I love you I will miss you I am going
I am going to the Beloved I am going quietly
I am saying goodbye and bless you and thank you
for letting me love you but now

I want to be loved too and I am going
somewhere there are people who will love me
nurture me care about me and I can nurture them back
I have spent so much time loving people who don’t

love me or perhaps they love me but in a small way
in a limited way in a very closed off way
and now I am breaking the boundaries again but not
with the people who want these boundaries

I am looking for people who want to love and be loved
like the sky like space like the deepest ocean rift
who are not afraid of passion and arguing and loving
who are not afraid to be afraid to be joyous to be sad

I am looking for people who are not afraid to be afraid


I took the photo in a friend’s woods yesterday.

Also published on today.


Z for ZZZzzzzz…. shhhh, everyone is asleep after the Blogging from A to Z Challenge and I am tiptoeing my last contribution in during May…..very quietly.

Yesterday morning Boa cat brought a mouse in the house. I heard it squeaking and protesting being played with before being eaten. Then Boa called me insistently, with her mouth full of squeaking mouse. I started down the stairs and she dropped it and it ran into a closet. She lost it.

I tried to find it, gingerly. I had to get the recycling out of that closet anyhow, because Tuesday is recycling day. I picked things up rather carefully. I found the mouse once but it skittered away in the closet again before Boa grabbed it and I was not about to grab it. Sharp teeth.

Last night Boa brought the mouse into my bedroom and tore around, chasing it. I think. I am not entirely sure whether Boa really did bring the mouse in or whether it was a dream. If it was a dream, it was very convincing and had five parts or more. And then I dreamed or heard crunching.

There is a pile of paper knocked over on the stairs. I have not checked my room for mouse feet or a tail. In the night I hoped Boa would keep the mouse on the floor and not bring it up on the bed. She didn’t.

The cat in the picture is not Boa. It’s Princess Mittens. She was about a year old and stood at the open back door growling at the terrible things in the back yard: a doe and two fauns, there to steal the apples. Princess Mittens was hit by a car last summer, at age ten. Boa misses her but would never ever admit it.


And there: I am done with the A to Z Challenge! Sleep well, everyone!

Under covers

U is for under covers in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge.

Under covers I had this dream:

I am in a large space, no walls. No grass or sky or sun either. There are boxes everywhere.

A male voice is telling me to get in a box.

“Which one?” I say.

“You may pick.” says the voice.

I look at the boxes. They are all next to each other, all different shapes. Square, octagonal, pentagon. They are made of wood and carved or inlaid. There are many beautiful designs, all different. I step from box to box.

“They are too small.” I say.

“If you sit down and tilt your head to the side, you fit.”

“That isn’t comfortable.” I say, after trying to sit. “It’s too small.”

“Pick a box.” the voice insists.

No, I think. I won’t. They are too small.

“Why do I need to be in a box?” I ask.

I wake up.

Hurt and healing

H is for healing and hurt in the Blogging from A to Z. I mentioned dreaming of monsters in my Gift post, and this is the poem about that dream. It is hard work to heal.

Advice to Micheal

Is such an ironic name
Can’t they hear?
Can’t they think?
The land where boys never grew up
The Lost Boys

And you
Are not molesting
You are
When I heard
About your childhood
I knew
They were wrong
They’ve missed the boat

You sang
Like an angel
And the world
Stole your childhood

Hotel rooms
With older brothers
And you must have been
So frightened
Pressure to sing
As the star

Locked your core self away
To keep it safe

My childhood
Was scary too

I started my search
With a dream
Of a dark hole
From which came the sound
Of monsters

I was scared

I went to the hole
of the howling

The hole was dark
And roots stuck out of the side
Like reaching fingers

I got a flashlight
And looked

It wasn’t as deep
As I thought
And the roots worked as
A ladder

I climbed down
Into the hole

I found three monsters

Baby monsters

I put them in my pack
And carried them up
Into the light

They howled

I bathed them
And diapered them
And fed them
And rocked them

They howled
They didn’t know what to do
When taken care of

I named them

At last they stopped howling
And sat
Wrapped in blankets
Lower lips thrust out

And I found a shrink
To talk about my dream
And to help heal the monsters
That I had rescued

We always have more
Work to do
But now I have a little girl
Inside me
Who came to greet me
When I had healed the monsters
She is beautiful

You won’t find
The Lost Boy
That you are looking for
Outside you
He is inside
He is innocent
And beautiful

You may have to face
The monsters
Of your childhood
To reach him
Yours was worse than mine
I’m sorry

You may have to face
How much people you loved
Hurt you
Even though they loved you
I’m sorry

Find help
And rescue
The Lost Boy
And joy

Good luck.

Poem written August 10, 2005. Previously published on


G in the Blogging from A to Z, for gift.

Dreams are a gift. Dreams may be the unconscious speaking and attempting to bring something to consciousness. We may have a collective unconscious.

I am no expert in analyzing dreams. My minister says that we should stand in relation to dreams. That we should hold them in our consciousness and think about them. Some of the information about interpreting dreams I learned from him and from his mentor, Robert Johnson PhD.

There are four people in my fly dream. This is a good thing. Four is a number of completion, of arrival, of numinous knowledge.

The people all represent aspects of myself. My daughter/cat represents an aspect of myself. I told a friend the story of “The cat who walks by himself”, because he doesn’t read fiction. Or says he doesn’t. I have a hard time imagining not reading fiction, just as I never quite believe people who say they don’t like poetry. I think they are afraid of it.

The two males I am taking as aspects of my animus. My male energy. My male energy is healthy, which is very different from a dream that I had ten years ago. In that dream one male was a crazy cardiac surgeon who was doing a heart transplant in the middle of a garden party. The other male was the patient, whose heart was broken and needed to be replaced. In the fly dream, both males are healthy and bright. The adult male still has the capacity to not be grounded and to be disconnected from the ground, but he is willing to set the house down and explore locally, once he’s done showing off his power.

The children in my dreams were initially monsters. Baby monsters. Then my dreams had a baby girl and then a girl child. A recent dream had a two year old male, healthy. This dream is my first with a healthy teen male.

I think that this is a reassuring progression.

And still, I hold the dream present, a snapshot of my interior psyche. It may have more to tell me.

Fly dream

F in the A to Z Challenge: Fly.

I returned to work yesterday after ten months off very sick and then convalescing. In the afternoon I came home. I ate a late lunch and fell into a deep sleep. Relief that I am back at work.

I dream: I am in a metallic boxy house. It is very modern, glass and metal. It is very spare, elegant and uncluttered. My daughter and cat are there but are one being. She keeps shape shifting from cat to daughter and back. There is a man and a teen, his son. He owns the house and built it. It is up high perched on a tower. It feels very precarious and the tower moves with the wind. The views are stunning, wilderness and mountains. The house falls and the man shows me that it is a spaceship. It hovers over the earth. He and his son are aliens. I am a bit annoyed that he deliberately scared me, but I also know that he is showing off. He is showing me his strength and power and maleness. I do find it very sexy. I want him.

I tell him that he can set the ship down in a safe place. I am suitably impressed and admiring. He does not need a spaceship or to scare me or to fly to be loved. He intimates that we can fly to explore other planets. I say “I am happy to explore this one for a while. It is ok to be grounded.” He sets the house spaceship down in the mountains.

I wake up.

Daughters and dinosaurs

D for daughter and dinosaur. Here is a poem I wrote quite a while ago, though it is about my son rather than my daughter.

Dinosaur Dreams

The problem
With Intelligent Design
Is those old bones
Those dinosaurs

Also that of 10,000 dreams of creation
One would be right
And the followers of all the others
Consigned to hell
If so, I go gladly, clutching
Dinosaur bones to my chest
And will enjoy the diversity
Not the narrow heaven with a narrow
Small-minded deity

But is evolution right?

Well, I think it’s on the right track

But wholly done and all correct?

After all, think how often
Medicine has been wrong
Think of tobacco and vioxx
Think of Galen, over 2000 years ago
Thinking that evil humors built up in the uterus
Causing hysteria
External pelvic massage was the cure
For over 2000 years
For old maids, widows and nuns
Who had no male to cleave unto
Massage was a treatment into the early 1900s
And now we wonder about prozac too

Evolution is an evolving science

I think of when my son was four
And he watched “Jurassic Park”
Against my wishes
Because I thought it was too violent
He studied it carefully many times

One day he asked me, anxiously,
“Mom, is DNA real?”
To check that it wasn’t another of those Santa stories
I was able to reassure him
Yes, I think DNA is real
He was pleased

A few days later he announced
That when he grows up
He wants to be a plant and animal scientist
Extract DNA from amber
And grow those dinosaurs

A laudable ambition
For any four year old

If God left the dinosaur bones
Around to fool us
And they never lived
She has a nasty sense of humor
And my son and I will not forgive

I believe in evolution
And dream of dinosaurs

first published on in 2005


I was asked to write a poem from the perspective of the angels in my dream.


We are stars
We are born
We are made to burn
We flame
We explode or burn out
We are made to die

We are angels
We are made to fall
We all fall
We are white falling in black space
Or black falling in white space
If you prefer
It doesn’t matter
It is the contrast that is important
There is no light without dark

We are angels
We are made to fall
We all fall

Do you fear
your fear?
your anger?
your grief?

We fall for you

If you reject
your fear
your anger
your grief

We will fall for you
We accept falling

All must fall

If you accept
your fear
your anger
your grief

We will fall with you

You will fall with us

Dark sky with stars

Yesterday I had my “Armour suit”  massage at 4:00.

Sometimes during the massage I space out and go elsewhere. I don’t know if it is falling asleep. My practitioner knows when I am gone, because he is telling me to roll my leg to the left against resistance and I will just stop in the middle. I usually see pictures and tell him what I saw.

Yesterday I saw a dream that I had years ago.

I dreamed that I was looking through a window and the sky was black, with stars.  The stars started to fall. The stars were all angels, all falling, slowly, down. I wanted to ask the angels, “Why do you have to fall?” but I was frightened. I was terrified. Because all of the angels were falling: every one. Slipping slowly down the sky.

Then I saw their faces. They were not afraid or angry or resisting. They all had expressions of acceptance and peace.

In the dream then there was no window between me and the angels. I was in the dark too and falling slowly. I did not resist. I knew I needed to let myself fall, like the angels. We all must let go and fall. I was crying even as I accepted it.

I wonder why the angels were made to fall. I think they fall for us, to show us acceptance and love.

Dream: Get real, Girl

I dream that I am a prisoner and being tortured. The torturers are indistinct and shadows. They cut slices into my flesh and put me back in my cell.

I am out of my cell again and I am seen from the back, naked from the hips up. The torturer cuts slices in my back with a cutlas. The previous slices have healed and scarred. I am done. I turn, grab the cutlas and slice off the torturers hands at mid-forearm. His hands are visible as they fall away, but the rest of him is still a shadow. I will win, I know.

I have a new vase. I take the white china vase out of the base, which has brass wheels and a support like a coach. Like Cindarella’s coach. I use the vase as a template to carve the base of a pumpkin to fit. I carve it into a coach sitting on the base. I find a plastic horse and the “Get real, Girl” in her hiking boots. I photograph it and caption it: “After she smashes the glass slippers, the coachmen and horses revert to mice and rats and run away. She steals a horse from her father, puts on her hiking gear, skips the ball and heads for the hills for good.”

Then I wake up.

As you can see, I haven’t carved the pumpkin yet, nor found the horse. But I will.