The Leading Edge

Our vibration goes up when we serve.~Thomas Huebl

A baby won’t ask for anything
you can’t give. All you have

requested by life that wants
to live. And I’m not trash talkin’

your mama, so caught in tight
ancestral trauma that a cry

in that wailing treble lands
like a devil in those spaces

genetically disheveled.
There is no blame, the centuries

laid out clearly but we can’t see
the hidden sculpture. Life

is not as it seems. We think the
pain may become our mainstay

if we don’t struggle. Make way.
We find ourselves while running

from what’s wronging
flee the leading edge, our

most farfetched longing
arms we hold outstretched.

We’re cautious, sniff the aromatic
clues, scents enigmatic and so

problematic and yet
a child knows when it’s time

to snuggle, surrender to the
fear. So often trouble

is the gift. When we accept
unwrap, perplexed, but willing

to be still upon the lap
we’ve cried for, all that rises

in connection–the winds,
the seas, the branches bending

low to feel our wailing cease.
Finally heard, we acquiesce and be.


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.

Missing Frequency

A tuning fork at 174 hertz
rings solfeggio frequencies

and my cells cannot ignore
this invitation. All the toxins

that spill into my field,
rejection signed by sneezing,

coughing, itching, frowns
and sneering gather here,

a shield of imbalance.
Stuck by my own disgust.

How I ignore what I know
to be dirty.  Why would I sully

my clean? The stasis of my
fight prevents the change

I long for. The instant
fix, not this long slog

of choice in every single
fricking minute. Vibrating

tines loosen my
defenses and harmony

slips in. I’m tingling
and clear-sighting, receptive

to what yearns for integration
what is here now.

Inspired by: Rejection, Spill, Ignore, Change and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt: clean/dirty (So to follow the rules and integrate as well, I’ve used all the prompts in stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what I write.  Business as usual.)
And inspired as well by my first biofield tuning and yet another reflective, gorgeous sunset.

The Look Time Can’t Erase

Each with charm to sway are staring eye to eye.  They dare not look away.~Joni Mitchell, Edith and the Kingpin.

Deep in inner space, I finally
cease to castigate and just
say I don’t know. I’m tired
of the kingpin swagger, the lord
high muckety-muck’s dilatory
stroll through the rapt
mapped territory.

The face of my disconnect
appears, blurred edges,

A strain of nightly music,
dreamcast and obscure,
I’m sure reveals some
powerful insight. If only

I let go of these cold hard
perceptions I call reality.

A glimmer of gold
invites me to descend.

The truth is

I am numb and that’s
okay. I sit with what is,

curiously falling

into the field
with my clear intention

to be here
just as I am.

Inspired by: Nightly, Kingpin, Strain and Dilatory.

Right Action

Caffeine, please do the work–
sleepless, aching head means

my walk is eggshell
calm and careful as this morning.

My pen’s running dry—oh, god,
I just can’t enter the chattering

house. I’d rather taxi
solo on this runway, hide

in my fabricated solitude—
eking out the last ink.

Under the surface a bass
chasing minnows creates concentric

ripples out of nowhere. The movement
draws me out of my pain and so

I’m here for the silver flash of power
into the tranquil air. I’m holding

still on the edge, no inclination
to enter. I propose to spend

these early hours avoiding
my imbalance. So given to

interpretation, searching for patterns
—eureka, this caused that.

My illness forces me to take apart
my life’s weaving, discarding the threads

past saving, going back to the garden,
growing a more disciplined life

rooted in nourishment, soul food
essentials. Daily practice.

Baby steps. Yesterday a goofy
pitbull pup loped into the yard,

leaped into our wading pool.
We burst out laughing, feeding him

into a frenzy until his powerful
untrimmed nails drew blood and

shrieks—fear and pain and rage
even after I scooped up my grandson,

the dog still jumping, scratching with
bighearted painful idiocy. Now

pairs of birds are trickling into
the peace. Their calls seem muted

just to the level I can hold.
All the signs and portents explicit.

Sit and dive deep for the tectonic
shifting. My screaming three-year-old

inside sees the crack
in the crypt where she’s buried

alive. Carry me, face the perpetrator
with my blood still dripping,

then clean and patch me
with big bandages while we explore

the dark-feeling surge. Rejoice
at the powerful opening of terrified

child-screams. Release all the aftermath
hidden below the surface.

Inspired by: Movement, Taxi, Hide and Propose.

What Holds Water

I charge my staff and so I’m
off to chart abysmal waters,

the depths of what carries me
—gone the days of bikini-clad

paddleboarding, blithe and
sunlit-assured. It’s dark and

a young child crafting a raft
on the edges of the whirlpool

drags me under. (I left as the falls
swept me down and I’ll still go

if you shout or hit.) That child
of ingenuity rises with immense

power (grabbing my wheel and
plunging me into old stories

while you gape). Music brings
me back to this place grounded

in the melodious roots of the
very planet. I trace the circle

of light and illuminate every glimmer
resonating in this particular eddy

of my soul growth. Every fallen
star available, the atoms of my

composition recycled dinosaurs
and queens, inspired artists and

ruthless Kurgan hordes sweeping
down to my rich and verdant

plains. Wherever the world gathers
to watch a ball flung, kicked, hit

into the air, I’m there, sailing
on the waves of thrumming

vibrancy. Our interlacing
song waking, tuning myself

(we accompany each other’s
unacknowledged harmony)

in this precise key, opening
my throat to sing the exact note

you need to hear in the loving
field we recreate in time.

Inspired by: Melodious, Charge, Ingenuity and Chart.


I say I walk the earth and yet
I’m really lost at sea.

My childhood drowning me, I’m wet
denying it’s all me.

My feet float, quite ungrounded
I’m so full of hot air.

My projections are unbounded
but it’s at you I glare.

You never act the way you should!
Behavior quite bizarre.

I cringe at every falsehood,
dasher-of-hope you are.

A mirror is no substitute,
the drama’s where I live.

Your message here an absolute
slap in the face you give.

Wake up, you say, I’m dreaming.
(I’m so focused on your faults

and all the ways I’m scheming
justifying somersaults.)

You’re just so difficult, I swear,
and so I turn my back.

Recriminations so unfair
and why do you attack?

Alone, apace, I breathe again
and claim each surly face

and owning me, I can extend
the long-needed embrace.

Inspired by Substitute

Try To Love Again

When it comes to lovin’ me, she’s worse, but when it comes to bein’ loved, she’s first. That’s how I know the first cut is the deepest. ~ Cat Stevens.

When the thunderclap strike
forced me to flee, unlike

me, you stayed, managing
negotiations for

bread and water rations.
Frightened child lost in space,

I lost my place, only
you know secret tortures

they employed, there’s no joy
automatons can feel.

In breathing, sacred trust.
Save me while I fly, I must

have no memory
I will claim each time

I trip into their pain,
they fall again

off the wagon. Endless
trail and the crumbs disappear

below my feet in time
the body I inhabit

still alive. One step starts
this journey together

feeling into what is,
leaving what should be

to the light exposing
at this very moment

two broken robin’s eggs
sky blue and from the tree

she’s cheer up cheer up cheer-
and I’m yanked out

of knowing, her wind-torn
nest, am I alone in

mourning? Going back to
you, my inspiration,

my breath,
my life,
my death.

Written for the prompts: Trip, Negotiation, Wagon and Bread.

The Daily Poem

The lake cups the last silver

gleaming of the day, calm grace

of a queen sipping tea.  Even

the frogs still for this moment

bursting with power-silence,

a song my soul joins in the sheer

shock of voiceless joy.

What holds the light?

And into the darkness, where

all of the errors I chalk up 

and the pain I omit in memoirs

comes creeping in to be

soothed, every critical voice,

the infinite patience of grandmother

who sees into the heart

of the fractious child.  

Who sees me?  Windows flung

open to the cool dawn air,

I’m wide awake in love

despite the stories you shared,

the chaos and confusion,

the hard evidence of the rotted

foundation I’ve exposed.

There are careful trills

exploring the threshold as once

again, the pewter surface

smooths into a lake

and sky, the lilac and vanilla

viburnum’s fragrant oil thick

upon the air.  A twittering now

as a cowbird bolds her way

into the wren’s nest to leave

an offering.  Whose offspring

do we raise at our own

children’s peril?  The notes

continue even when I lose

the harmony of true curiosity

in one more querulous coma

from which I wake 

to sing.

Inspired by: Tea, Chalk, Oil and Omit.

Leap Out (of the box)

The nos are the stepping stones that get you there ~ Andrea Waltz

If I modify the picture
I recall based on these two

(a throbbing innovator poised
on the ledge and my crotchety

father’s why can’t he mind?)
I discover I have never been

naughty. Arriving here
with a hero’s heart

—dressed in pink lace (torn)
with tight shiny shoes (flung)—

bright eyes and the evidence
so clear my oldest brother

needed glasses from hearing so
many nos. I’m leaping forward

then to go back now
circling into myself

and the most powerful version
of us. (Standing up and away

from those little desks and the prattled
history lies, reciting the facts

blocking the intuitive
deep knowing.) A grandmother might

open the door (but she’s pacing
forgetful, safe in a place

that reeks of urine and bleach.)
Schoolmates pushed in competition

separation, everyone desperate
for unconditional regard.

Today I belong, ready for this
daring feat together, right

beside him embracing
non-linear time.

Inspired by Recall, Picture, Modify and Naughty.