Night Message from Daddy


That pale moonlight

at about a month ago

how bad the food tasted

Daddy thought the young side was chirping

The young side didn’t chirp

Great, at seventeen…

the young side didn’t count

Is there anything?

Not having a will,

I didn’t raise your son

I didn’t tell him to just confirm the good in you

There was a mason jar

Finding it, I cried


Experience Life

Having free bodies,

we never realize what we lost

It’s amazing how the time flies

Frank was a personable guy

He flunked law school,
but he liked to play
He got killed in high school

They listed him as MIA

Anywhere you lay your head

is home

I’ll always be there…

watching over you.

Good night


Societal Norms on the Eve of All Saints

blog image relief of st infants

Chesterton wrote that “Tradition means giving a vote to most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead.”

He went on to say: “Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father.”

In my family history there were relatives who were visited by or heard from these “dead”, to which Chesterton refers.

So I remember in particular a great grandmother, who would feel the toes on her feet being gently pinched at night until she roused herself from sleep and prayed for the souls in purgatory. Sometimes she had to keep praying  “until they left her alone”,  because they would “come back” if she had not prayed “enough” for them.

Yes, the ancient Catholic beliefs were held onto in those days, and children were taught the tradition that around this time of year,  All Saints and All Souls’ Day, your much beloved, dearly departed family members were allowed to visit you, and you with them, whether you realized it or not.

The visit was a custom or rule of the other side, because the holy souls (even those still in the purging place) didn’t really die.

Death was just a transition for those who had been saved. Yes, even as a child, I knew how to explain to protestant friends that the word “dead” in scripture usually only referred to the damned.

Why didn’t everyone intuit this?

Wasn’t to be with God to be more alive than ever, as He was the Source, or Existence itself?

Isn’t it us still in the material realm whose insights are dulled so to speak, by our own, encapsulated skulls?

We were not a family of conjurers, but looking back, I can imagine now how our familial acceptance of interacting with loved ones who had passed on – might seem superstitious or strange to a Baptist.  Some protestants I was told, also thought Catholics prayed to statues.


So funny, how much has changed.

It is not that I reject my religious heritage, but I see it in a deeper sense now, one that accepts that all religions and people of good will are simply like different, equally valid reflections and children of the same truth, and my hope is that my more fundamentalist friends realize this secret as well.

But in what seems like a lifetime later (yet somehow still only like yesterday), since my own dearly departed sweet Babci leaned her dear face close to mine, squeezing my hand in vivid dream impression, I still have the strangest discussions…

with my paranormal investigator friend.

At least they might sound strange by standards of current, polite society.

We discuss the norms or rules of the democracy of the dead.

He being the conscientious scientist, we discuss and we discuss until he insists he must leave “religion” out of it and I, the conscientious mystic, insist mysticism is not at odds with science. My hope is that we are both learning about the other side from each other, like different reflections of the same truth, which all people are to one another. For are not both scientists and mystics fascinated by, searching for, and examining truth? What does he know that confirms what I intuit; how the other side works, speaks, communicates, and what the other side desires?

And perhaps, just perhaps,  what I see and hear can help guide or inspire objective and direct scientific inquiry.

I insist he is onto something big, the evolution of mankind’s spiritual progress and understandings, the direction predicted by reknowned pyschics, and the woman who sees angels, Lorna Byrne –   for a potential, very possible, future reality.

He and I both believe from our own experiences and from the information collected from near death experiences, that the next realm contains a society of people, what used to be called a community of saints.

And since he is all scientist, no bias, no hype or sensationalism, he is a great man to be a leader in all this.

For just as there are fraudulent or dangerously corrupted psychics, there are paranormal investigators who are unethical, who fudge data, and I believe even fraudulent ghosts – some call them dark angels – who masquerade as one’s loved ones.

My guy is not one of them.

He is none of the above.

And he has authentic respect for the “dead”.

I don’t believe the dead are a freak show for children to masquerade as on Holloween night, bodily injuries depicted by way of grotesque costume, indicating the manner in which the dead were bludgeoned, or knifed to death.

No, the old Catholics had it right, when they taught their children to dress up as beautiful and brave, living saints instead, giving honor to those who had gone before, those whose passing will make our inevitable journey home – a non scary and welcoming one.

And my nonreligious paranormal investigator friend has it right as well, asking polite questions and not forgetting to thank spiritual entities, when he gets a response, especially evidence or indication of personhood.

And oh does he get such a response.

So much so in fact, anyone listening to the recordings on cannot honestly rule out personhood existing on the other side, that living, society – of the dead.

Early this morning as I aroused from sleep, I hear something interesting as well. I had prayed the night before for enlightenment, I admit, clutching my tiny statue of the Christ child, in the palm of my hand. Call me superstitious, or not. But I think this message from the divine Infant, regarding the family of God in this realm and the next, was for Hiram.

My entire family thanks you

when he says goodnight to the ghosts.



‘I’m thinking, like, I’m taller than you”
he threatened me
your police work done
what in the world
did he expect

blog image washer woman with son


I’m having dreams again.

No, wait.  That’s not the entire truth.

The dreams and silent voices have never stopped.

In a similar but different way to the manner in in which a schizophrenic is harassed by a constant audible stream of usually negative voices, a transliminal, psychic or mystic is aware of continual, silent messages – or for lack of a better word – intuitions. For the healthy empath, these impressions flow like constant waters she can tap into to a reasonable degree…

at will.

I don’t feel worthy to call myself a mystic or seer, but it’s certain I don’t have schizophrenia.

And I don’t always share with the public what I hear, intuit… or know.

But I feel compelled to share some impressions now, as I’ve been getting messages that involve children.

I see rather vivid flash images of small rooms in my mind’s eye…  that haunt me. Sadly, it is not uncommon in our society that children have been abused, neglected and molested by people we respect as neighbors, or civil and religious authorities.

I bind my guarding angel to only allow impressions from valid sources, not imposter forces posing as deceased loved ones, unholy souls, or those voices that torment the mentally ill.

None of my “voices” torment me.

But sometimes in the dark of the night, as I clutch the tiny Christ Child figurine called the Infant of Prague (once held by my grandmother) I hear about the suffering of children, the very living Body of Christ in the modern world.  Can it be possible, I confess that I wonder, as Jesus supposedly spoke through this little devotionary statue, according to legend, thousands of years ago, He would Voice to me through it too, the sufferings and whereabouts of child victims?

man’s field had empty faces
because there was an empty box
there was something big


Blog image Priestfield conference room

The picture above is of an empty conference room at Priest Field Pastoral Center.

It is an unknown how many practicing Catholic priests and prelates have lost all authentic spiritual powers of office due to implication in crimes against children and fraudulent concealment, rendering many apostolic lines invalid.

Sometimes I think I hear from souls who are still living in this life.

It was ten months over
I wanted to look at that
swing back chair
we’re on the same page
at least I’d hope(d)
that was a little
nursing home
they could hear me watching
but it wasn’t the other side
read on it
and send it to Judy

it was suggested
I open up a chair
you would have done the same

birds singing

I need to keep my mouth shut
until I hear it from you
he put a wood stove in there
hocus pocus
dogs in the hocus
I yanked her out of the way
I stayed out of it


blog image gothic washer woman

Dogs can symbolize areas of your life where you are emotionally protective, hocus literally translated from Latin means all or none, and hocus pocus can symbolize tricks, or illusions. Hocus pocus is also a reference to an invalid consecration by a Catholic priest.

I don’t have to wonder about the meaning of a wood stove though.  An understanding comes to me intuitively and instantaneously.

The good father, gathering and tossing dead wood into a furnace, after lifeless wood has been pruned off and kindled dry. If wood cannot be strewn into walls and ceilings to protect, the flames rising as it is consumed will keep children warm.  The good father does not even waste dead wood.

I have also been planning to put a wood stove into the lower level of my barn, and appreciate the synchronicity. The angels’ language pleases my brain as I ponder endless allegories like light refracted in shattered glass, lying half asleep in my bedroom.

Heat rises, from the bottom up.

I hear a woman sobbing (wondering, vaguely, if it’s me, some time in the past or in the future) and she says…

you’re going to turn around and go back

I think of abused children and adults with Stockholm Syndrome, and how they sometimes love and return to abusers, institutions and entities that abused them.  I feel that woman’s grief for her loved one(s).  She has become me.

Then comes a voice of comfort, and though I cannot be certain it is the Queen of Angels I intuit another feminine, or maternal connection. She is advising me, or another person that I know and love.

the road is narrow
there’s a bridge to get to the other side
the deluge
don’t fall in
a small boat will rescue you
don’t drown
it never failed

he starts talking to me that
they followed Adam’s rules
though it slowed death down
the impact was not quite like you’d expect

Suddenly I see beneath my closed eyes, a flash of light pink.

everyone born with it
had a disease

‘Emma, you’re broken’

What the bad man said to the innocent mother of the abused boy in The Silent Child

‘have you forgotten your son?’

a car accident

‘Car accidents’ can symbolize errors of judgement.  It is also the type of accident arranged by the perpetrator in The Silent Child, for those who threatened by their existence, to expose the perpetrator’s crimes.

I’ve got to get up.

It’s time for my morning coffee.





Missing Persons

This, Cassie had known, ever since she
Cassie, my nephew, a driver in a small van
had wounded
seemed very apoplectic
the life of me
deep tissue scarring
my world
her limbs crushed beneath

[I find myself crying, feeling a very empathetic, deep sadness]
press a button
release the hatch
arrived in pain
Bobby was still throwing a
like a giant pistol
assault rifle
no ones knows where the bodies are
by the side of the lake
a gorge
a pistol
crying in despair
I sat there
watched him pull the trigger
cold, green grass
a river spotter
thought it was a hoax
drowned in despair
I took a watch
It keeps on ticking
turning point
the words
the dead
can’t speak
the records
will show this
none the less
cut open the bag
the keys are in the trunk
brute force
the facts remain
I’m cold
a sad time of year
making a living by the stream
these notes
do not indicate the past
From a vantage point however
the fish swim
grasping curdles in their mouth
like straw
sipping at Coke
Please don’t make me
come back and spoil it for you
a bronze star on my bed
morphine in the shack
squirrels in the rafters
were obtained for medicinal purposes
The bodies don’t disparage
[An automated sales call comes in on my cell phone, from Fox Lake, Illinois. My left ankle hurts]
Get up

Planes, Helicopters and Daddy

“In a room where
people unanimously maintain
a conspiracy of silence,
one word of truth
sounds like a pistol shot.”

Czesław Miłosz

Falling asleep, I ponder the mysteries of life.

How could I have been born in Texas (I possess a Texas social security number) yet have a birth certificate issued in Indiana?

Sometimes the answers that give life are simple.

Sometimes they are complex.

Therefore, I don’t think answers are dependent upon any predetermined formula, but honesty or lack thereof, of the persons involved.

As I awake in the morning, I slowly become aware I’m still silently conversing with Dad, the characteristic cadence of his voice (speak and pause, speak and pause) not just apparent, but emphasized in this semi-dream-like state.

I can feel his presence, with my mind.

But it’s as if my father’s pauses are now purposely lengthened and multiplied,  to give me time to write everything down.


Another colleague of mine

caught me off guard

when he said

the (puss?) (!) is in the pudding

It’s different with men

We won’t regret later

who gathered up roses

where did you get those

basking in the sun

of personal indifference

After the sun

comes the soul

Flying on a plane

who does know pain?

speed is everything

(fast internet logo?)

how did the bullet

get here so quickly

caught up in different events

looking back on the remarks I’ve made

any well trips

well spent

Can it go fast enough

Flew in by helicopter

to the post

Let me outa here

said the watchman

drinking whiskey

like a shot in the dark

Child abuse is real

its after effects remain forever

unless GOD takes them away

like a man on a plane

Simple recipes do not taste right

to the abusers

See how they run

Indifference is the miter’s

(tall headdress worn by a bishop)


like whole villages swallowed up

in the rain

It’s victim, the forfeiter

Disappearing Entities


How did I get here?

What happened to my family?

Only the main characters are still with me.

My son and my daughter exist in the real world, where I wish to reside with them, despite life’s obvious absurdities and complications, like crosses or woolen coats we have to put on in winter weather, despite rashes incurred from bearing them about the neck.

I think of one coat in particular, my first black woolen dress coat, which left a mark on the back of my neck so painful I thought I would bleed to stay warm.

But the others, the more distant living relatives, have faded into a surreal past, where happy memories compete with the cold hard reality of growing up.  I’m one of the few left now who doesn’t suffer mental illness, hidden abuse, commit criminal actions, live lies or perform suspicious behavior.

I even have an elderly aunt who lives in fear, and said recently she’d lie in court to protect an abusive relative who stole his living son’s property, and confiscates money from the living son to pay his dead son’s bills.

It feels somewhat like growing old and realizing your family really did belong to the mafia, were all brainwashed except for you, or one of your parents was not who they said they were.

And were they really?

The question is fair, considering my social security number attests I was born in Texas but my birth certificate says Indiana. I was told by a counselor my elderly, post-abortive mother still blames me for being born, and thus her jealous schizophrenia.  Yet I am verbally assaulted by the “others” almost daily, or called paranoid just for being curious about my birth.

It is like being the swan but still reprimanded for not looking and acting like a stupid duck.

Follow the leader. Do not think for yourself.

What’s wrong with Judy?

She can actually think.


The approach of evening brings with it respite, from the toils of the mind.

That is when I feel closest to those that were sane, those that loved me a long time ago, and are still capable of love, albeit from a different realm, as the sun sets.

As a child I was afraid of ghosts.

At West Point in the 1970’s there was the ghost of a Civil War cadet who haunted the barracks, and this story hit the headlines in the local publications as well as circulating around post.  One wet and spooky October around Halloween there was a bathrobe swinging incident, on a bathroom hook, and one cadet so frightened he hopped up on top of a filing cabinet to say his rosary, because he was Catholic. Apparently the thermometer outside the room had plummetted so low it cracked and the ghost disappeared when the rosary was finished.

Yes, I was afraid. I said the rosary too, even as a little girl. Honestly, I did not want a spooky ghost coming to ask me for prayers. I probably said one or two for him right away just so he’d stay away. 

I remember surveying the bathroom before I showered, staring at the door knob, or anything that looked like a hook, a knob or a bathrobe, in the bathroom, praying to God that He would never let a ghost come visit my house.

Do not put your bathrobe on the doorknob Judy. It just might swing.

That’s why I think it’s so funny that now when I hear my father’s silent voice it sometimes follows me into the bathroom, and I don’t think he’s asking for prayers, because of his basicly martyrdom death.

I think he’s already in heaven.

The joke’s on me, and my father certainly cracks jokes time and time again, just like he did this side of life, as if in evidence that he’s up there eating garbage can pizza with Uncle Frank and having an uproarious good time.

I couldn’t make this stuff up, the sentences I’ve heard silently in my brain.

I think of the time Dad referred in my head to my brother as the Manchurian Candidate, before I had ever seen the movie or read the story.

I had to google Manchurian Candidate on my iPhone to find out just what the expression actually meant.

And my brother certainly behaves like the Manchurian Candidate,  complete with the narcissist mother still brainwashing him.  Apparently, Dad likes to provide movie themes to honor my oft-stated quip that my life is turning out to be like a Lifetime Chanel Movie, after all.

So I ponder these things in contemplation.

How is it that what we sometimes see and hear and can touch is so false, so deceptive, yet reality as it exists in eternity, and the persons already there, are more alive and honest than sometimes one’s closest relatives on earth, that we can feel and touch?

It’s like all mental illness is a mockery of this joyous truth.

Mother of Christ, Mother of Christ,
What shall I ask of thee?
I do not sigh for the wealth of earth,
For joys that fade and flee;
But, Mother of Christ, Mother of Christ,
This do I long to see,
The bliss untold which thine arms enfold,
The treasure upon thy knee.


My Sweet Lord told me

I cannot be without you

HE is in me

I was drinking black and white water

they gave me, so as not to get caught

I cried

They held a gun to my head

My father would rather be better off dead

than kill me by destruction

The mass is in tatters

Its remnants remain

like shattered victims

on the floor

Open the door

and let them out of My house

where (and when) they are being


I will see and feed them

in the hills

(Oh, my Sweet Jesus, how I love you!)

make amends with the sinners

after they have fallen from My Grace,

and give them drink

from Celestial waters

It’s important you understand the plan

(not yours, not mine)

As it was in the beginning

Is now

And ever shall be

The plan of My Father

In Heaven

For random valleys

hurt the meadows

that they grow in

and towns and cities

cannot be built on ice

Flowers grow (and blossom)

where they are planted

The shores will eat them up

if left alone

The mountains are high

close to My Heart

Wild and Free

Like the back of my hand

Which would not harm

Its servants


Your hour is here