Marie’s True-Dream-Power

Philosophers are people who know less and less about more and more, until they know nothing about everything.  Scientists are people who know more and more about less and less, until they know everything about nothing. ~ Konrad Lorenz

Because if there’s something I know

nothing about, it’s


and the way words

erase experience 

like the First Nations languages

brutally ripped

from throats.

We are caged so precisely

that when Marie dreams 

her long-dead dad is laughing,

patting her burgeoning belly,

ah, how he’s longed for this 


she wakes confused —

so vivid,

but it can’t be real,

right, because he’s dead,

right, and she must be crazy

even though her hidden lineage

pulses with altered-states-words

for alternate realities which exist

alongside this waking 

we insist

is the one and only 

narrative for our lives.  

Turning away from the powerful

appetite for messages from our dead

because it can’t be real —

it’s not allowed to be real —

caught in the web of deceit

of the waking dream

that closes our options

like firmly locked gates

and boarded-up portals.

Today in the clarity of my wild

ambition, I create new

lovelight emanating from

me clearing

what I’ve held for the planet.

Relaxing fully.

The ebullient-belly rising

in the liminal spaces

where patriarchal-chasms open

the uttering-uterus-undulating

child-inside the intuitions

men dismiss.

Standing on the dream-threshold

with messages from a long-

dead father and which is the

real-state, our child-murmuring

in the pool of ancestral-fluid

that carries us

deep in our center, where

dreams are surely closer

to the sacred spaces,

more tangible

than this table or the curtains

fluttering in our attentive breeze

until they are not.

Because what is reality

but a shaky-card-house

resting on allowed perceptions

doled out by people

intent on control?

Dealing the narrative-cards,

keep the king, jettison the joker,

no value in pure fantasy.

Still, my ancestors send me living 

messages; I burp four times

as I write this line. 

Inspired by: Clarity, Ambition, Ebullient, and Appetite.


Hey Riddle, Riddle

“Do you have to use so many cuss words?” — The Stranger.  “What the fuck are you talking about?” — The Dude in The Big Lebowski

My son plays an underdog

in a podcast about riddles.

While fans at home shout, exasperated,

the obvious solution, he and his

improv partners throw out wild

guesses, progressively

sillier until one of them prompts,

I’d like to see a scene.

They instantly assume assigned

characters — Kevins and Susies

exploring a wacky

premise to its ridiculous 

conclusion, and listening,

we jape at our own unexamined

beliefs.  I’ve done that.

I never miss a show,

although there are too many

f-bombs for my brothers,

and my parents would be shocked.

(My father who can tell a joke

demeaning women or any

ethnic group at all, really, would

be fiercely pissed at the digs

at his staunch beliefs.)

The poet and the comic,

two generations exploring our deepest

pains and anguish, although

he’s much more clever,

poking fun until people cry

in helpless laughter, while

my poems elicit tears

of rage or sadness.  I’ve tried

to write comedy, alas,

I’ve always been the straight

woman, from the time I filmed

my children dressed in outlandish

outfits, singing and posturing.

I’d maintain my composure,

silently giggling later.  Turns out,

this is how you raise

an improv comedian.

When my chuckles burst out, finally,

he rushed to his brothers

to claim his prize; they’d all been

trying for years to break

that calm demeanor.

He doesn’t read my poetry;

he was present for the pain

that led me through so many

mistakes.  The marvel is that

he can go on stage knowing

people screw up, and finding

the fun in that, forgiving 

his mother who sits alone

forging sword-poems, stabbing 

old scars.  My readers wince, while

he’s feinting and dancing,

headphoned-millenials on the train

snickering even as they examine

their wounds, wiping the dripping 

blood like tears,

grinning as they see

what they’ve been carrying

is universal.  We’re all 




clemency in poetry

and podcasts, 

laughter and tears.

Inspired by the podcast Hey Riddle, Riddle, and Clemency, Underdog, Partner and Riddle.


From nothing, everything happens

all the time. Every morning

I rise from a dream

to write a poem


free to expose

my so-called

obstacles to open air.

The spiral path of healing

leads me deep into my earliest

wounds.  As I share them,

they become my new

way emerging.

Inspired by:  Dream, Free

Sonnet For The Children

This separation from the source a slide

impressionable minds in toxic sludge.

Inevitable, no hope for this ride.

We’re inside out, we’re captured in a smudge

believing these dark nightmares will not budge.

Poem-lanterns illuminate the mean

faces of actors urging us to judge

victims fleeing apocalyptic scene.

We hear the planes from deep within the green

green park, grandson and I, a sweet fall stroll.

Barrage of bullets, shooting range unseen.

Peace shattered, run, he cries, and so we go.

We bring the world with us, what precious gift

for our grandchildren have we set adrift?

Written for a prompt for #OctPoWriMo Day 26 Inside Out, and inspired by: SeparationLantern, Impressionable, Toxic, and Slide.   I saw the prompt to write a sonnet and thought, oh, yeah, that will happen in my strictly-enforced one hour writing flow. (I’d insert shrug emoji, if I had the tech savvy.)

Be Kind To Poets

If you castigate this poet before breakfast
be advised you’ll be immortalized by ten.
It is not that I hold malice.
I’m not hardhearted or callous,
but I’m writing and you’ve quite inspired my pen.

If you denigrate this poet after luncheon
there’s a chance you’ll never see yourself in ink.
I’ve been sitting, I’m committed
to be kind so it’s permitted:
let it slide instead of raising a big stink.

If you mock this poet ‘round the supper table
be aware you’re bound to feel my wordy snark.
Tease me, you’ll feel my nasty bite
trust me, I’m spoiling for a fight.
The cruel words you say will light the spark.

So if a poet, you surmise
is quite harmless, I’ll just advise
treat a poet like a snake
and heed every sound you make,
or all your secrets will be spilled
before you understand you’ve killed
your chance to mitigate.
It’s just too late.

Inspired by: Spoil

Tortured by Love

Love the great teacher
sweeps me into the river
and I must let go.

I sit in spacious
meditation poetry
silent finger count

Poor man imprisoned
Rich man suffers headline shame
Poverty’s the crime

Soul light illumines
darkest shadows cast off for
childhood survival.

He says, Bibi, sit
so I drop my to-do list
to learn about love.

Today’s OctPoWriMo prompt – Day 11 – is to write a senryu about tortured in love.   But the sweet torture that love offers me calls for five senryu to celebrate: the necessary surrender, the difficulty of sitting in meditation, social injustice, shadow work, and the teachings of my toddler grandson.