Glorious Sun
Streaming down
Catching fairies dancing
Dancing on wavelets

Open I am
To the sun
To the water
To the wind
To the play
Of light

Singing gentle breezes
I open
To the arms of women
Whispering my name

To the hands
Of the circle
That holds me
In my power
Once again

I never thought
I could feel so alive
So full of the present
Free of the past
Enclosed in a circle
Of shining unity

Blood still drips
From the wounds
They open
But are quickly healed
I revel in the tough skin
Over the scars
Now more impervious
To pain
Than the original fragile flesh

I revel in the dance
Within me
Beginning to unfurl sails
and fly across the water
No more fear of
The once unspoken dream
Now the dream is real
And it’s truly more
Than any imagined dream
Could have been

I sigh
My wholeness
I am completely here now
There is no doubt
I am here

The loon calls
Confirming my presence
As if returning to the original birth
But not
Just now I am
Being birthed
By the Mother of All
The ancient healing waters
The sun’s rays streaming down
Sparking life
Awakening joy
Depth of aliveness

I come close to myself
And hold me
I am the lover
I am the beloved
I am holding the kindness
Close to my heart

I receive joy
I live in gratitude

I am here now
In my heart

Truthsong: Freedoms Presence

Flight of two Great Blue Herons across brilliant blue sky
melodious songs of birds
ripples of rain drops behind my eyelids
sunshine shifting nighttime to dawn
sweet taste of pollen
blueberries in the making
humming bird transforming flowers into fruit
sour past
a tree mostly broken
shattered wood edges sharp
bark still growing under the elbow
branches still climbing towards the sun
bright green maple leaves
fresh red maple seeds
wings with blood flowing through their veins
take flight on morning sun
rainbows in dew drops dancing
freedom’s presence
not cowed by panic stricken flight
not torqued by rough and ready street girl tongue
not muted by shades of fatigue
but flowing blood red
glowing splendid
behind the eyelids of morning sun
rising higher
notes of grief wrenched sobs turned song
climbing higher
notes of birds songs surrounding movement closer
birds becoming one with tears cascading
down cheeks lined with terror
chasms of wind streaked pains
crashing down of crescendo of melodious weeping
filling Heartroots Marsh
with sounds of birth death
cacophony of musical harmony
of yellow brown black red gray winged momentum
through bright green alive with spring
I sound like a panther in labor
a moose in distress
an owl in the hunt
a beaver in warning
a fawn in fear leaping to safety
I sound like nature
giving birth to herself
meanwhile the birds come closer
holding my notes in their own
caressing my fingertips with feathers
painting my truth with the sound
of egg cracking open
claw hands extending
the broken starved child emerges into the nest
rainbow wings surround her
touching places I can not
I tried to lift her from the buried box
my hands could not quite reach
the claws she extended
I tried to move ever closer
my voice broken in sobs
and screams wrenched free with pain
reached where I could not
I asked for help
the rainbow bird was there
with graceful movement protecting her in a nest of moss green
I surrendered to the birds
who do not prattle on about insanity
when one is becoming sane
through the doorway labeled “crazy”
my truth song broke the morning into fragments
shrieks, moans and sobs becoming melody
the rainbow of birds around me
acted as if
I was the essences of sunrise
blessing them with a new day
the two Great Blue Herons
flew back across the marsh
perhaps bringing food to nestlings
in stark wonder
the terror fades
as I
give birth to earth

Loonwomon 2006

Letting Go of rage: A Poem

From Clarissa Pinkola Estes ‘ Women Who Run With The Wolves’ (1992),
I have learned:
“A woman has the power to be angry in a mindful way”
“When a woman has trouble letting go of rage, it is often because she is using rage to protect herself”
“It is a defense that once the time of needing it for protection is passed, it costs plenty.”
“There is a difference between carrying around old ingrown rage and stirring it around with a new stick to see what can come out of it.”

Cultivating My Rage
My rage has been my constant companion
My Friend for longer than any other
I do not relinquish my hold on the sword hilt
without finding the new stick to stir up my rage
close at hand
this new stick has green branches and leaves
when stirring the smoldering embers of rage
it gives life to the fire
it is like a reversal
you would expect the leaves on the new stick
to blaze, blacken and die
instead it calms the coals
turning them to ashes
from these ashes grow
fresh green shoots
the fresh shoots are noteworthy in many ways
they have roots taking sustenance
from the ashes of my rage
they send tendrils exploring the depths
where rage arose from
they drink deeply of the tears that have fallen
the minerals that have become food
leaves shoot heavenward opening to the sun
the fire of rage that once burnt everything it touched
is now high in the sky
nurturing new growth
there is no fear of being burnt by it now
the leaves are filling out
spreading and making shade
a new type of protection
a new form of addressing old wounds
the pain is not gone
but healing

the flaky skin of scabs
is dropping into the compost around the tree
the new skin is tender
but a much improved condition over open wounds
the scars are real
the wounds are not forgotten
the scar tissue is thickening
to protect those vulnerable places
I have a community of scarred sisters
I have learned not to cut them
with the edges of my anger
I used to be like sharp edges of grass on bare legs
unable to be anything different
than what and who I was
a bundle of anger
arising instantaneously
without much to trigger it
now I relax under the new stick tree
that has been nourished
by the ashes of the cold coals of my rage
I paint pictures on my skin
outline the scars with gray black ash
announce the markers on the journey
relax against the tree trunk knowing
the journey now lays behind my back.

Loonwomon 2005

A Poem that has been gestating in me since I have heard of Abu Ghreib

Torture is Torture is Torture
No Matter What Name You Give It

The world has seen
The pornography
of what happened in Abu Ghreib
and been shocked by it

It’s is despicable

In the words of the reporter
Seymore Hearsh,
who release this story and the pictures
“Photographing some one nude is humiliating,
It is torture.”
(Democracy Now, Sept. 14, 2004)

Apply this same principle
to the vast amount of pornography
of womyn and girls on the market today
The world should be in an uproar
Why do I hear nothing
but silence?

I am a torture survivor too

I want the same concern
the same respect
the same demands for retribution

Why do I hear nothing
but silence?

Silence surrounded the torture
like a shroud

Silence protects the pornographers
Like a fog
It blankets the minds
of the masses
who apply firewalls and spam detectors
to protect themselves
from pornagraphy’s intrusion
into their personal computers

It has run rampant
Why is there no sympathy
no compassion
no outrage
for the womyn
tortured in pornography?

Do you really believe we wanted it?
that’s what the pornographers
want you to believe

What if
someone suggested
those men in Abu Ghreib
wanted to be photographed nude in sexual positions?
wanted to be shocked with electrodes?
wanted to experience sensory deprivation?
wanted to be set upon by dogs?

Well, I tell you, I am a survivor
of all of that and more
much much more
I most certainly did not want it
anymore than those prisoners did

I wonder where are the stories
of the womyn in Iraq?
If that is happening to the men
What must be happening to the womyn?
Undoubtedly it is far worse

But when it happens to men
it is torture
it is newsworthy
When it happens to women
it is entertainment
Well, some of us are tired
of being entertainment

I shake the wall of silence
it shivers and dissolves
a little
just a little
Like the fog it is hard to dispel

There is no way
to track down and destroy
all the humiliating pictures
of me in pornography

There is no way
to erase the electric shock
torturous scars from my body

Would they have needed to use
electric shock torture on me
if I was involved in
Or, were they simply practicing
with their equipment
for future political prisoners?

My prison had walls of glass
I could see the world
but yet was not part of it

was the chain that
held me fast

I want the same respect
from the ACLU
and you
and you
and you
That is given to other political prisoners
women caught by the sex industry
Are political prisoners too.

Loonwomon (2005)

The Compassionate Void

Blue black sky

precious night

darkness descends into the eternal nothing

the place between here and there

then and now

the past and the present

i feel her

my very own piece

of starry night

my unconscious


gently holding

babes and young children

over the decades of time

until they felt safe

to return

their spider egg sacs empty now.

trailing from the edges

of this vast womon form

black as India ink

nights without moon

a place below

laden limbs of trees

making the night ever darker

i claim her

she is the womb

that held the once born

too often tortured

returned to their source

in comfort

trust and compassion

she carried our truth

like a giant wound

with a fragile scab

cracking open

and letting out

one or two

baby spiders at a time

as they grow

and learn they are safe

another and then another emerges

claiming love

claiming tenderness

claiming humanity

seeking solace

from those already at home

in the body

learning the joys of being alive


seeding the birds

petting the dog

we are on a rampage now

a stampede towards wholeness

more little ones in the here and now

a critical mass

a shift into present time

to meet

this one vast womonbeing

blue black sky space

in us

that held them all

so tenderly

for all these many years

a place of death

but not death

now a place of rebirth

of inspiration

i am blown away

by the depth of it

the all encompassing universe

that has lived within me

all these years

but not lived

died but not died

all the little ones

return from nothing

knowing something

they have knit together

a tapestry of tangibility

untangled a mangled past

presented a plausible picture

of who what where when and how

we were hurt and hurt and hurt again

the fact that

101 plus baby spider girls

exist at all

makes their story plausible

now i rest

like a womon after childbirth

having delivered the placenta

while this blue black piece of sky wombon

leaves me empty

my arms are full

i embrace

the multitude of baby spider girls

and start to live

Lesbian Lyrics

When I heard this song I imagined it was from the ” Witch Burning Times” when it would have been dangerous for us to acknowledge ourselves as lesbians, so I wrote more verses with that theme in mind….


Original verse:

Tell me, tell me, what are you seeking?

I am seeking mushrooms and clover.

Tell me, tell me, will you go hungry?

Hungry, yes, hungry but full.

Loonwomon’s verses:

Tell me, tell me, where are the healers?

They are meeting on yonder hill.

Tell me, tell me, when will you seek them?

Tonight, my friend, when the moon is full.

Tell me, tell me, art thou a healer?

After midnight when births go well.

Tell me, tell me, do women seek thee?

Only under the cover of a veil.

Tell me, tell me, what think you of women?

They are what makes my heart grow full.

Tell me, tell me, is thy heart lonely?

Until you bring your sweet cheer there, I will.

Tell me, tell me, does the bread rise there?

With your care, it will rise fuller still.

Tell me, tell me, shall I bring sweet clover?

Yes, please do, and mushrooms as well.

by:Loonwomon 2004
sound of water gurgling
dragonfly wings rustling
cicadas singing
I am sound
moving through air
but not quite as fast
as the speed of light
I open doors
to the unknown
beckon all ethereal madness
make sure I have enough
spiritual transformations in stock
I will wrap one around you
like a cloak
whisper of spider web silk
simmering with sunsets
settling into your psyche
enfolding you in conscious self love
I will not be doomed
to a life time gathered up in fragments
sand scattered in the gale force wind
I have grown roots
found a home
I expend my tendrils
energy becoming one
with the forest
entering her so completely
I become her
laughing uproariously
knowing there is nothing wrong with me
nothing wrong
no thing wrong at all
I fit my soul into the forest
like a hand fits
a knit wool glove
I wear the folds
warmly enfolded
by the snug fit
like a mouse in a tunnel
I always know where I am
all my sustenance comes
from the earth around me
yet I am the hand
that moves her to feed me
I drink in her infinite beauty
release it in waves
that wash over and through
            pop all around you
healing happens because
we are willing to give