Anything Is Possible

We explore subconscious with tenderness
to begin cognizant of wilderness
interior, we claim these feelings rush
–no poke and post, accuse–with rigorous

logic we nail down the primal essence
no reason to react, we give presence
to those triggered by fear, so powerless
unable to see rejuvenescence

our conscience awakes, insight streams like light
the narrative flips, what looked wrong or right
emerges, necessary steps for growth
the planet hums vibratory preflight

Open to love, imagination soars
we claim each evil deed, we hear the roars
all of our shadows long abhorred arise
we look into each others’ eyes, clear doors.

Inspired by Begin, Wilderness, Cognizant, Conscience and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt “nail”.  

Featured image: my grandson brought some old monster/soldiers to play with, and I told him I didn’t like their energy.  So he got out the crystals and cleaned them.  


A hummingbird joins me.
Overhead a small plane thrums

the lake, and beyond the trees
traffic rumbles the fast lanes.

The pace is all too much.
In deep contemplation I request

a larger container to sanctify
my fear. I send intention soaring

to illuminate this enigmatic
moment. A catbird alarms the far

shore, cheeping swoop of goldfinch.
Alone, I peer from these ancient

eyes, pipped. My fragile shell
must break, and I could die

if I emerge too soon. Surreal
tymbals vibrating cicadas

ebb and flow in a wave of
sound. If you call me

today, use the knowing field.
Find me in the forest

or by this placid shore,
hidden like the white bark

of the leafed sycamore in the
darkened place where trees tingle.

If only I could share joy
in the midst of this cacophony.

Alas, the rollercoaster life spills me
confused. Caught in this welter

of shame: A normal woman surely
holds her sacred connection

even when her loved ones take
their cruel shots. Shattered

and angry, grief-stricken, torn.
I breathe in the brief

true reflection love mirrors. Ah,
this groveling child, the stench

as she emerges unbearable.
Soiled, abandoned–

no Instagram preset
can make this pretty.

Come in, my darling.
Sit while your trembling

subsides. I see you
triggered, driving blindly

as I question the route, only
now gently taking the wheel.

Inspired by: Surreal, Enigmatic, Fear and Sanctify.


Each morning I’m prompted

to warp time and space

and breathe in peculiar

rhyme with no warning of

what I represent, rep-

rehensible base

a disgrace I expose.

Digging up bones from those

unmarked graves hidden

in this bucolic space.  I can’t

leave, faced with ferocious

resistance — how dare I

disturb what is seething

— malcontent label, dis-

trusted clear seeing.  Now

this thread of secret sorrow

linking yesterdays’

tomorrows brings me here,

my heart bared to receive

your arrows.  Aim and fly.

I yield.  My song unsealed

what we grieve.  A few more

tears and sighs before I

reach rage’s primal dance,

claim my inheritance,

singing, this tune is mine.

Inspired by Bucolic, Warp, Represent and Peculiar.

Snakes and Ladders

the   first   simple   step   is   to   awaken

aghast   and see   the world’s  projection

stage                                                and stay

alert                                              eyes wide

then  that deep  dive   into  inner silence

focus      on  shining   light     in darkness

creep                                               through

dank                                                      fetid

rot-smell   cold-slime   quivering  pieces

the ones                                         who urge

finality                                       at three a.m.

unrecognized pale  night-creatures locked

away   until   a   friend’s  casual   comment

she’s no                                                  longer

suicidal                                                  you see

you’re  not  alone  blindly casting  for rungs

you  thought   you  could  climb  out without

them                                                        wearing

vibrant                                                     versions

the world will accept,  but  you  ricochet  back

forced  to  claim  the  horror  features   silently

running                                          black and white

fueling                                             your discontent

the  most  precious part of your being desperate

to  be  integrated   to   finally   know  what   it’s

like to                                                              be you.




Inspired by #OctPoWriMo Day 14, If I Were Me, in a shape poem (a ladder is much more difficult that I thought, but, hey, it’s my first shape poem.  Also, just viewed this on my phone and there is no shape at all, it looks like a mess, which is also appropriate) and Vibrant, Shelter, Feature, Ricochet.