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The Predator

dug a hole

in turtle’s wake

scooped and

sucked down

pulsing life

one dark night.

An empty pit

and shriveled eggs

mark the theft .

Her children are dead.



and violence

are bed mates

She bears

thirteen squares –

Round House

hovers above her –

Nature’s Protection.

But how can she

puncture the balloon of

his lies

with her body

to feel the strength

of the shield

she owns?



I am splintering.


Fragments of ice

slice through tender skin

– silver daggers puncture holes

bleed snow.

A frozen tree cracks –

slams tortured timber


a forested floor.

Shivering body

swirls in chaotic waters.

Labored breathing forces

Soul Surrender.

Even endurance has limits

I learn.

June 30 2020


Seal Skin – Soul Skin


This body is

my holy altar

my bounded skin

my embodied soul

my closet kin.


July 2 2020

For Leslie



She made me

a birdhouse

from old wood

whispering stories.


we walked to

the edge of

my open field.

She dug

the post in,

creative hands


rich soil.

I witnessed

with a grateful heart…

I wondered then

who would come

to nest in this

forest jewel…

dreamed of wrens

or chickadees

peering out

of black holes…

This morning

I realized

that by our actions

we had created

a living prayer…

Like the birds

we too

are seeking

safe homes –

peace for


minds and


torn asunder

by a culture

gone insane.




At dawn

I look for sign.

You are orphaned –

without a mother

to guide you.

Did you find

my offering?



for one

wearing bearskin

is a risk

you can

no longer take.


To be shot at,


run down by

stupid men who

fear their own

black souls

is no excuse.


Murdering mothers

and children

constitutes atrocity –

like Tree Slaughter

I am forced to witness

the horrors of

human insanity.


I wonder

If you know

That Nature

Is starting to


on your behalf?


This virus

is just the beginning…

Humans will


their demise

through continued



suffering and dying

just as you have.


Unlike your kind

our old ones

will meet death first,

but the tide

is shifting;

Earth seeks wholeness,

redressing imbalance,

And S/he too

can be ruthless

when culling…


You are wise

in the ways of Nature

called “Root Healers”-

still reverenced

by some.


One day

bears will

thrive in newly

forested landscape,

raise yearlings in peace,

live free of torment,

because the species

that once hunted you

has finally been erased

from the Book of Life.


Her Evolving Story

is a Fountain of Hope.




(first sighting of one of the female cardinals this morning)


Yesterday a wildflower

unfurled sage

tinted leaves, opened

delicate pearl

petals to a

passionate dawn star…

Its roots of blood

are hidden…


In still twilight

I awaken to white.

Wet snow coats

emerald mosses.

Each bare branch

wears a silver shawl.

Evergreens bend low.

The forest is transformed

by frozen sky waters.


Crimson cardinals

flash by the feeder,

mama hugs the grass.

Grosbeaks, doves,

finches, chickadees


serenade those

that listen…

woodpeckers and grouse

drum love songs.

Turkey pecks soaked ground.


The waning Flower moon

lightens the powers

of reversal

surprising the stars.

Soon north winds will come

to blow away shivering crystals –

Clouds lift…

Lime green,

cobalt blue,

purple tinted mountains,

sun gold

become center stage.


Spring returns.


I have be -moaned the problems associated with Climate Change for so long, with so few listening – if any. I am making a shift, (at least on some days) concentrating my energy on seeing the “positive” effects of Climate Change – It is easy to do this when I am present to the moment, and it gives me relief from our dreary socially constructed reality.

Our way – not Nature’s way is ugly in the extreme – even now in a pandemic – the economy before people.

This morning when I awakened to snow I felt joyful although I have never experienced snow this time of year in Maine – Climate Change makes anything possible! At dawn the Earth was peaceful and still  – I wandered through the woods noting the textures of snow covered trees. Later, I watched birds with an equal amount of joy, and got a good look at the elusive female cardinal.IMG_5218.JPG

Now the North wind is blowing, clearing the skies, and my chimes are singing so the effects of the waning wildflower moon are returning us to the season we are “supposed” to be in!

Root Healers



Before the bears come

chickadees flock to my feeder,

I hear an unfamiliar

avian symphony at dawn –

bird songs a healing balm

for hearts that long…

After years of absence

the barred owl

hoots from forested

green, and gray decaying

trunks hide luscious larvae.

Gentle woodland gods,

Nature’s Root Healers –

Black Bears

will soon awaken.

We are held in

the arms of Nature


Two geese fly over the house…

Balsam seedlings sprout from

the forest floor,

bare leaf patches

shrink seed covered snow.

Earth is singing underground.

The sound and sight

of a pristine mountain stream

rippling to the sea

throws me into heartfelt prayer.

I am Home,

my brother’s grave nearby.

It is almost (his) Earth Day…

I have not missed

the croaking wood frogs

or the chorus of peepers

just outside my door.


Under threat of Death***

the dark man drives,

his biting blue eyes

seduce the innocent.

I am afraid.





Power reigns.


Yet gratitude flows.

A thatched bird’s nest

perches on a ledge

sheltered by grey logs…

Tree buds swell

Hope, and the thought

of delicate wildflowers

birth potential joy.

A brimming toad pond

awaits green frogs.

Lily b sings a Love Song –

his benediction

for this turning.

May the

Root Healers Come…



*** this dark man has shown up in my dreams all my life as a blue eyed killer/rapist – but here this force seems even more sinister – “man” is an image of the collective killer – male and female – and the C/virus that we have brought upon ourselves in our arrogance and stupidity.



Black bears are known by Indigenous peoples as the most powerful root healers of the forest – for good reason – they know how to heal their own wounds – and where to find the herbs that heal… may they come…

Starflower Rises



Oh, for the second time

I hear Her call my name.


I am longing

for the sight

of soft curves –

rolling hills,

a Beloved Woman


sheltered under

Emerald Green –

Pine scents the air;

Soft rains keep falling.


I’m coming.


I feel Her Sounding

from a great distance,

a huge Whale rising from

a churning chaotic sea

half way across the country.

This Mountain Mother

calls us. She

whose Body once

rose out of

wild grasses in

our bountiful

berried field.


We’re coming.


She held us then

in a golden circle,

wrapped us in green wonder

blessed us with Summer’s Light.

We felt Love bleeding

through disbelief –

I succumbed to what

I did not know;

Surrendered to a

Birthing under our feet.

I heard Her singing…

Love as pure Being.


We’re coming.


I pray the tough

and tender thread

that Binds us

will hold –

our love for Her,

Her Love for us,

Braided as One.

Once I feared Winter Snows…

Instead an avalanche

buried us alive in desert heat.

The Earth caught Fire.

We mourned.

I couldn’t breathe.

Oh, for the second time

I hear Her call my name…


We’re coming.


My cry echoes…

bouncing off

reptilian stone,

nightmare glare,

hard blue sky.

West winds unhinge me

with unforgiving fury.

Still, She hears me.


We’re coming…


Strengthen the thread,

keep us bound to you

until we touch

sacred ground

lush with greening,

walk reverently

over a bountiful breast

feel your Heart

beat as our own.


We’re coming.


Imagine peepers singing,

croaking wood frogs

at twilight,

purple crocus

seeping through

melting snow!

Our Dreaming creates

a Lizard path to follow.

Stay close to Ground.

We long for Black bears;

their fur- skin warms us.

We see them peering

round Mother Pine


friendship and,

joyful offerings.

An overflowing brook

is a symphony

made of water.

She hears our cry.


We’re coming.


Oh Mountain Mother

For the second time

I am that child again…

spun out of blue and green

luminous Star shining

We beg you –

keep us safe,


on this long

winding soul/body




We’re coming…

Red on Blue



I dreamed her name

not long before light –

Pages fell out

of a story

written in blood.


Every spring

the words repeat

as mist rises

over the river.

Harsh white light

burns violet blue.


She changes everything

she touches

and changes nothing

at all.

Drowning –

the mystic succumbs.


Painting gray bark

sea green

she releases,

tender skin

to killing frost

at dawn.


Bare trees

embrace her.


‘Listen to our heartbeat

breathe deep

slow your pulse

to match our own.


When coyotes

howl at midnight


Beloved Doves

coo healing songs.’


I Love You.

Uncovering What’s Hidden


( I call this native grass Grandmother’s Hair)



is the shadow

of being unloved,



strung out on need.


Shame paralyzes;

slamming into reverse

actions that would

create new intentions

including hope

of love.


Shame blots out


snapping the thread

of interdependency.

Plant Consciousness

restores it to life.





This morning while walking through the Bosque marveling over the sight of bare trees against a pale pink sky, I heard the brrring of crane presence.

Offering up the dream that had so distressed me, I received an instantaneous response from the ground beneath my feet.

“Look at us! We are all dependent upon each other,” the grasses murmured.

More cranes flew by.

The shadow of undeserved shame vanished – it’s illusion shattered.

I walked on…




Richard Powers, the author of The Overstory believes that humans need to cultivate a “plant consciousness”, that is, an awareness that cultivates the reality that all species including humans are interdependent. Trees, for example provide us with the oxygen we need to breathe, offer their offspring and other trees minerals and water so that they thrive; Deciduous trees send evergreens extra carbon during summer reversing the process in the fall. Trees and plants have thrived for 400 million years because they are connected by underground networks that support one another in times of need.


Humans seek commodities instead of cultivating genuine relationships; this universal greed and indifference has brought us to the edge of human extinction, and still we do not see.

Matricide in Spring



Buttery yellow petals

open to

a warming sun.

The snow seeps deep;

parched soil receives a gift.

Crocus sing!


Harbingers of spring

diminutive tuliped cups

break ground in January

-blossoming earth stars-


soar and freeze –

I marvel at such tenacity.


Persephone rises…

Freed from her oppressor

her joyful mother

celebrates as the Earth

swells buds on every branch.

Migrations begin…


My mother died

in April just as

the frogs began

to croak, laying

strings of jellied eggs

across still waters.


Matricide in spring

makes her presence

known as each

cell of my body

grows weary

from weeping.


I live my mother’s hell

strung up by the neck –

Forced to repeat the pattern

I turn away from

this tortured body,

combing the Earth for light –

With a prayer

to the Crocus Goddess

to help me heal the split.


Working Notes:


The goddess of spring is a flower. Mythic stories abound with this truth – For example, Persephone’s return to the earth -body is heralded by one of the first flowers of spring – the yellow crocus, which also happens to be one of my favorites.


Once I loved this season of light, but as I have grown older, the sun hurts my eyes, and except for the momentary joys I experience participating in Nature’s renewal I feel increasing bereft during this season.


Baffled, I am gradually learning to see.


When my mother died I hoped that our torturous relationship had come to an end; I forgot that my mother’s cells live on in my body, as mine once inhabited hers (Science backs this up).


Like my mother, I was socialized into a culture of mind-body splits. (A woman’s mind is always suspect; a woman’s body is always objectified; sexually, any woman – of any age remains the object of the pornographic male gaze).


My mother was male identified, and taught me to be the same. I learned to privilege men over women.


I also learned to despise my body just like my mother did.


In this process I lost access to me because it was this body that held the truth of who I was.


My dreaming body helped me see. My love for and identification with Nature eventually saved me. Becoming a woman’s advocate helped me begin to understand woman’s suffering; opening the door to dealing with my own pain, and eventually that of my mothers. I began to ask questions about how the mind – body split operated in me.


After my mother’s death in 1993 (at first I felt relief) I was able to forgive her for not being capable of loving her daughter because she despised the woman in herself. I hoped that I could move on.


Instead, I began to suffer the most crushing depression each spring. It has only been recently (thanks to an article by Carol Christ) that I was given access to the insight that this cyclic descent of mine is attached to matricide.


What is matricide? Definitions vary but the general idea is that the mother is murdered by her own daughter (or her own son). I grew up witnessing my mother’s hatred for mothering, my mother’s hatred of her own mother, and lived my mother’s lack of love for me, eventually coming to hate her for her indifference.


Even though initially I reactively adopted the other extreme- Mary – self sacrificing ‘mother of god’ as my ideal as a child/ adolescent/young adult (hardly a solution) unconsciously I carried mother hatred in the cells of my own body.


When I became a mother I turned that hatred on me; the results were devastating.


The most frightening aspect of this intergenerational matricidal pattern is that it lives on through both of my children whose hatred for me mirrors that of my mother’s hatred of herself, her daughter, my hatred for myself and the five year period I went through towards the end of my mother’s life when I actively hated my mother too…


Each spring I fall into the Abyss – I am forced to re-live the horrors of matricide and how it continues to affect me today through depression.


I may not be able to shift a pattern that is both personal and cultural but I have done the necessary work to deal with my own issues around matricide and most importantly, have forgiven both my mother and myself.


At this point in my life I pray for a keen awareness each spring. It is only when I can hear those murderous voices rising that I have a chance to deal with them.


Developing the capacity for endurance has helped.





PS – My beloved spirit birds the CRANES BRRR in the next field as I write these words – Nature is listening, and I am not alone.