White Noise

Here you are again — 

that familiar hum

that low-pitched vibration

as if White Noise fucked Agony

and made a Depression baby

It would be a silent-shrieking Thing 

that no one could soothe

and then…

A far away voice —

Demeter, maybe?

— begs me to return

to come back up

but I can’t find the way

out of this maze

There are ladders everywhere 

ladders that  go nowhere

It’s a special type of hell this time

One where

I can hear the voices from the outside

and know there is Life


But not in this place

Only this heaviness

Only this heartbreak

Only this desperation 

begging humankind to wake

But down here the inner Beggar just decays

Too little, too late

Too little.

Too late.

and quite frankly

I am left with nothing left

to say



She is Here

This incredible, delectable feeling rushing through my fingertips

gushing water though the dam

bursting, breathing



I can feel the planets turn and the stars shoot light across the sky

I can feel your breath in my breath

and your life in mine

Oh sweet Muse

how I have missed your incredible juice

Will you never again leave me



But I will not cling or grasp

Only ride this tidal wave of joyous pulsating Everything

and hope and pray it moves through me clearly

and reaches you

and you feel it

and you feel me and you take us in

as I take in you

As I wish for you


All Good and Meaningful Things

All Blessed Truth and Sacred Healing

may any pain you ever feel only be leading you to

the very growth you seek

May any suffering merely push out any last crumb

of self-denial and hate and make a space —

A great, big, beautiful space

For the grand entrance of your Muse,

of your Light

of the Very Truth



Answer to Rejection

You want some robot “poetry voice” to come out of me

Knowing about things like stanzas and haiku

How can she, like, not know haiku and call herself a poet?!

But I can only write using This voice

And that fake shit don’t fly here

Maybe it’s Real to you –

“shimmering lakes” and clichéd-a-million-ways-to-say autumn leaves –

and that’s ok

But Real to me is just…

being free enough to be me

To let out my truth


This is my poetry.

This is my art.

This is my voice.

You can reject it for its lack of “poetry-ness”

Or say anything you wish, really

I’ll just float along with the smile I feel forming on the inside

Because, well…

I don’t write for you.

One Day

One day

I will write poems about butterflies

Even though it’s been done a million times

I’ll make it feel like the very first time

I’ll write about vibrant colors like indigo and mandarin

Wax on about hot chocolate with cinnamon

I will talk about bodies of water using

Delicious descriptions

(I’ll never call a brook babbling)

I will write like I’m high on Life’s Vibes

And be able to turn mundane things

Into fields of wild ecstacy, and purple poppies

And crème brulee

And you will never again call those things mundane

One day

I will glide through each moment in flowing step

Harmonizing my feet with the energy underneath

I will know I’m on my way to the grave

And it will just be another glorious day

Another birth but no longer a slave

Oh yes I will be completely free

And I will write of it in Hope’s great name

And that you might float along with me

Flowing down the brook that’s babbling…



One day…


I am an Artist

I am a Poet

I am a Powerful Force

I have loved you

Since forever

I have abandoned you


I live within you

Goddess and God

Masculine and Feminine

Merged into One Beautiful Whole

But do you see it? Do you know?

Nothing can harm you when you are connected to Me

From deepest pain to highest bliss

To the Calm in between

I am the Creative Divine

Let yourself live and you will find

That I, too, am Alive

You – yes YOU – came to be

Out of the Great Universal Me

Who begs Expression through the uniqueness of you

Letting My Hands move as yours do

Never underestimate the power of The Nameless

I have given it a name, in so many forms

When you wonder what my name is, Child…

It’s yours.


“I will get you,” he said.

That little, unassuming voice in your head.

The one that can play both Devil or Squire

While whispering humbly, “I serve you, Sire.”

He stalks like a tiger,

He snakes through the mind,

No locked doors exist –

No key he won’t find.

He will play any Switch like no one before

Head master of tricks, gatekeeper of lore.

One moment your lover, the next your friend;

Underneath it – self-serving – right to the end.

But in that is His game;

His mystery undone.

In His endless bag of tricks, we find…

Only one.

Destruction his motive, Power his aim,

Killing all parts who don’t feel the same;

We uncover in Him the truly insane –

For Power in death is paradoxical gain.

Shape-shifter and Trickster

Magician of mind

Quick – see the trick!

Or die trapped by His bind.


I’m not sure what it means

This endless stream of dreams

Coming out of me

Overflowing in heaps and waves

Someone forgot to turn off the faucet in the tub

Flooding, splashing, spilling


It is everywhere

This perfect mess of Everything-Ness

Where can I put it all

I seem to try

Try again and stall

As this back-up comes rushing

Flushing through this creaky dam

Of a human body that is me

Fingers flow, I type

Let it out



But where can I start to package it up?

Like those hamburger buns in that one dream – where

It was about to rain on them and there were so many

And I had to contain them in plastic bags

But did not know where to begin?

There is just so much,

So very much.

Then someone, abruptly,

Turns the faucet off.

And now there is nothing, nothing at all.

And that sure as hell won’t work either.



The long drought is over.

The Dry all dried up.

The water spills over

My parched, thirsty cup.

Inspiration, She fills me –

Quenches my fires.

Dehydration – a Teacher –

Who finally retires.

I waited in the desert.

I stayed with my pain.

Knowing the suffering

Would one day bring rain.

My soul sings again.

Her Lover returns!

The blaze of Creation

Brings Life as She burns.

This Thing I can’t Own…

But just let it pass through

Til the last embers die out;

Til flood turns to dew.

Then, dried up again.

Inspiration, She’s gone.

I wait in the desert.

She’ll come back along…


Meeting the God Within

Let me in, let me in.

She said,

You only thought I was dead.

But I have been here

burning deep deep deep in your soul.

I have been the Thing that has held you close.

No I never let you go.

When you dove down to the depths of your

Saddened, lost soul;

When you used and you used and you used

And you used;

When you used and you used and it went on like this…

I brought you – Ragged – back from the abyss.

And still you were Wild, you clawed and you cried

Screeching your threats, still – I stayed by your side.

You did everything you could to push me away –

Humankind’s hero – Sabotage of Self,

Oh yes how I know her, I know her so well!

She, forcing me to see the Ugly in you

Over everything else –

Making me see the pain of abuse.

Begging me to Condemn you

Like you condemned yourself.


Miss Sabotage has no idea who I am:

The Other Side of your soul –

The side you can’t bear to see.

(We all know how it’s easier to believe

All the Ugly Things.)

But I Live.

I glow, I reach, I rise –

Throw light on your pain, so you’ll learn to thrive.

I let you hate me and shriek as I stay by your side

You writhe til you Break and surrender your pride.

We hold on together til you’re down on your knees

Complete abdication, heart pouring out pleas:

A new cry from your lips:“Let me worship you, please.”

But I simply smile and help you to stand.

“Look down,” I say.

You hold your own hand.

The Heavy

It is back – it is back:

That heavy, Heavy Black.

That feeling that Hangs, everywhere.

That lifeless Black Heavy in the air.

Like barren days preceding rain,

Gray-cloud Apathy masking Pain.

Oh, yes, Those Days –

You know the kind –

Seeking something you just can’t find.

You try to Try but the Heavy wins out.

Smashing your tiny, pathetic ‘try’ all about.

So you stop the fight, you put down the try.

People, they judge you, they can’t figure out why.

They whisper and snarl, say, “Depression’s not Real.”

This coming from people who never learned how to feel.

Not deep down in their souls in the Dark Birthing Black

Where the pains create life and the joy cycles back.

Oh yes, that part we forget when we’re stuck in the bog,

When that Nothing feeling hangs thick as the fog –

That if we can Hold On and just get through the black

We might say,

“The joy! The Joy…

It is back.”