Happy family lying in the park with their dog.

Let’s be honest:

You and I know I’m not going to make it.

We play our games, dance our dance.

We say our “oms” and do our therapy.

We make plans for the future,

And if we were true, after looking at

Them, we would laugh and laugh.

But we pretend.

It’s the right thing to do.

It shows I fought until the end

And you stood there, by me.

But you know, and I know,

That one day you’ll lower your guard,

And I’ll take that moment to escape,

Away from you, away from the child,

Away from love, away from life.

You know it and I know it.

You don’t know the when or the how.

I just don’t know the when.

The how I have rehearsed so much

In my head, that sometimes it feels

I’ve already done it.

Hence you give me my pills and I take them.

And you love me and I love you back.

And we tease the child and play with

The dog and the rat, and for a moment

We are real, normal, common enough

to almost, for a moment, forget.

But you know it and I know it.

You cannot save me.


Not one can save me from myself.



Moon Lullaby


goddess moon hare


I am the Silver Phoenix that lives, dies and comes to be again. I am unchanged but never the same. Each of you, children of mine, are my reflections. From the moment of awakening to the closing of the eyes, your days are a likeness of my movements, changes, wanes, waxes, darkness and sudden light that clarifies it all.

Be brave my daughter, in your inner journey and you shall reach the realms of vision, where intuition and inspiration come together as one.

Be daring, my son, and go through the hurricane of bewilderment. At its centre you shall find peace and the answer to your heart’s uncertainties.

Everything changes my children, yet remains the same. My cycles are reminders of the phases we must go through to grow and fulfil ourselves.

I am the Heavenly Mistress that sings lullabies to your blood and make it rise with the power of the tides. Flow with me and dance the secrets of life with each shake of your hips.

Travel with me to the all possible futures. Sigh with me. Place in me your doubts and let them ripe to truths in the soil of your dreams. I am Juliet’s moon, and Plato’s, Newton’s and Copernicus’. Love poems have been written under my light as well as Gospels.

Flow with me and let’s dance together to the Universe’s reverie.

Triple Mother


triple goddess

Mother of the Earth, lady of the jungles and the mountains; giver of harvests and maker of deserts, be the dust under my feet and the cool water that quenches my thirst; whisper to me in the voice of the wind and wave hello with the gentle quiver of flowers along my way; make me feel welcome with you aromas of fresh bread and thawed the cold from my bones with the warmth of your hearth.

Mother of the skies, womb of comets and stars, colour my eyes with dreams and my spirit with rainbows; inspire me, in your cosmic silence, beauty born out of your essence and answer the questions of my soul with the glow of the full moon.

Mother of Love, seating between the pillars of eternity: call me to the temple of your mysteries and potentials, to your lotus throne, to your mantle of light, to that paradise found in the middle of my heart, and as I walk to the new beginnings, to the Summer Lands, on the Other Side, hold me, as if I were a babe, and with a tiny voice, tell me the truths of the Universe, of Death and Life.

Hug me against your bosom Mother of mine, oh Maiden, oh Mother, oh Crone, and with your song, cover me with compassion, grant me courage and give hope.


Improvisation 1 (inspired by Susan Cavaliere Art’s photo)


unicorn by Susan Cavaliere Art

So, I recreated myself from the mist and the drops and the tears of who I once was. I put myself together from loosely dancing atoms and bonded my parts with dreams that have never come to pass, but that I am not willing to give up; dreams of light and colours and crystal sugar plums -I have died with the rain and risen from my earthly grave with the heat of life’s inner core, to a cloud, of former me(s)and former then(s) to become the future I(s) and future when(s). Once more.



Little Girls


Little girl car rebecca


I once heard that little girls were made of sugar

and spice and everything nice.

And it’s true.

But they forgot about the butterflies,

And the adventures in golden meadows

To catch them.

They forgot about the trees and the ropes to climb them.

They forgot about the stars and the telescopes to see them.

They forgot about the skyscrapers and the bricks to build them.

They forgot about the pianos and the notes to play them.

They forgot about the jiggles and the breeze to carry them.

They forgot about the broken hearts and the audacity to heal them.

They forgot about the dreams and the courage to seek them.

They forgot about the monsters under the bed.

And the mettle to fight them, beat them

And make them your friends.

They forgot about unexpected thunders and warm parents’

Beds, where little girls run, to protect them.

They forgot about the moments of anger, and the squeaky

Shoes you need to squish them.

They forgot about the awe.

And the wonder.

The whole universe held in a little girl’s hand,

A girl made of shadows and lights,

Like sunrays spreading in a shady forest

At the magic time of twilight.


What are little girls made of?


They are made of life and possibilities.

Of challenges to come and visions to form,

And adventures to follow and smiles and tears.

Of loses and wins. Of boos and cheers.

Of this and more a little girl is made of.

Of hope and love

And the strength of her soul,

Ready to stand tall

And take flight to wherever her song calls,

To create, shape, destroy and rebuild

Her own, brave world.


Ode to my Hairy Legs


woman long skirt



Ode to my hairy legs,

Keepers of the sane,

Wilted part of me,

As I try to create

A zen garden with

The sand and rocks

Of my twisted soul.

Or is it my mind?

Can a soul be twisted?

Can minds be straight?

But I digress.

As I was saying.

Ode, oh ode, to my hairy legs.

They are not hairy

As a banner to my feminist

Anger at the dictatorship

Of Mr.Gillet and company,

Or as an embrace to my natural

Self, acceptance of my ape

Nature, or my wilderness.

Their mission is bigger than that.

They are hairy to keep my alive.

Because, for all my chants and meditations

And CBT and Psychodynamic talks,

And my love for the truth of

Everything and every bod,

Fat or slim, tall or short,

Deep down, beyond the love and light,

I am rather shallow and vain.

Like, really, truly vain.

I have a 50’s etiquette teacher

Hiding inside of me. A lady

Does not leave without a hat

Or undone lips.

And a lady shaves, if not every day,

At least twice a week.

So, when I hold the razor and ask

Myself if I truly have a reason to live,

And I run out of excuses and convince

My embroiled brain that the world

Is better off without me, I look at my legs.

And I’ll be dammed if I will let any police

Officer see me in that state.

The blood, the mess, eh…

That I can live (or die) with.

But strangers gazing at my

Hairy legs? Hell no.

Not tomorrow, not today.

I would have to have loss

My last inch of dignity and self-worth,

My last breath of humanity

For let that to happen.

So, I sing to my hairy legs,

That keep me alive, that

Keep me safe.

That give time to think it

Over, and find again the light,

And move the gravel of my thoughts

Into a zen garden in my mind.

So, ode, oh yes, to my hairy legs!

And my most sincere thanks,

To the flowy, long, bright summer dress.