The Animal Inside

I howl when the animal inside me sings.
I howl to let the world know I am,
the animal inside me sings harmony.

I wear red when the animal inside me wears blue.
Red sears hurt hurtling my way, spring water blue
calms my fear.

I wish for the moon to fall from sky. The animal inside
me weaves wishes braiding a ladder I climb to lead
the moon back home once more.

I collect sighs and sorrows from souls lost in wander,
the animal inside me collects dandelion puffs on which
to place each one, and blows.

I wait for Venus to rise and Sirius to spin out
of control, while the animal inside me twirls with
the stars in a tango of dreams.

And sometimes when no one is looking,
I lay myself down under the willow and cry. When no one
is looking the animal inside me cradles me to sleep.




Author’s Note:

Our writer’s group met again tonight, hopefully a return to regular meetings.

We used a prompt from Bonnie Newbauer’s book, The Write-Brain Workbook, 365 Exercises To Liberate Your Writing. We used Day 105, Animal Tendencies.

Visit Thursday Afternoon Writers on Facebook to see what others wrote. (I know it’s Wednesday. We used to be called Wednesday Afternoon Writers, then moved to Thursday, and now we’re back on Wednesdays. Think we need a new name?)


The generosity of earth unfolds,
opens wide its arms,
as summer days fade into chill.

Harvest wealth tumbles from luscious
vines and stoic stems.
Trees pregnant with bounty
bow in offering.

Cicada song my lullaby.

The gracious earth
does not demand
but freely gives itself to me.

Oh, Holy Mother,
Creator Exuberant,
I revel in being your child blessed.

Cicada Psalm

When one day passes into the next,
a thin time,
when deepness of a new day
begins its passage,
I heard cicadas,
a thousand voices,
sing Your name.

It filled the room with such reverence,
such verve,
I wondered
how one could possibly sleep
through the sonance.

Why didn’t the neighborhood notice,
throw open their windows,
dance outside their doors
in nightgowns
swirling and twirling
in adoration.

Chanting your thousand names
in late August,
early morn
I gave thanks for their prayer,
their praise
in honor of us,
in our mortal lives,
sleep through thin times
under starlight and cicada psalm.




Author’s Note:

I walked into the bedroom very late at night, early morning, a few days ago. It was cool, so the fan was not on. The sound of the cicadas was so loud, I could hardly believe my husband was sleeping right through it.

I immediately thought of the thousand names of the Divine. I thought of the new Celtic spirituality I am coming to understand and embrace. I thought how lucky I was to be alive.

Thank you to my Celtic friends, Scott Jenkins, Macushla, Kathleen E. Moore, and so many others. I am on a new journey and every day brings delight and blessing and gratitude that you are in my life.

Chocolate Ice Cream

I believe in signs, not in alchemy, a
nonsense to be shooed away, but in
a way of seeing. When one quiets the

pounding beat of the daily tattoo, stills
limbs and breath, curbs babble riffling
through the mind, there space opens

for seeing. It is simple, more simple
than the simplest mind could ever
devise. The meaning behind your

smile, the direction of your toes, a
tiny hand sticky with chocolate ice
cream. These are the signs endowed
to those who want to see.




Author’s Note:

The end of summer. Simple joys. Quiet nights. Doggie mantram walks. Chocolate ice cream. Bliss.

In Tandem

The road is quiet tonight, the berth wide. An almost
full moon lights the way, one big round, too distant

from anything to be able to befriend another soul.
As I walk I hear my feet pad along, no other footsteps

in tandem. One does not contrive a friendship for this
journey. One does not go out one day and say, hey, will

you be the one I share my secrets with. One does not
choose from a lineup the soul you give yours to. One

doesn’t slap down a check in return for time spent. No,
one does not accord friendship this way. The opening

of a heart is a delicate operation. The road is quiet tonight,
the berth wide. I walk alone knowing You alone are with me.


I am sorry it shattered I didn’t mean to break it slipping through my fingers without notice it left my grip I don’t know why if you could tell me what it was or maybe warned me as I let go snapped me to attention some way I am so sorry I wish it was a porcelain trinket that could be glued back to a whole or something big enough to gather and puzzle piece it we could overlook the cracks and missing flakes leaving us weak not as beautiful as before

Cricket Song

When I think all is perfect, time pressed neatly into boxes
ready to open at precise moments, I fall away. I turn from

the necessary. I balk, my spirit rears. I turn away. I slide open
the window to mourn honeyed summer nights not so long ago

under midnight skies. I hear their cricket song, the return.
It is time, they remind me, to move on. Summer was a delicacy,

light and luscious. Verdant life burst, overflowed like corseted
concubines adorned for courtly rituals. This night cricket

choruses begin, announce the fledgling season ever so gently.
A nudge to release the past, make plans anew.