birthing light, sucks shadow from my bones.

And I allow my ear to hear the wind’s vow 

to steward change, redirect what was lost at sea, so often

by way of a mighty storm

I am suspended inside a wrinkle in time

ironing itself out under my feet- by my feet’s faithful fortitude.

And, for a brief moment I sense the white wing

is a messenger sent to lay a fresh birthed path

in my outstretched arms shaped like an empty chalice

that has emptied itself of all poisons.

Arms that have surrendered the weight of family fate

and let the story go.


The contract is written such 

that at any moment

 you can give it all away

The torments of your mind

The false inheritance

The heavy load

Sacred Reciprocity is your birthright

There is nothing 

you can ever do wrong 

In Her eyes

Yet your full body confession

Is your secret knock

To the door 

Of ferocious self love 

Reveal what has been 

Bubbling and toiling 

Below the surface 

Of your heart

Scream it into the veil

That I know you feel

The altar at which you kneel

Yet do not adorn

with your naked truth 

and your raw cravings 

for the real taste of your own 

exposed flesh to fire

 and fervent hunting of your scent

 by Life’s glistening tooth 

and sharp eye

You are seen

in every moment

You thought you could hide 

God’s desires inside of yourself

Not realizing you are desire itself

Incarnate perfection 

Is being drenched in the sweat

of allowing yourself to be forged

by the simple act of extending

your burdened and calloused hands 

and setting it all down at Her feet. 

Self Inquiry

The more I feed my mind with figuring, finding, trying, scrutinizing,

the more I reinforce its mistaken dominance over my body.

Every little thing that soothes my emotional mind only denigrates my emotional body.

Can I unzip the addictions, wants and soulless desires that cling to my flesh-

at one point to warm the frozen child spirit 

so it did not need another

or her mother and broken father.

And now she is laced up tight with lies that gouge her tender skin.

She has outgrown their safekeeping.

But to pry away each strand takes a gentle hand, and that hand must be her own.

How can she love everywhere that bleeds?

How can she trust that hand when it was programmed to feed 

and fasten her mistaken fate?  

I return to the simple graces…

My breath


My eyes gazing upon a tree.

Until the reflection returned 

shows a perfect child,

flesh scarred with the story of faith.

Whale Song

My skin can breathe water

I inhale song of Whale

Mother song- First song

Washing out the hollow of my bone

A sacred spit shine for my insides

When I am resurrected 

please let it be from under the Sea

Or that one Tree 

that holds a lock of my hair 

on an Irish hillside far from here

Where am I again?

It matters not 

Since this song in my bones

is known by every land I roam

When the new pilgrims 

raise me up from under stone

wondrously seeking any clue

misunderstanding once again 

that their birth is proof 

the rumors are true

My skeleton will dance and sing

hymns of devotion and prophecy

My journey will be complete

when the inviolable within me

is received by those willing

to inhale Mother Whale 

and die by the scrolls 

at the bottom of the Sea


To carve a new path 

you must walk 

at the water’s edge

Willing to drown in the deep

at any moment

Willing to have everything

 that once was, 

just a moment ago 

washed away

so that nothing remains 

of a way back

She eats it 

She washes your feet

that new Earth remain unburdened 

and perpetually  alive

with the heaving forth 

of near reckless desire

Your courtship with continual disappearance

 will fill your awestruck mouth

 with Her swelling tongue

hungry for the mercy 

that has guided you down the narrow path

Your lips covered in afterbirth

and the taste of empty space

You appear to be mad

daring the ledge like that

So innocent

as if you know not of danger

But ah, to be truly insane

is to go digging for your old

footsteps in the sand

to prove your life

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑