Therapy Talks

Now heal this 


who’s missing safety.

Daylight exposes

dark secrets.

Nightmare awakening, 

screaming child.

Hush, now, exasperated parents

place drunken touching

in unopened drawers,

hidden luster 

until the truth

reveals luster,

hidden drawers unopened

in touching drunken place.

Parents exasperated 

now hush.

Child-screaming awakening, 

nightmare secrets,

dark exposés.

Daylight safety 


whose child

this heals now.

Written for #OctPoWriMo Day 22, Betrayal, in a palindrome form.  Inspired by: Disguise, Drawer, Luster,  Exasperated, and Safety.  This form is difficult, and it almost made me change my rule of only devoting an hour to the prompt poem.  I am sure to revisit it, so I welcome any comments.

The Inner Witch

Once upon a time

in a former culture

long forgotten,

a priestess foresaw

a probable future.

And though she issued

warnings, her prophetic voice

was lost as a path

in a true blizzard

the kind where there is no

step forward,

only hunkering down

in a crude shelter

fashioned blindly

in great haste

at life’s peril.

Sheltered there, covered

with icy dread,

she waits


for a song,

our cathartic voices

raised to melt

her cage

and ignite

her smoldering power.

Inspired by: #OctPoWriMo Day 18, Once Upon A Time, Prophetic, Cathartic, Culture, BlizzardFormer

This Is Insane

Resistance only feeds the problem; the solution is to tell the truth, embrace it, and seek integration. ~ Me to myself

No one is holding the

madness reins


the horse is galloping

straight toward the cliff.

Prompted, we admit it now.

Madness reigns

this culture of manifest destiny

a power grab

celebration of greed 

pure evil

needs more soldiers

more poor

more prisoners

more more

corporations thrive in our despair

and madness rains

bombs on schoolbuses

and villages, mosques

and marketplaces.

When I was young and fairly

sane, I questioned

the concentration

camps, certain I would never

tolerate such cruelty,

yet now I brood,


the rotted foundation

supporting me.

I am

the child of white settlers

ensconced on stolen land,

while my ancestors’ victims

and mine

languish in the desert

of the reservations where

the water diverted, 

only madness rains.

My heels caught in the loop

of madness reins

digging grooves

in the dusty plains

where madness reigns.

Inspired by #OctPoWriMo Day 17, Madness Reigns, Prompt, Brood,  Exploring, Certain,

and Whose Land Do You Live On?

As Bad As All That

Coyotes are BAD, he spat 

exiting the room in his grand

conceit of wisdom.

In my world this is how males

converse with mere females.

Deliver the brilliant blast

assume abject

approval, and draw

the discussion to a firm

unyielding end.

The echoes of his favorite 

television channel reverberate

in his passage, that seductive

assumption that I am good

and everyone else

and every other living thing

is undeserving

of consideration

in their struggle for survival.

This is colonialism in the modern

world, insistent upon 

eradicating the pests

until only a green country club

with high gates and tasteful

umbrellas for casual dining


the eye 

— after proper approval

and paying the exorbitant dues —

to perfectly landscaped

rolling hills, cart paths

through lovely tree-lined vistas.

A place where everything evil

has come to rest

in the hearts of the people

determined to stay apart.

Dissidents are dangerous.

The shrinking world

manageable with the right dose

of pesticides and


heart medicine

and blood pressure pills.

They tee off

enjoying the slow death

the planetary gasp

riding the white 

waves to shore

one final time.

Inspired by #OctPoWriMo Day 15 Prompt: If __ were an umbrella, and Conceit, Draw, Blast, Brilliant, Approval.

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.

On Fleek

He’s at the age

where dark picture 

books are hurled

across the room.

Bad guy, he proclaims,

judging their expressions

with unfailing accuracy.

And though he refuses

to look, still

he plays flee the monster

with his great grandpa,

“scary, scary, scary,”

his invitation: hands curved

like talons framing his face

and a hideous grimace

everything on fleek

for his rendition

the climax

cheeks flush

heart-pounding adrenaline

as he is pursued

by the creeping

old man.  I have yet

to read him the stories

of trolls guarding the bridge

to the destination —

the castle of everything

good, where princesses sleep

next to a freshly bitten

apple.  Right now, he creates

his own telling

of the human condition,

jumping into my arms

and turning to yell, Safe!

and a frowning command, Stop!


Inspired by: Castle, Scary, Troll, Fleek, Flush

The Cold Damp Days

My plan is to pacify with a pillow

path and a sheet-draped fort,

a book about farts — Everyone Toots

— don’t mock.

In the summertime, he plunges into bearded

iris to talk to bees,

chases white moths and listens to trees.

In the fall, he hops after crickets

and startles plopping frogs.

With this wind coming in

from the north, we are forced

into rainy day laps

racing fast, high-stepping

marches with a singing bear,

a quick-tempo dance party.

A constant flow

of  invitations

to leap and crawl,

trot and howl,

moving in our circuitous course

to the reward:


which I’ll accept with humbled

grace and tumble

into sweet slumber

at his side.

Inspired by: Beard, Rainy, North, Pacify, Mock, and Damp.

Go With The Flow

I’m watching by the window
any minute now, he’ll show.

I’m captured in slow-moving time,
delicious listening: door chime!

As the car’s parking, he twists around,
I’m a wild, waving, besotted clown.

A hallelujah song in perfect pitch:
the harmony of love and I’m bewitched.

Color me in hues of effervescent joy,
I’m in utter bliss with this beloved boy.

A converse style poem written for the #OctPoWriMo Day 9 prompt: Dancing on air, and inspired by:  Pitch, Color and Parking.


Their fathers stole our land. Long ago it was said ‘the white man would look on in disbelief as his sons and daughters began to adopt the Indian way. To learn what their fathers didn’t understand.’ Yeah… he’s a wannabe. He wanna be connected. ~ Lakota Elder in Dreamkeeper. 


Great blue heron flies over

the hummingbird and I imbibing

our morning delights.  Mine is imported

from a nation known for its cheap

labor, so please understand every word

I speak is flavored by the quintessence

of colonialism.  A Monarch butterfly

— the first this season — draws my gaze.

Three signs, three solitary flights.

What is missing is the connection

between the prevalence of abuse

and the foundation of greed.

These systemic barbs rip away

our flesh as we extract them,

ships filled with enslaved humans,

the earth crying for her beloveds

who cared for her like a dear

grandmother — not shut away in a

home, demented and alone.

We ripped away their talismans

crushed civilizations to embrace

every living being with our

poisons, the bombs and corruption

we reluctantly pay for, the prisons

swelling, the victims singing

as we wallow in our past sorrow.

Blind to these portents

mesmerized by our screen lives


divine grace flows

in the capacious now

just beyond our bedeviled faces.



Inspired by: CapaciousQuintessence, Talisman, Radical, Secrete, Prevalence 

You can watch Dreamkeeper here.


Angels Among Us

…our mind is moved to believe angels are a normal everyday occurrence, something we see all around us. ~ Stacey Zarling

Featured Image: Winged Figure, 1889, by Abbott Handerson Thayer, oil, Art Institute of Chicago.

These wide white wings

enrapture me; she carries the past

modeling endlessly for Thayer

the solution for his quest

to capture unseeable angels.

Unsoiled by her shore-dives

she wades on long black stilts

stunning the waters with her white

reflection, emerging triumphant,

a squirming body clamped in gold.

And then, the lift-off

feathery unfurling before claiming

the air.  In her sudden

absence, the crisp fall air

illuminates the dearth of song-

birds, last night’s plummet

denying permission for those busy

summer reaches.  The sky’s empty.

This new season won’t come cheap,

as we huddle in blankets and hoodies

preparing to relight the fires

opening for true grace

to wing in to our patience

in the inner darkness,

alert for every sign.


Inspired by: Stunning, Cheap, Enrapture, Permission, Solution, Fall