And yet, I can

Half of the bay is iced,
a line straight from shore to shore.

Rippling bright cold on that side.
Frozen still by me.

Last night’s clouds covered the full
moon trying to cleanse crystals

stargazing on my window seat.
The architect of my dreams

is always me. The plight awakening
my soul held for ransom

by these tiny trauma places
obstructing my energy flow.

Ducks dabble at the edge,
perhaps flirting with danger under

this new boundary. Heads pop
up in the ceaseless current.

I’m diving into my inner self
worth, seizing each block

curling my feet and clenching
my hands. Signals to my wise

now—heal me! Love me!
All this young reaching out

turned inward to comfort
a broken heart. You’re not

good enough my poisoned
talisman, intelligent protection.

You’re too much. Truth will not
be received well, not here.

Shut up and survive.
Clutch this imperative: you can’t.

Inspired by: Can, Architect, Plight and Ransom.

Just popped in at the halfway point to say, I miss you, fellow daily writers! The writing is flowing like music, thanks to Lisa Cron’s amazing book, Story Genius: How To Use Brain Science To Go Beyond Outlining And Write A Riveting Novel* [Before You Wasted Three Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere.] (It works! Yesterday my word count was 38,646 out of my goal of 50K by the end of November!)

Notes To My Future Self

You know all that advice about

summoning your wise future self

to whisper encouragement? 

It’s all baloney.

If you had an ear available

to the present, you could create

a future self inhabiting a different

plane of reality.  But your ears

are stuffed with the past;

you can only react

to echoes that resonate

the trauma you’ve packed

so carefully into the very

tissues of this body

right here

the one you ignore

and medicate

and wish could be

different, more like

the ideal one your future self

inhabits.  Can you see

how it’s an absurd circle,

like a vast conspiracy

to keep you in chains?

Look, the way to free your future

self from your past chains

is to actually access

this moment

right now

to allow

all the aches and pains,

the torments and screams,

the anguish and fears,

the tears, oh, yeah, the sobbing.

Every time someone hit you

and you had to grin and bear it

is a link forged in the shackles

that keep you from 

creation.  You say it feels too

overwhelming to even consider

processing all of this stuck

energy, calcified, dense,

blocking the flow.

Just be here, 

find a real emotion,

just one

or even the numbness.

Cherish that.

It is present

and now so are you.

Growing Souls

“The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow.” ~ Kurt Vonnegut

In the attic-boxed stories

illustrated with crayons

my name in cursive carefully

claiming this 8-year-old brilliance,

I enter the saga 

of Gertrude, a just plain

ugly little girl who doesn’t give

a hoot about fashions or what

the popular kids are parroting.

She stands against bullies,

a genuine badass.

And by the end of the story,

she simply doesn’t care

that the other girls

are following her.


This strategic thinker, casting

myself a writer

fueling a family belief

in my sanity: 

Oh, that child, such a wild

imagination!  As I prattled on

ghosts in my closet,

dream visions, premonitions,

seeing energy like most people

see a table, and feeling

behind slick smiles, knowing

“Well, to tell the truth”

is the opening line

of a lie lurking near the curtains

ready to burst onto the stage.  


I skirt around the play

with pithy comments,

the mainstream trap is clearly

insane, so I’m happy, hearing

my friends call me wacky.


I am Gertrude, I see

that horizon 

the liminal space

the threshold

where creation is the leading

edge, so we drop

habits like hot potatoes,

release lies squirming through

the nets, abandon

mental convictions


Jumping up from a poem


when a bird crashes into my glass

window.  We all do it,

the poplar reminds.

I proclaim it is necessary for stars

to splinter

through my indefensible

sensibility.  I acknowledge

at long last the words

spinning my constructions and

I praise

the spaces beneath 

the stories

where we all reside.

Inspired by: Imagination, Horizon, Trap

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.

Rewriting The Definition

Tall black-eyed susans push past

a low cloud of moonbeam

coreopsis. A crowd at

the strictly enforced border.

A blushing nymph

waterlily suns herself in the lake,

invasive as all get out

a pithy warning —

settlers’ sly insistent creeping.

There’s no room.

We squeeze each other out,

every inch of this perfect

green lawn saturated

with poisons for perennials,

marauding insects, crushed. The sweet autumn

clematis has leaped

to the shoreline, her bold daughter

blooming in white fragrance.

Chocolate mint escaped a container

to luxuriate in this lakeside

property.  The natives are absent

except for one ancient poplar

and her old granddaughter.  They hold long

conversations underground

minding the aquifer.  Their silly leaves

play peek-a-boo with the beings

who flitter in branches and sing

nursery rhymes.  The chill

in the foreboding air.  The after-

taste of toxins.

Surely spring

is bound to follow

winter with vibrant new

species, resistant to the cancers

so carelessly created

as we succumb, unseeing

in our technodaze

to the newest wave of life

wanting to live.


Inspired by: definition, pithy, absent, bound