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

everything

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 

grandchild,

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.

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Working Out

I’m enrolled in a workout class

designed to give me more flexibility

when wielding my tune-in muscle.

I used to think I was weird or wired

differently, stuck in that unyielding

school desk watching the clock’s

agonizing creep. But now I know

anyone can do this. A parent dials

into their child’s frequency

to understand the being of few words

and passionate, overwhelming desires.

We sense into the needs of our pets,

opening to a way of communicating

that feels mysterious, psychic.

Our schools are designed to stamp

out our mystical knowledge. Everyone

must fit into the square pegs, summoned

by bells to march to classrooms.

Slaves to time, unquestioning.

Some of us fell through the cracks,

resisted the molding, shedding it

like snake skin. Reaching into a field

sparkling like dewdrops on a spiderweb

of magnetic aliveness that spans

the globe, we are awake and sitting.

The mystics and the poets will save us

by opening up the clock

to the spaciousness between seconds,

inviting us to abandon the lurid

sitcoms and online distractions

that keep us tied to an agenda

like mice spinning on a wheel.

Change the station, dial in to

the connection we have all been

reaching for, right here, on the other

side of the canned laughter

that keeps you

from listening to now.

Inspired by the Ragtag Daily Prompt: Sitcom

Which Witch?

Rage itself is often taken on from somewhere else and may have been passed down through several generations. Under the anger, at its source, lies pain. When I am hurt, I become angry. There is strength to be found in rage and I can still maintain contact with others. In pain, I lose my strength and feel alone.
~ Bertold Ulsamer

You would think in my family

there would be some kind of ceremony,

a celebration for budding witches.

Every person who shares my DNA

is highly intuitive, and most

struggle in a world where admitting

you see ghosts, or you read feelings,

that you hear voices or receive warnings

through dreams is considered

downright crazy.  At the very least,

you will be mocked and teased,

maybe beaten by those who fear

what secrets you may uncover.

I have always been driven

to discover the stories of my ancestors.

These days, I understand that they have

been murmuring in my ears

since I was tiny, showing up in the wee

hours of the night, longing

for connection, with no qualms

at disturbing my sleep.  My grandmother

told me stories of her own grandmother

playing the piano when everyone was fast

asleep, sixty years after dying 

during childbirth.  Grandma knew

who was playing, and she told the most

delicious spine-tingling tales

about her family members, scared witless,

scrambling through the dark farmhouse

searching for a living prankster.

We come to this world with so much love

and loyalty to those who have gone before

us, sure that by taking on their troubles,

we’ll ease their pain.  Yesterday I tuned in

to inexplicable anger.  Whose is this?

I placed a huge rock of trauma I’ve carried

at my great grandmother’s feet — her unspeakable

rage at becoming an orphan far too huge

for her to feel, constrained into this boulder

that I gladly hoisted onto my own strong

shoulders.  Except I finally realize

that my greatest gift to her

is forging my own path.

She won’t ever be forgotten;

her steady stream feeds this river 

of life that moves me 

to my own destiny, the going

easier now as I lay my burden down.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompts: ceremony

Tell It To My Heart

“For in spite of language, in spite of intelligence and intuition and sympathy, one can never really communicate anything to anybody.” ~ Aldous Huxley

I have always resisted

labels.  Even calling the way

I feel into life intuition

is an instant limitation.

All the inherent potential’s

available now.  This constant

evolution allows the wordplay

I so love.  Truth speaking

fades as soon as it’s uttered.

The new runs through an open hand

yet we dare to try to grasp,

and name the nameless.

No, I am not clinging

to a single stand I have taken

and yes, each moment I will declare

another, experiencing this rich

unfolding of beauty, horror,

true love and deep anger.

Why do we tingle with life,

jump into insights, premature

leaps toward the next deep pool?

How do we absorb this quiescent

question amid all the mind’s

mumbo jumbo?  I don’t understand

a single thing, though I catch

glimpses of the cohesive flow

staggering, mouth agape

these words of praise escaping.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: premature

Tune-in Time

I tuned in to today’s word “rivulet” writing yesterday’s poem, and so I found myself in a space of resistance:  I already wrote that!

Intuitive people often grapple with time,

moving in and out fluidly, genuinely

wondering, did I already have

that conversation with you

or is it yet to occur?

You walk a dangerous minefield

when you are young

and the things you see and speak of

frighten the people who raise you.

And it’s easy to see why people like me

were sought out on moonless nights

by those frightened of their own

shadows, desperate for a spell

or a potion, wisdom

and compassion read from tea leaves

or ancient symbols. Now I need

to break the silence

and remind you:

this is a hologram.

Rigid rules of what is

and isn’t possible exist to control you.

Stand in your power.

Seek the light always,

and be very certain this will

illuminate the dark places.

You could scream or flee.

Better to find the place in your cellar

where you’re locked away.

No more burning at the stake,

when we can all see

beyond the temporal veils.

Our seeing will save us from

this heedless rush into disaster

like snapping out of a dream.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: rivulet