Morning Clairaudience

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some voices are thin
some voices ring
in my head
like imposed cacophony
but my voices
are not like hers
so I remain
in the sheets
my head singing

my heart longing
for the ones
that remove
all assumptions
perhaps if I stay
in that place
that delicious place

between heaven and earth
I can figure it out
perhaps apologize

for not
incarnating today
but as I roll over to hit
the snooze alarm
unambiguous says
get up now

The Last Funeral Mass

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“For what is it that kills, if not for old habits, that die hard?” ~ Anonymous

let’s build in matter’s image
said man
and construct forms,
and byways,
and strategies,
and laws
they will be necessary
for if not man
who else
will save the world?
but the sound of
wombman weeping
troubled them so,
for she would not hush
nor accept their offer
of plea bargain
she had not
to her own demise
nor was she blaming
for theirs
it was rumored
she had conceived
without them
did away with genders
or reflected
them both
inside of herself
and they held meeting
to determine
if they could
still call her
a her anymore
a song had been born
from her tears
or perhaps
The Song
had been born
it was like

a burbling brook,
of crystal clear water,
a river
or the motion in it
damn it
grumbled the men

it is the wind
this background noise
that’s persistent
but elusive
some freak
deja vu of

human nature
the men couldn’t put
their finger on it
what they feared
about this sound
that wasn’t a sound
and this mere woman
who wasn’t mere woman
from whence The Song
without effort
or strategy
and they did fear it
like sorrow,
or discomfort,
and unexpected
a beautiful,
yet plaintive  
funeral song
that’s what it was
that she sang,
that’s what it was
that they feared
and they asked
is not this
sort of thing
or contagious?
they wondered if
her song
was somehow
about them
though it bore
no actual resemblance
and she seemed sad
but happy
at the same time
while the song
seemed to grow
and expand

within her
yet echoed back

at them
from inside out

of their own heads
they feared it
and hated it so
because they couldn’t hold it,
or touch it,
to make it definable,
and containable
or give it a label
a form,
a package
or a box
to make it safe
for human consumption
it was too unpredictable,
too vulnerable,
too wild,
too free,
too rapid
for thought
or human logistics
like she had already shed
her own shell
without authorization
or permission
from higher command
who did she think
she was?
and though they thought
it must be stupid,
this fruit
what wombman had birthed
they feared

it must be swifter
more direct
than them
and their inhuman
as if this spirit
this spirit
of hers
this non material
this conception
always had
a mind
of its own
or worse
was a mind
of its own
different than theirs
from their plans
for her
and the child-song’s
greater good
didn’t the wombman
and child
know they were
in danger?
in fact
she and her own
seemed quite at home
in their lovely place
in the woods
where her table was set
with invisible fine things
she invited them
to dine
on her invisible abundance,
the invisible laughing
like a beautiful,
dinner bell chime
how crazy was that
how inappropriate
they felt it was
for a funeral
how dare she
who was she
how was she
even still alive
yet alone,
they wondered,
a white wedding veil
had not they created
what really mattered
a material
body of knowledge
and she borne
only what couldn’t
be seen
the ghost
we thought
we eliminated
centuries ago
for her own sake
when we condemned her
for understanding
the fruit
of the tree
the first time
I know
said one
how to fix this
let’s burn her house down
let’s set fire

to her trees
that hide the new child
from us
that way he will have to
come out
and show his face
show us
who he really is
that which we cannot
or reflect
in our own image
a likeness
that we
can’t even see
and they came at her
with weapons
of mass destruction
but the fire
would not catch,
or light,
or burn those living trees
that she had nurtured
with her own hands
only their suits
and their instruments
of death
caught fire
and their own hands
now matched their clothing
and marked
with inky black soot
she calmly reproved them
telling them to hurry
wash up for dinner
she said
you are like
soldered clocks
ticking no time,
while my labor
is complete
for this one last
funeral mass
this one
last time
we are not celebrating
the death of my son,

this time around
for he is my song
the Love of my heart
and is not made of matter
so cannot die
we are celebrating his rebirth
at the death
of your own
for yours is what
is no longer useful
the empty chalice,
a rusted metal vessel
all along


they come in various flocks
to sing
triumphant journeys
over me

while I stay still
imagining them
the heralds of movement
of my soul

journeys do you speak
oh quiet one
who sings your song at night
that watchful, weary eyes
can’t see?

Who whispers stories
just out of reach
like feathers of birds
or angel’s wings

that disappear
upon human touch
when the dark of daylight
shadows me?

without reason or cause
but Remembrance

that I know
from somewhere beyond
the conscious state

Like an instinct
to fly up,
up through the skies
like a bird

Because I hear you
calling me
saying come fly
come dance
 come soar with me

For if not
for short statured
my little soul

you are bigger than
the world

Virgin Birth

oh Lady of Wisdom
of the desert
of the woods
this is your castle
and home
send torrents of angels
like rain
upon us
adept in your science
and mathematics
of grace
and sacred geometry
so that in the
morning light
we might find ourselves
like our true labor
and true
rendered garments
and combat ready
not with weapons
of mass destruction
men use
in their killing fields
but with Love
for it is only
who realizes
her own Revelation
who gives birth to
the one power
mightier than
the sword.

Munchausen by Proxy

my mother has mirrors
like those intricately carved
and gilded in gold
what a queen
might have used
or film stars
of the 1940’s
without their mirrors
and stories of old
the scrubbing never ended
the scrubbing of dishes,
and pots and plates
it could never be finished
what I mean is
one was always

jealous step sister
with too big feet
or the second one in line
for the throne
the third runner up
for some kind of
film star award
no matter what one’s
royal lineage
until one took off

one’s apron
to relax for a bit
perhaps mom took off
a pink one

the one with green stitching
and pointed and starched
black lace
that she had sewn
all by herself

from scraps
she had retrieved from

the rag bin
and found herself
content to cast image
onto something
or someone

else for awhile
and that’s how it all
got started
so long ago
the spell casting

of images
Mom’s magic mirrors
the mistaking
of her own reflection
for a daughter
in the silverware
or the dinner plates
Mom still holds things up
for inspection
wherever she finds
her magic mirrors
and sees reflections
and hears voices
that seem to make life
not shiny enough
or make the neighbors
gossip and point

and now
all I have to remember

remember her by
Mom’s true self
is my own grief
when she casts with
such impunity
and purpose
like a professional
to make me the object
of all that she despises
in her imagination
inside of herself

Missouri Moon

I left her
in Southgate
a rose dahlia
she had something
on her mind

to keep
the Missouri moon
rose o’er me
a lantern

in the sky
telling me secrets
that she

couldn’t speak
isn’t it ironic
mortal men

find her brilliant
as reflection

of the sun
but just as

morning beckons
she weeps

like Mara
whose waters
we cannot drink
Missouri moon

caress my face

to mitigate
a divide
Missouri moon

I beg you
guide me home
for I still sense

only you
can guide me
to a journey
without grief

Candlelight Ritual


lend me your mystery
draw me into the night
that I might discover
something more

more than the shadows

that vague and opaque
that hunt and haunt
my loose-latched
front door

and make my footing
as I step out
in a fog-like cloak
of non disclosure

instead of transparency
the wraith wants to
mark my death
and make sure
my stories aren’t told

like a cold, old lady
who sweeps puzzle pieces
under the rug

without me asking
from my kitchen floor


oh beautiful,
magical candlelight

that’s not the cleansing

that I’m looking for
but it’s getting simpler

for I sense you’re a portal
my knowing,
my door,

my non material
that’s nonetheless more secure

as you lend me your flame
and close tightly behind me

to make my heart pulsate
like you

in discovering that more

in what you illumine

that clear and that brilliant
beyond mask, doors and floors

the sharp white and black

that’s not stale or despondent
it’s like an outline of tree limbs
cutting up through to the sky

and beyond time
as if
we could reach heaven’s height
in humble candlelight
and reverse alchemy

I know you can take me there
with outstretched arms
and the face in whose eyes
I look upon

as they reflect my own

that I’ve never seen before
oh candlelight,
that contains all mysteries

wake me up
with kind smile
and words from that mystery
that lies right before me

black cloaked woman

Social Distancing Dinner

place setting

At ninety
the wicked stepmother
bringing with her delusions
fueled on Fox News,
white bread
and mayonnaise
I can see it in her eyes
right before
she turns

unable to manage
her own fork
she attacks me with words
for being younger than her,
serving healthy food,
and refusing
to choke
on the color
of my ex-husband’s
new wife’s
brown skin
I hold onto my glass
for what else is there
to hold onto
when you want to wash
something other
than color
off of your skin
like a virus
she’d like to pass down
through generational channels
does she really imagine
peace is made
chewing with mouths open
excusing ourselves
in the Lord?
she says it’s not just the skin
don’t you know
it’s their culture
and they should be used
to uncharitable remarks
by now,
she adds that his mother
must be rolling over
in her grave
I say perhaps
perhaps that’s true
because after all
I don’t think racists
get to go
to heaven
she tries to fling
her dinner plate at me
of chicken salad
on baby spinach
with those little, tiny
mandarin oranges
that came in the can
with the pull-back ring
though I try to stop her
it’s too late
and like her virus of words
the food I served to her
comes flying back at me
across my kitchen table

her own fork
she attacks me with words
for being younger than her,
serving healthy food,
and refusing to choke
on the skin color
of my ex-husband’s
new wife’s
brown skin
I hold onto my water bottle
for what else is there
to hold onto
and clutch
when  you want to scream
and wash something
other than color
from your skin
like a virus
passed unwittingly
from one generation
to the next
did she really think
we would eat
with our mouths open
our unkindness

Good Measure


be counsel to yourself
and take good measure
of good food
of good words
of sunshine
and rain

be counsel to yourself
and take good measure
of good laughter
of good song
of activity
and repose

none of this
is charity measured
but abundance itself
and sweet gratitude
for the self
and the other

for in the end
we are all the parent
we are all the voice
much like the God
who brought us here

and in the end
we are all the love
much like the joy
and potent wisdom
that keeps the world kind