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



he slows down
like a well seasoned Friday
that event horizon

where time cannot touch us

we sit at the edge and wait
for time to also slow
for on this side
time cannot really stop

by the light of the moon

there’s a shack
or a house, or a hut, or a lake
it’s wherever the lovers meet
in their imagined reality

can they see them? I think not

can they hear them?
I say what for?
come with me, my friend, he says
quietly opening her door

can I think it, like a shore?

an idea written inside of a notebook
can I be it, like a book
an idea written inside of her head?

sweet ghost, you are mine I know

elusive in your transparentness


Floating Rain

sacred geometry

the universe danced
like a bout of rowdy lovemaking
yet also like a sacred, secret shared
between father and daughter

the universe danced
as if to remind her
of when she danced
besides its still waters
long before the heavens were made

look, I can float the rain
he cried
and she delighted in it
for she was both in it,
and was it

much like the creatures
that played by her side
in that night of gravity upended
to remind her of love’s

who am I to be gifted
so sweet
who am I
oh mystery complete

that I would find myself floating

inside the floating rain

Tour of Duty

the spy

she once met a man
who transformed his state

by material means
like a vehicle in wait

oh military,
industrial complex

she again met the man
now he’s transformed his look

not by inner reflection
or that of the book

that predicts his own
tragic destruction

for one can’t protect
a security idol

and one can’t reject
the knowledge one seeks

wisdom is each child
looking out of a window

not the theory 
that men can save millions

the question is not
is he good
is he bad

and the question is not
is she happy
or sad

the question has always been
whom do you trust?

and who would steal I
for material us?


Underground Railroads

blog image snow white looking

Guardians of Light
protect us from darkness,
from not seeing,
from not hearing,
from building walls to not know

Protect us from paralysis and fear,
from judgements against self,
and others
that grow like tangled weeds and knots
upon our broken heartedness

Show us instead
signs that lead way
keys that unlock,
and doors that open quietly
right through our scars and cracks

Show us pathways to freedom
turbulent though they may be
hat one day we’ll arrive, joyous,
inside grand and inner sanctum
so large, no heart can
contain it

And then we will fall
upon bended knee
to kiss the sweet soil
that births the sacred, the true, and the immortal 





Valentine’s Day, 2019

Recently I listened to an author describe how his interior guides dictated a book, that he published successfully, shortly thereafter.

Sometimes my bodily pain is so severe, I can’t even imagine having the energy to write, unless the words themselves are provided like this – and I am practically handed the pen. Automatic writing has happened to me before, and it never fails to astonish, for the language received tends to be very cryptic, beautiful, and full of meaning, even when I feel by myself I am not.

I must have whispered prayers in the night that I would receive another ready-made composition of this sort.

Shortly after 8:00 a.m., I awoke, my clairaudience turned on. Prose started to flow from somewhere inside of me, without effort, and I grabbed a pen off the nightstand to secure the words on paper, before they evaporated like a dream, from my mind.

In reviewing what I wrote, it was, of course, like discovering and reading it for the first time. I realized that “cupboard” must refer to my heart, and glass “bottle” – the body – which contains and limits the soul, until it is released through death, or perhaps enlightenment. I found God’s use of culinary allegories with me entirely fitting, and more than a little entertaining in parts. It made me want smile.

“Onions” are what my mother planted to keep animals out of her garden, but could also mean distractions that keep people from finding out the truth. I  have uploaded pictures of my actual, open-faced cupboards, which I found ready and waiting, as if just to illustrate this piece.

I am calling it Autobiography, because I received it from a Source with Whom I am quite familiar, but One that I also recognize as the Voice that resides within each of us, and some call the Christ.

And I share them, these few, intuited words below,  because I feel they were meant for me to share, like a glass from just such an open cupboard… or open heart.

Happy Valentine’s Day.


I am taking off a lifetime of pain

When I was twenty years old
the dam broke
the colors colliding,
like an off-put canvas
Household items lined up,
like cracked pots
to take with me


The visions had ceased
All around me the pain,
the stares

What does it take to
believe in a miracle?
they asked with a grin

Finding themselves shoeless,
on my path

Don’t go away
The cupboards will burn
The dishes will fly


place your onions at the door

When Spring came
the rains had stopped
and everyone cheered

Like a hen getting out of a truck
I didn’t even know how to drive

they killed me some more

White paper lined the floor
like parchment
with his portrait and portfolio

blog image wedding arms with gloves and dress

Shut the door
The cops aren’t coming anymore

In June the news came
of a city on a hill
glistening with radiance

How do they make those little cakes
that stand up
like needles on their edge?

Further more,
the door’s shut

so how can it bleed?

A raptor,
a pigeon
and a bird

He sees what he knows

like glass in a pan

blog image reflecting rose

What are you thinking my child?

I see you and I love you
I was always with you
my child
The tears flow and this time
they are tears of joy

Walk away from the pain
Walk away from those you love
But don’t walk away from me

For I am the one
who started it all
with a bottle of love
and a plan
laid out like cards
that can’t fail

The bottle has been broken
but the love is limitless
like a magic trick
designed to catch
your deceivers

Put it away in your cupboard
like spices on a rack
Use it liberally
wherever you go

In the end you will see
that was all that mattered

It contains seeds like nutmeg
that grow rampant in the rain
in the snow

Wherever you go
I am always with you
in your heart

Just look inside of it

fiery heart