(War) good God y’all

What is it good for?  Absolutely nothing. ~ War, Edwin Starr

I confess to be an avid

collector, growing, of the myriad

faults in the parroted party line.

I’d plan my argument

against their ideology, just

a typical rebellious teen.

Now I grope towards

emotional maturity, that mysterious

platform hidden by my fog

of codependence,

like Bugs Bunny’s a-ha moment:

of course you realize this means war.

Letting go of resistance, not fighting

the warriors at their own

game — and yes, bombing and killing,

starving and stealing

is a rich man’s power play.

Nodding a fond farewell

to peacing out

which so appealed in my childhood

songs, the bombers turning

into butterflies above our nation.

How is it we ignore the years

of slavery, the genocide of First

Nations, the unprecedented imprisonment

of the poor?  How do we pretend

the violence paid by our taxes

is necessary?  We’re urged

to choose a side, when both parties

barely glance up from their grisly

feasting, mouths dripping with

the blood from our hearts,

as they dimly notice

the foundations shaking

when we understand the pain

of the bit and the reins

and their heels digging in.

Inspired by:  Avid, Collection, Ideology, and Plan.


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.

Begone, Foul Demon

Is this guy 72 or 12?

And I immediately offer an apology

to all the wise preteens.

This immature dog lumbers

in resentment, caught in a trap

of his own devise. We’re watching

in horror and a certain glee

sure he will chew off

his leg in spite.  How can we expect

his metamorphosis, ensconced as he is

in a reality TV show, where the art

of the deal is saying, You’re Fired?

The ridiculous pantomime frayed

holes gaping and fixers

scrambling for a foothold

in our belief — because once

we awaken, this will scatter

like long-forgotten leaves scuttled

by the fierce winter wind

stirred into a final frenzy.

The eye-opening storm of common

sense a catalyst for

our own transformation

in heartspace as at long last

we seize our power.

Inspired by: a government shutdown, and the prompts Resentment, Immature, Metamorphosis and Lumber.

End of Empire

A nation held
hostage for a wall
that will never exist,
arrogant pride forcing
800,000 people to work
as slaves. Nothing new
like all women toiling
without wages to care
for the heart needs. My gratitude
app demands I celebrate
three things.  How can I

stop there? Last year, I mourned
a world my children will never
know. Now
I let go of my resistance.
Patriarchy carried us here
but these superficial constructs
melt away when we halt
the narrative. Easy when
a red-wigged buffoon tries to support
this vividly revealed
nonsense. Yet we love

and how
when each word is weighted
with societal significance
when the structure
of grammar and punctuation
damn our creative
thoughts flooding our vision
with muddy imprecision

do we begin
to face
the mother goddess
birth a new creation
this global being
fair exchange

do we invent new metaphors?

The icy control thawing
the mansplaining droning on,
we plant in this richly
composted soil
so long neglected
teeming with treasure
cultivating precious
food for our knowing hearts

which hungered
in the old stories,
myths for a captive audience,
just a trap
old languages
which have never
paid the living
wages we merit
and demand.

Inspired by:  Three, Wall, Thawing, a new moon in Capricorn and a partial solar eclipse.

Past Currency

Locking up every gift,
they’ve posted a no-trespassing
sign. Fencing in the garden
of eden purchased for a song
from people who don’t
sing the currency, but it was easy, really,
to rip the children from their arms,
cut off their hair and drill
them in the notes
of buying and selling
even you.
Especially you.

When I first sat on the stage
watching them file in, some
pushing and shoving for the best
view while the pedophile uncles
and the addicts and the drunks
had their own little party
in the back, I certainly
didn’t want to claim them.

Too many transgressions to forgive,
too much wickedness to see.

My own grandson grabs my hand,
follow me, and we start
laughing through the living
room, on to the kitchen,
a perfect circle, vital
life running through us.

I’ve whispered “joy” three times
in my glass today, raising the vibration
of the water to a healing
frequency even as I observe
the hidden currents, the eddies,
riptides and falls
of this life that carries me.

Any scientist could tell you
this is balderdash, a skein won’t
unravel without a physical touch.
And believe me, I used to sit
patiently pulling out the knots.
Clueless about who we are
and how we are
connected in immeasurable ways,
unacknowledged participants in every
experiment. We push and pull
each other, puppeteers
through the centuries, believing
the man in the white coat
who studies the mirrored calm
of the surface and declares
what is,
even as the currents pull us
into behaviors we could never
explain or even witness.

Recovery begins with our
hospitality, welcoming back
the ones we forced into
the shadows. We step into
our greatest fears, feel
gratitude for this chance
to dance in the current
of vitality, that exuberance
hundreds of thousands of years
strong, ripening into new seeds
we plant in the now.

Stepping back from reaction,
watching all these hidden cords
emerge, the secrets pouring
out as each thread
pops into view, our
compassionate interest
in all the things
that triggered us

in the past.

Inspired by this article about Family Constellations and Addictions, Forgive, Recovery, Gratitude and Hospitality.

Plays By Intuition

So many women in my lineage

had no chance to grieve:  

file that in the DNA

and hope for someone like me

to open

a container big enough

to hold the river of sorrow

without being swept away.

Precariously crumbling footholds

where I patrol.  In the darkest hours,

often forgetting who I am,

losing my light,

peering into the rising

waters crashing below me.

The lineage-trauma breathing

through me, and I’m pondering

madness, defined as it is

by people who know

the control of the narrative

is imperative.  I mean, I’ve been 

the pinball

racking up impressive scores,

slamming into an obstacle

and triggered into flight

only to hit the next

target, over and over.  

Is my age

showing here? Does anyone

play pinball anymore?

Such a counterintuitive move,

to simply relax, falling

past the electric shocks

into the drain. 

Not in this society,

missy.  You stay in the game.

All the rules defined by 

the people who need

you to be distracted

when your rage ignites.

Look online, track the

spiky statistics to determine

who likes you.  The days

spinning, whirling, sick

until the sleepless night

claims you

and dark thoughts lead you

once again

to the steep cliffs of despair.

Inspired by:  Madness, Spiky, and Ignite.

Siu Yin

According to the urban dictionary, Siu Yin is Cantonese for little swallow.  It signifies that wherever you are, you can always find your way back home.

We try to scrape off the dirt

from our inception

as teens, denying our roots,

caught in the pursuit

of autonomy, anxious

to wash away any trace

of the entanglements

we struggle against.

Give the finger.

Raise the fist.

Caught in the web

we glimpse its ominous

glimmer in just the right

light.  And the old ways are lost

so we talk suspiciously

of conspiracy, puppet masters,

seizing the perspective

of the powerless victim,

the one that keeps us in

resistance, or medicated, lost

to the dark secrets

of the new moon

invisible before us.

We splurge on a temporary

pleasure, paying interest for years.

And then we are old

and learn to relax — at least,

those of us who have crashed and burned

in an almost fatal crisis —

into the abundant universe

unfolding in slo-mo.

Subtle beauty available always

under the structures of the prison

we build so industriously,

tumbling into bed

exhausted, our only vision

the next layer of walls we can

erect come that nebulous

teasing tomorrow.


Inspired by:  Dirt, Inception, Pursuit, Splurge.