Elizabeth Martina Bishop


 Author, Performance Poet, Choreographer, Visionary Artist

Love, having no object and no face

If she the one reclaiming dreaming

In momentary time and place,

With her cloak of many colors, still soldered on,

Yet, I still honor my memory of her, the Beloved,

Is she still the one belonging to the human race.



The door was already closed, Goddess left open.

Who could reverse the river?

Already flowing Into the beautiful mask of summer,

Words misshapen and misspoken.

Fear, how did this happen?

Nothing so beautiful as this fear.

This fear of love, this fear of time forever misspent and broken.

False Reporting

Of late, my heels bend and burn

Before an unfeeling incline,

Marked by pock-marked

Desert landscape filled

With deciduous apricot orchards.

Each of the whorls of my fingertips

Numbed, are now sent reeling backward.

How It Was At the Deliberate Coffee Shop of the Mind

When she spoke, the heavens, the waters parted behind her

Leaving nothing to chance. But what happens when corporate

Takes over? I asked.

If You Know About Spirit Stones

A spirit stone

owns its own voice

is fleshed with granite skin

it knows it chirps and bleeds


 I’m Hard-Pressed to Imagine

A Seismograph in Pidgin English

If the world originally without a blemish,

How come a molten core suppressed

Remains unopened?

Clearly, the one veiled, widowed and alone,

Cannot hold me up against a forceful wind.