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.



Dedicated to all the women in the darkness, their therapists, and the good men who’ve put all that behind them.

American women should be able to write off the first 30 hours of therapy this year. ~ Laurie Kilmartin

I have been peering at my

introversion this morning, seeing

it is an obstacle to my success.

At a break, I am crushed

by a photograph: my attacker

happily dining with loved ones.

Already this week, I’ve been

wading through a morass of

grief and worry, this shadowy

threat brought when a woman

decided she couldn’t keep

the secret any longer. And oh,

god, do I keep mine?

In this dark

chokehold, silenced

and weary, saddened

and hopeless because I did try

and released a hornet’s nest

of fury from everyone

who didn’t witness

what I experienced

and therefore it didn’t happen.

And the monster smiles his smug

victory — and who else has he

shaken, groped, penetrated?

I flounder in the muddied waters

cringing, submissive

after all these years,

I’ve perfected the obsequious show

to save my hide

but the cost is this

shadow that eclipses

my every step.

Inspired by: Obsequious, Dedicate

Joining The Chorus

…a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,   
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings! ~ Paul Laurence Dunbar

Tell me more about
fortuitous blessings that arrive
after my diligent practice.
The number-crunchers assert
the planet won’t bear my weighty
insistence on posh digs
with my kind, careless
poisoned carnival-goers
making merry
while the bodies writhe,
the bonfires blaze.
And so I sit.
Center inside
and still
I crave assurance
that the miracle can arise
like breath
or fog on the cool dawn lake.
The atrocities reverberate
down the generations
bomb-blasting our present
ears stunned by this tone-
deaf assault.  In our knee jerk
reflex, we stand, speak
to the smirks and sneers.
Listen, we beg, and try
to chop the slippery
truth into bite-sized pieces,
now frantic in their swift
sweep under the rug.
How do our voices hold
the whole notes with these
hands covering our mouths?
Locked in the dark room,
the air sirens silenced,
the blitzkrieg so relentless
warnings are no longer
needed.  We know.
Together, holding hands
with every wretched being,
the bleeding wounded and
the sword-wielding
in the darkness, our inner fire
holding this space,
and where, oh, god,
where is the grace?

Inspired by:  carnival, smirk, slippery, fortuitous, posh, number

Hear Loud and Clear

This group of exemplary

old white men have no idea

how to cajole us; instead

they threaten and scoff,

excuse and dismiss.

This is how it goes:

you are a woman

lying tramp,

and you need to shut up

about what happened in the dark,

it’s all your fault, we need

to get on with the important

business of deciding

what you can do

when we deposit

our glorious seed in your body.

You’re a slut either way,

so don’t expect handouts

for the brat.  And if your child

of rape becomes desperate,

we will incarcerate him

for life; he’ll never get a vote.

We white men age differently,

we’ll be boys — don’t judge

us.  We make mistakes, but

that shouldn’t ruin our

lives.  Only yours.

Inspired by: cajole, exemplary

At Last

— To Celebrate First Date 18 September 2009

You met me at the Elks

with a lei of purple orchids

and a big smile that invited

one of my own.  We sat

by the ocean watching the brilliant

sunset unfold, talking music

in our resonant voices,

alto and tenor, 

soprano and bass,

Midwest twang-flavored aloha.

I can’t remember the drink

but I can hear the ice clink,

tracing paths through jungles

and winding through jazz

hikes and symphony

beach, two dogs

wagging their tails

in that stunning instant

rapport that kept us in our seats

under the stars, making plans

to travel through mysteries

of music and bamboo

together.  A new harmony.

I can close my eyes and

there you are, your unfamiliar 

face mysterious

as we both fell 

head over heels.

Following your sports car

home — we lived on the same

hill — until you zoomed off,

then seeing you wave

as I crept cautiously past

in my Prius, marveling

at luck, strange coincidences,

the angels at our shoulders

grinning broadly

and rubbing their palms

with glee.


Quick, draw the curtains

to hide them; call them

ghosts or skeletons, nervous laughter

feeling haunted.  But they are living,

breathing, groaning like that

drunk high school boy who’s

cornered you and covers your mouth

as he grinds himself on you,

ripping off your clothes to the tune

of his inebriated buddy’s giggles.

He wants to sweep it

under the rug today, standing

with such gloss facing

the committee of mostly men

who firmly buried their own

uneasy memories

grab and grope and insist

with tongues and fingers

engorged and blasted

out of their minds, so it really

doesn’t count.  A hastily dug

grave with fragile soil atop

and it doesn’t occur

to any of you that we see it.

We tune right in and see

what your heart holds.  You’ve

introduced a palette of swirling

lies to paint a new reality

but we aren’t interested,

not when the fearsome truth

lies exposed, beating and gasping

like a fish out of water.

And we feel with compassion

as the jumanji blocks of your life

come crashing down in this

precision of love we apply.

We usher you firmly

to a healing place — not

this court, even as you

scream your colorful curses

and paint the victim once again.

Inspired by: fragile, gloss,  palette, and an article, “The Education of Bart O’Kavanaugh” by @JuddLegum in Popular Information today.

Facing What Lives

What is alive in us is generational, ancestral and planetary. Our life energy is connected to the core of the planet. ~ Thomas Huebl

In this offering of a beguiling grin

I see all the ancestors

brimming up alive in his vitality,

hundreds of years, no, a million

beings accumulate cell-

deep celebration. Anchored by

my love, he can be so imperious:

commands me to sit,

pats the precise position

on the floor beside him.

As soon as I sink into

criss-cross applesauce, he jumps up

with our next mission.

I listen seriously, verify,

“I hear you say outside.

Do you want to go outside now?”

His “YES!” is so emphatic

that we preen in the satisfaction

of being heard. And later,

when I lift him “high, Bibi!”

to peek — shh — at the great

blue heron, he rests his head

against my neck and we feel

held. Our hearts beating

together, our eyes drawn

by the delicate lifting of

long stilt legs, tracing the journey

of the greyblue and white feathered

fisher who reminds us

to sink into the embrace

of our earth mother,

resourced and supported,

as we follow our own path

of loving connection.

Inspired by: beguile, anchor, imperious