Monday, December 2, 2013

8 Points

It was sad to watch; your
Wild life ether
Tame; there on highway.
Eight points knocked off
Soft; fur like my dog.
A moment like that
Cold hand
Dark eyed lesson;
Slow down.

Is your life rushing on
In webs of thought
Slushy pasts
What if futures?

Be on the road; awake
As roads are shared
With those
Who do not see
Our armored rush.

Did you know life had value?
Yours and mine.
And also those who
Run and dream on
Paws and
Wings and

~abigler 2013

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Thursday, October 3, 2013

Good Writer

She makes me angry.
Who can cut an edge finer than that?
Every word; my visceral heaven,
I eat them raw, to the hilt.

Who puts poems on screens anyway?
A digital mist; pixelated lake.
She lays hers on thick, linen sheets,
I press them like wax under flame, and she's

Possessed me.
She knows she burns;
The nightmares, the sacred.
I'll come back, crawling and spent.

The strike of the pen,
The creak of my heart.
Every page drowns me,
Her ink dredged revenge.


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Sunday, September 8, 2013


I rattled all the chains
in the old kingdom
thinking I was wind
or dirt, or rain

a ghost

in the miles thick earth
a whisper stoked
by worms or armored friends

the bark fed climb
and I'll be rising
find me calling
fresh, reborn

~abigler 2013

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Saturday, August 10, 2013

18 Summers (for Audrey)

There have been 18 lovely summers

Think of all the beaches where you walked
And how the sand tucks between toes
The salt air scent

The world can make you new
In any moment
Wake and spread your fingers
Towards the sun

Just start again
That is the trick
To keep on moving

May the path unfold before you
Clear and shining
Like your heart

May you feel her sworn protection
Nourished roots, the warming wind
Her gentle peace among the waves and rain

May your breath carry you through
Along with your clear vision
and your heart and light and strength

May purest love surround you
A centered, fluid flame
Inside and out

May you laugh and smile and dance
May you take the time for peace
and brilliant dreams

May you speak all of your truths
And sing your songs
May you let yourself be seen
For all your light

May you love and be loved back
In balance and in care
The treasures of the spirit
Shining through

There have been 18 lovely summers
Or beats of the world heart
Or years of the great earth
Where we've been blessed

Today you start again
Another turn towards the sun
That life heart dance

~ abigler2013

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Monday, July 22, 2013


If she could think herself sane
She would follow god maps
To clean, tempered planes
Even-keeled, deepening rests.

She'd soften her mind
On grass-fed rains
Her feet pressed
In long settled earth.

Maybe there is a way.

Sometimes the paint
Sticks to her skin
Long after the brush
Pushes in.

Perhaps she drenched herself
There in the flecks
Where she can be colors
And rays.

And you wonder how
She imagined
How she swept through
The taut pain.

If she could breath out
Through the frame
She would sing
And you would believe
She was sane.

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Tuesday, July 9, 2013


What were their words
When they left the king?

Happiness pursuits

Sometimes we forget
This intention
Of light

I know they forgot
Half the nation
at least

But insert yourself
into the meaning

You deserve

Your crown is yourself
Now be free

~abigler 2013

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Thursday, June 13, 2013

her dream

Writing her dreams
I follow her in.

She craves the old path
Coyote, crow, fox.

The tricksters are at it

~abigler 2013

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Thursday, June 6, 2013

Sri Anandamayi Ma

Not like a dream
but a gentle way
you hold yourself

So many people
forget to be loved
to be love

There are smooth
tender ways
to move through the
mountain high hills

The fog lifts
stage curtains

Swept back
from theater
into the life

~abigler 2013

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Thursday, May 30, 2013

A Poem by my Mother


Had I been adequately prepared for your visit
I would have...
Plucked the weeds from my garden
And replaced them with budding beauties,
Invited you to sit on a soft carpet of moss
Shaded by growing greenery,
Planned a picnic of your favorite delicacies from distant lands.

I could not arrange an appropriate setting,
Yet you made yourself at home among weeds and unpainted boards.
You refused refreshment and placed my needs ahead of your own.

Like our Lord, you came to serve.
Long after sunglow, I'll savor your sensitivity.

~Nancy J. Ressler

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Monday, May 20, 2013


There was a day
each year
when baby ducks
were led
from the garden
behind the school
through crowds of
children, teachers, praise
over bright, linoleum floors
to the lobby
where all applauded
duckling footsteps
to the door

they would leave
the nest
smooth, round tables
long days of numbers and words

for dreams of water songs and wings
made real

~abigler 2013

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Saturday, May 11, 2013

All These Days

Having her in my life is like deep, clear water flowing gently over stones, meandering through the bed of earth, that fertile ground, this blissful place where life begins. Having her in my life lets this live in me, this courageous stream, this knowing she is safe. Heart beating, blood flowing, living, smiling, human life, the gift.

The place where we begin is sacred. That bright star traveling through, crossing paths with the light of the heart. The mother says hello. When I had her I was glowing. Galaxies and stars were in my body, that divine spark of creation. When I felt this, it took over all the pain and labor, dissolving all that ache. And when we looked at you and held you we were safe. We were so blessed to know you in that space. We lay together with you in the hospital bed. You were ours for one day. We looked at your fingers and toes, saw how bright your eyes were, understood what it meant to be pregnant. There was some time alone when I rocked you. Just you and me in the low lit hospital room. I didn’t know you. I didn’t know anything, just that my heart was breaking. I didn’t care about anything, except that you were safe.

Everyone came to see you and hold you and love you, and as we all got to know you I kept a certain little distance knowing the inevitable separation was coming. The worst part was goodbye. The day they came to adopt their baby. We all wept - there was no medicine for that. They were so happy and smiling. They gave me a stuffed bear, they held you and they loved you. I thought that was the end.

We packed up my things, I was wheeled out with my belongings and my new stuffed animal. We sat on the sofa and talked and cried. My mother helped me into the tub, She felt so bad for me, I curled up in the hot salty water holding onto myself. In my bed I clung to my stuffed bear and your little hospital hat. It was an unforgiving, dark volcano, molten hot dust. It seems like forever the fire. Seemed like years that I was seething and angry, some little animal growled and bristled.

It wasn’t long before his family found out about you. They say that things done in secret come to the light. Now what do I do? A chance to keep you in your family, to see you, to know you? How can we break the hearts of those who adopted you? Take you back. Give you away again. The fire passes into the winter place, it dries and hardens to protect. In time this old wound cracks. Starting down inside I wonder, how could I make up for all this loss? That infinite void of quiet, frozen emptiness. What could replace that connection? Seventeen is too young for these weighted decisions, but we made them and now you are here. Your new parents held you and loved you. They smiled and they were happy. Your room was ready. Your house, your yard, your dog and cat. We were there to see who loved you, where you lived and to visit and hold you and play.

I couldn’t survive being twisted and angry forever. You can’t live in the dark that way, that scared, that lost. Open your eyes and realize what grace has come, what the world has to offer – a girl who lives and breaths, the daughter of us all. I slowly braid myself back together. My light brightens and strengthens with years and years of healing between me and the losses and pains. Even still I work on it, the letting go and the mending up, the ebb and flow of me as I change and bloom and get to know myself.

Oh little girl you are sacred, so many relations and roots. Your family tree is doubled, your tribe is all around you. Any of us would do anything for you.To see her live is like dancing, to know her name, hear her voice, see her expressions, to read her words. Every little thing is important. It seems preposterous to be so blessed, to have this chance. In these moments the heart outweighs all else and fills me up.

I thought it would be too difficult, too hard to see her there in front of me while holding myself at a distance, to walk that tender line of appropriate vs. not, detaching for the safety of the heart. And it was difficult and it has been an exercise in contortion, but it was better than not knowing, it is better to hug heart to heart, to look into your eyes and talk.

In all that wonder of who we are and what we are doing here, the connections and the experiences matter. For all these days of magic I give thanks. It could never have been any different. We are people making choices, imperfect and uncertain. We grow older but we are still little inside, we still don’t know what we are doing. We do the best we can most days. We give and take and take and give.

I’ll take this gift of time and hold it close, every single moment spent with you.

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Thursday, May 2, 2013


I should have bowed down
And surrendered
Every day

I should have told you
I could see you
Like the wings of all those geese
Who flew away
When we could not

Our minds are different
Every nuance
Every chord
Like tight wound wire

All the songs and visions
The feelings come in swarms
Through skin and bone
And brain

All those nerves
Are reaching
For a breath
Within the flame

Without it
Where would words be?
Would summer be so deep and hot?

Can we live without ourselves?
Maybe, for a day
What then?
A quiet respite
In a tired, pill stained grave?

You have a light
To the weight
Of all these

Till you bow down
Head to earth
And shed the blame

~abigler 2013

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Monday, April 15, 2013

Turtle Time

Yesterday, my friend and I were out hiking around a nearby lake and she pointed out two bumps on a log in the shallow water. We rushed to a better vantage point and confirmed that it was two turtles, one big and one little. Their long necks were stretched out of their dark shells. We could not make out their expressions, but I imagine they were happy to be together warming in the sunlight.

Right now I feel like a turtle taking small steps in the writing of my book. This is a time of cautious reflection. I, like the turtle, need my four feet on the ground. Inside my womb-like shell I can wade through the pages and ask myself the big questions. What is the goal of this book? What scenes matter most? What can be left behind? How do I balance the heart of what I have to share with an adventure that engages the reader?

What I know for certain is that it is a book about finding light in dark places. It is about our roots, the ones we are born with and the ones we create. It is about the magical point of light that can save you on the darkest journey. The kind of spark you see in lucid dreams. This tiny, spinning orb hums as it pulses and shines. You reach out to touch it and it radiates through you as a warm, inner blanket. I want to take you with me into this forest, transform and fire you with the elements and send you home polished and new. I want you to feel what it is like in the mysterious rabbit hole and guide you back to life.

I'll venture back out when I'm done.

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Wednesday, March 27, 2013

A Wish For Marriage

Last March I was in Kauai, worshiping sunshine, ocean and coastlines with my husband. We did that thing where you date for 7 years, get married at the JP, have a wedding celebration the next year and go on your honeymoon the year after that. So there we were, basking in the rewards of all our efforts. All those blessings we enjoyed were gained with sweat.

In the beginning, when the immediate pheromones are wearing off, the maniacal chemistry cools and allows you to return to things like sleep and food and laundry and yourself. And this is the worst because you recognize that the other person will now see you as you are and that means you have to hide or run or surrender. I liken the ravaging burn of surrender to that of re-entry, when the space shuttle is hurtling back into the atmosphere and it absolutely has to go through this fiery quake to get back down to earth.

Ack! That’s what it was like. I was doing cartwheels in the atmosphere and now here’s the terrible fear of being seen and known and loved. I was an exposed mess, my tiny ship in flames. You know he stayed, this man. He saw me and he stayed and we learned how to swim together. All those tides in all those different oceans, we kept going. I kept shedding layers as we went. It became safe to let this person share my raft.

I imagine that any relationship takes a course like that - and care. You can’t just let it lay there, you must laugh and hug and talk and listen. Such a delicate respect. I hope there soon comes a day when everyone who has done this work can celebrate and say, “Look at us, we’ve come this far and now we’ve gotten married. We’re sharing this commitment and this promise with you all!” I hope that everyone who bravely loves can swim along the coastline hand in hand regardless of their gender. Because really, a marriage is a sacred bond we cherish and to say we cannot share that based on gender is the blinding, selfish, hate that separates.

May we all have the right to fly to space with whom we choose, to re-enter and cool and swim and cry and float with our dear loves, and then have equal rights to marry and commit in a public, legal space.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Redwood Dream

Dreaming takes down the

light curtain

bathes us with visions of pregnant earth

her life, her dreams

if we could listen in

hear her whisper in the trees

see the color in their dreams

those monolithic earth whale redwoods

go see them in your heart

when you cannot feel their leaves

or bark

or roots



she meets us there

that sacred

that vision

that rooted beauty

folds our prayers

into her soft bark

her singing leaves

her living roots


us to strength

footstep by footstep

connected in

her graceful image




all of them

these waking walking earth dreams

~abigler 2012

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Saturday, March 16, 2013

Bathed in words

She glanced within

and grinned.

Was anybody watching?

Who could care?

~abigler 2013

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Friday, March 8, 2013


To be woman
Is the flowing strength

This caring for others
Breaks my heart
But lifts me
And my curves
And bone
Smooth pelvis

What is different
Is my voice
More like a song
Or spirit
Than a masculine gruff
Not that I can’t growl
And bare my teeth
And burn

But my soft folds
Add dimension
And my million thoughts
A certain way that contrasts
Yin from yang

To be woman
Is the pulse
And wind
Melodic mounds
Of birth

No matter if her
Children are
Her words,
Her songs,
Or beings
That she tends.

~abigler 2013

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Thursday, February 28, 2013

the leap between

On February 29, 2000, my mom leaped between worlds to a new place where I could not see. I drowned without warning, unable to swim as my roots were now tangled around me. To return to land, I took my own leap through cold time, dark embers, and hologram waves of the psyche. I since came around to myself, but recast. Death must be something like that, a luminous transformation where the soul is returned to the source but now changed.

The thing about the Leap Day loss is I have more comings than goings. Each August we dine on her favorites, sweet corn on the cob and ripe peaches. All of us feel the heat and the storms. The lightning is common and deep. The roots of the willow rise up to meet the lily, hydrangea and lilac. We are dressed up and singing like heaven or love when it's new and celestial. Your heart, that is summer, her birthday. The day she arrived in this world.

Since 2000, we’ve had Leap Day 3 times. It felt strange to see the occasion marked there on the wall. What else could I write in the square? Most years send the gift of detachment but here it was staring me back. Is there really a way to escape? Perhaps the void between the 28th and the 1st is the space the most real regardless. Because I wasn’t there when you came but you even shine at the end and I could replay pools of darkness but you always gave me your light.

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Monday, February 18, 2013

St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves

Now and then I come across a piece of writing that sets my heart howling. Like hearing a song that ignites you to break dance or watching a film that moves you to take part in your own life. Maybe you brush your fingertips across a painting that you long to crawl into because the grass is that perfect and it’s warm, acrylic wind sweeps up around your skin and brings you in. That’s how I feel about this fantastically absurd story of a home for girls raised by wolves.

The parents in the tale are werewolves who want a better life for their human children. A group of nuns take the savage girls into St. Lucy’s to be groomed and normalized for civilized society. The idea of these girls marking their rooms, wearing shoes on their fisted paws and learning to stand up on two legs is delightful because it is so bizarre, so ridiculous to imagine that they can somehow be made normal. They are really trying despite the fact that their words are more like growls.

Where reality is vulnerable, the notion of being raised by wolves brings primal romance. Imagine a place where inherent wildness is valuable and under protection from the pack. Survival is amplified with the keen senses of the wolves living telepathically as one with the cavernous, dark trees. Those who cannot connect safely, can relate to the desire to say that “Yes, I was raised by wolves and therefore cannot eat without making a mess or color inside your heavy lines! No I cannot quiet and soften where I am harsh and rough!”

There’s something alluring about these feral images. The deep inner call to tear with pointed teeth. Any child who has been hurt can tell you what it’s like to bristle and spit at every shadow. If only there were claws instead of fingernails and jowls instead of jaw, there would be some way to wear that old wild coat less painfully. How comforting it would be if there was a great furred pack surrounding our fragility.

Often in my life, I’ve felt like an impostor. Walking around in clothing and brushed hair while keening to bolt into the woods and take up shelter in her earthy folds. I could dig out a bed under a pine tree and circle into the soft needles. I could transform into my true criatura, let the wild woman howl right through my tangled fur. It’s what writing does for me. Here I roam unhindered with my paws out of my shoes. I am protected by my pack. One man, two dogs, one cat. They lick my wounds and nudge me back onto the path where I am writing my own heart out on the page.

I wonder what happened to the girls after they finished at St. Lucy’s. Do I ever pass them on the street and get a scent of that old legend that they lived before they polished up and blended? Maybe we all attended there in some way or another. Maybe we’re howling to each other when we nod and say good morning.

Thank you, Karen Russell, for this wonderfully strange vision.

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Saturday, February 9, 2013

Mental Haiku

Sometimes, when my mind is busy and spinning and sparking a notch too fiery, I tell it to be quiet. When that doesn’t work (that never works), I try to ignore it and find myself reading (but not quite retaining) self-help or reminders on post-its with advice for myself from myself.

If my mind is still reeling, unable to settle, I will write a list of the pulls fragmenting my attention. What books I want to read or research that needs to be done. There are scenes to be fleshed out. A page of displaced sentences impatiently awaiting adoption. Phone calls to suffer, people to connect with and appointments to schedule (the dentist - you must!). Not to mention the numerous life changes necessary for perfection.

The list expands into a fury of unrelated obligations and reminders about posture, forgiveness and potential dog behaviorists. I write a list of things to list on separate lists, and now I’ve really (totally) lost it, for underneath lies the compulsion to achieve it all instantaneously. It is the habitual inner crusade that drives all thoughts together into an impossible tangle of immediate demands. Now I am caught (again).

What I long for then, is to reset the mess and get clean. I seek out my haiku book. The white one with the fresh, spring green pear on the cover and open to any page. I carefully read one three-line set and float into simplicity and calm, thankful for respite and peace.

The time it takes –
For snowflakes to whiten
The distant pines

- Lorraine Ellis Harr

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Saturday, February 2, 2013


The soft inner touch of the spark
Meets the ancient turn of grace
And really what is grace
If not poetic
Or soft
Or a spark

~Abigler 2013

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Friday, February 1, 2013

Maiden Blog Voyage

I dreamt of a blog where I would share words. Not just the big words but excruciatingly skinny words, frighteningly lucid words, gigantic, irrepressible, delicious, beautiful words.

My words. Your words. Poetry, memoir, fiction, thoughts. Pictures, drawings too.

A mishmash of the moment. Lucid dreaming. Fairy tales. Magic. Zen wisdom. Bipolar observations. Healing consciousness. The writing life. Yoga poses. Chakra mantras. The quest for inner peace. Thoughts about cats. Thoughts about thoughts. Communion with dogs. Blessings of life. Varied ways of breathing. Tools for the path. Theories on death and the mystery and everything. Nature as healer. God, Goddess, Wind.

Pictures of pets. Pictures of trees. Pictures of birds.

Thoughts on birds and the way their quiet wings are really layers upon layers of carefully spun threads.

Words are like threads. They weave us together.

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