Sting like a jelly-fish

“In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.”

~ Robert Green Ingersoll

Today while walking into Ralph’s supermarket, I saw the familiar old lady under yellow plastic. She was holding a white tissue to her red nose. She sat in her wheelchair at a prime target getting her ‘a little sympathy’. She got mine. I went into the store and purchased a $1.95 Starbucks house coffee medium. I am still amazed that a ‘cup of joe’ costs so much now. I remember when it was 25 cents.

“I like watching Noir films,”

I said to the barista.

“It is a wonder in those films that a ‘cup of joe’ only cost five pennies. Twenty-five cents got you a cup of coffee, a ham sandwich, and a piece of pie.”

The barista smiled at me as I got the coffee. I put in some cream and sugar and then headed towards the old lady in a wheelchair.

“Here is a cup of coffee, you look cold.?!”

“I don’t drink coffee it is bad for you.”

“Really, I thought it would warm you up. Coffee is not as bad for you as you may think.”

“I have never had any.”

She looked down to her right at a dirty bag of oranges.

“It is all right I had an orange…I am fine.”

I was a bit upset. I never thought that she would reject a cup of coffee on such a cold and rainy day.

“Lady sometimes beggars can’t be choosers?!”

I realized that I could not reason with the lady. She had her right to say no. So, I walked on remembering what an old myth taught me. All about a woman’s psyche.

As Persephone went on her journey, she was advised not to give anything to those needy people who asked for something along the way. It was important for her to hold on to her strength and parts of herself that were precious.

I failed the test today. Then that sorrow thread pulled in me. I call it the thread of sorrow.

I think that our current society does not embrace their share of sorrow. That is why we have so many drug addicts and alcoholics. A social epidemic.

We all need to hold on to or embrace our threads of sorrow.

It can pull hard.

It can be an echo that mocks.

It can sting like a jelly-fish.

When we run from our share of sorrow,

ignore it,

or get lost in our addictions hating it,

it only manifests in our world as a monster shadow.

Creating hate, chaos, and terrible politicians.

That is why I love Jazz because it speaks to the human heart and soul.

It embraces its share of sorrow.

Masseuse.

At about 8 o’clock PM.

The unpredictable Crazy days are far behind me, and the routines of life have set in.

Family and cats bring the little rituals of life which bring symmetry into the chaos of living such as racing through traffic and surviving, watching current politics, and not having a heart attack, and realizing that we all die.

It is comforting to know that we live in a recycling universe, or so it seems. The point being within the light and darkness of life are the routines of everyday living that do bring joy.

Last night was a normal trash night. The difference in the routine is when husband said that there are two cars parked in our unmarked-marked trashcan places. The usual sounds of annoyance on his part made me think about visiting with our new neighbors and asking them to move one of the cars so we might have a place for our trashcans.

The green sweat coat with 1976 on it pulled over my shoulders and I was off. I found myself in front of the neighbor’s house. Placing a knock knock and then pushing a ring ring upon their door and door button. Something expanded when I heard the ring ring.

It was a different kind of ring ring. It being a tasteful and alluring sound. The front door was half window, and I could see in as one of my neighbors looked back at me. I mumbled something about the trashcans. The neighbor’s eyes widened open.

Dressed in a light blue robe, looking confused, my neighbor opened the door slightly. Having a face that was angular like something out of a Pablo Picasso painting such as Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, 1907 during his cubism period; caught me off guard.

The new neighbors had radically changed the format and structure of the house since the last owner. As the door opened there was only a white hallway that met about halfway through the house. Directly on the wall before me was a giant painting of what looked like a Toulouse-Lautrec, Jane Avril Dancing painting.

Yet this painting was one woman with her leg up and a giant red dress like a blooming flower. Once there were two rooms here, one leading right and one left. One into a game room and the other into the kitchen. Not anymore. Straight ahead was a veil into another reality.

Our conversation was quick. I told the neighbor our problem. I was told that each of them had a massage therapist come out for a special treat massage and that the cars were theirs. I was also told that both were almost finished.

Like clockwork each masseuse left in their two separate cars. I put out my two trash cans under the crescent moon of a very dark night. Feeling nicely surreal and wondering about our new neighbors?

I wish I could say that they turned out to be nice… the neighbors got worse and worse and now they have moved.

A restoring appeal…

After the Woolsey Fire Dec. 17, 2018

A restoring appeal bound for
the Santa Monica Mountains
The highway moves by way of serpentine.

Black mountains and summative clarity of once
Overgrown trees and sage,
Wild Promethean fennel and yucca plants.

Fog embraces
The black burned earth hills
Holy sprinkles of rain upon the concealed seeds.

Ivy; It will be a good day !

(11-18-18)

Feet steeping around
In light purple tennis shoes
Morning crisper than it was
Cyprus tree tall as a tower
Dark green tall I upward gaze
Looking straight up
Noticing the ivy that embraces the climb
Wild element of the neighborhood
Sadly, gardeners often slash off all the blossoms
most times, yet not here
Half a block overtaken by tall Cyprus
And wild dark shiny green ivy
Light greets angled points and blossoms
Look up and stand still
Wild order
Sound of harmonic honey bees
Everywhere
Enthusiastic peace
The humming bees
As I gaze silently and listen
A dark crow lands on the tip-top
Upon towering Cyprus tree
Gloria told me once
“When the bird rests on the
Tip-top of the Guest house
At the Rosy Fellowship
It will be a good day.”

(11-24-18)

Today I knocked
An old gentleman
Opened his door
I thanked him for his
Climbing ivy
How he lets it blossom.

He told me he planned
To cut it down
Yet the branches were too thick
He will not be
Cutting the ivy down.

How happy we were
I told him how the
Sound of the bees
Is a religious experience
For me.
He said “thank you:
“For your kind words!”

I know the bees, humming birds
And song birds as yellow as the sun
Love the blossoming ivy.

My chapel is mutable
Here the goddess be
Humming and shining
For all who take the time
To hear, feel and see.

dscf4908s — The wild ivy is an ancient plant… let a part of your garden be wild…for her.

` Hudley 11/18-24-18

wild burning hills

The Woolsey Fire was a wildfire that burned in Los Angeles and Ventura Counties of the U.S. state of California. The fire ignited on November 8, 2018.

Praying Mantis Kachina ~ Praying and dancing for fog and sprinkles of rain to cool the earth !!

I write when I am confronted with change, stress, and heartbreak. A well-deserved karmic war zone~ who knows? I think about all the wild animals. The deer, buck, cougars and coyotes, the wild animals are surviving their best too. Bless all the wild things that grow in the Santa Monica mountains.

I am consecrated by my wild Promethium fennel growing in my front yard. Taken from the Santa Monica mountains, a wild shaft that was once filled with seeds. On the wild burning hills the seeds will survive the fires. The wild yucca will come forth once again….

Below is a book of stories I wrote and published indirectly about the Santa Monica mountains. A positive movement now in dark times of vast destruction as my head bounds painfully with grief!

To Shelly and Ruff

Click to see at Amazon. Direct Publishing

Who’s Soul did Frankenstein’s monster have?

“‘…from that moment [he] declared everlasting war against the species, and more than all, against [Frankenstein] who had formed [him] and sent [him] forth to this insupportable misery.’”

Shelley, Frankenstein, Chapter 16, p. 12

Once upon a time I found the novel by Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, the new Prometheus. I became friends with Frankenstein’s monster. He was not the film version because I looked to the quality of his brilliant soul.

I authored a short story entitled, Who’s Soul did Frankenstein’s Monster Have? I put the story in a folder and took it with me wherever I went. I was inspired and torn by my insight.

I felt I may have understood something no one else ever dared to wonder about. This was back in the 1980’s. Then, as busy, and as careless as a young punk might be, I lost the folder at a Mexican restaurant up-town Whittier, CA.

This loss haunted my nights. Back then backing-up-files was not so easy. This may have been before floppy disks. I did not make a copy of my short story of a monster’s revelations.

I did keep the little doodles about the story which I will share today. I did not misplace the folder. Someone took it and still, has it?

As one gets older time seems to bend backwards. It comes towards you so you can say hello again to those times of youthful inspiration.

I looked through all of my plastic boxes to find these images in my art closet. So glad the doodles were safe and not lost.

My story of a woman raped.

The author reflects deeply on their feelings of trauma after watching the 1988 film The Accused, which starkly depicts a brutal rape. This cinematic portrayal of violence against women evokes a profound emotional response, prompting the author to draw parallels between the character’s harrowing experience and their own past encounters with trauma. It highlights the notion that trauma, once inflicted, can leave an indelible mark, echoing through the myriad facets of one’s life.

The author elaborates on the persistence of trauma, emphasizing how it can shape thoughts, emotions, and relationships long after the initial event has passed. By sharing personal reflections, they cultivate a deeper understanding of the emotional turmoil experienced by survivors, marking a call for empathy and recognition of the lasting effects of such violence.

Moreover, the author expresses unwavering support for the Roe v. Wade ruling, reflecting a broader concern regarding women’s rights and bodily autonomy. They articulate their anger over recent political attempts to undermine this landmark decision. In their view, such actions are not merely political maneuvers; they are seen as barbaric and regressive, marking a significant setback in the quest for gender equality and the rights of women to make choices about their own bodies.

The author is particularly incensed by the June 2022 decision, which, in their eyes, represented a profound failure by the U.S. Supreme Court. They argue that this ruling declared there is no federal constitutional right to abortion—abandoned the court’s duty to protect fundamental rights. This verdict, they assert, will echo through generations, potentially endangering not only women’s rights but the very fabric of personal freedoms that many have fought tirelessly to secure. The implications of this decision serve as a call to action, urging society to confront the ongoing struggles faced by women as they navigate the complexities of autonomy and choice in an increasingly hostile environment.

Christine Blasey Ford water color by Hudley Flipside.

Julie sang a Doors song to me. We were on the hill playing. She acted like she made it up. I knew that she did not. This song marked a change in the neighborhood. The 16 and 17-year-old boys were smoking funny cigarettes.

Confronting ghosts from years ago and feeling much better.

I am writing this because of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s story. Maybe her narrative was not successful in stopping the nomination to the supreme court of Judge K. I believe she told the truth and with great risk to her family and to herself. I admire her honesty.

So, in support of her naming those who assaulted her, I will name mine. Mike Hansen and Michael Myers (and more). Dr. Ford is free now yet the lies and darkness within Judge K’s being will continue to manifest until it destroys him. Maybe not today or tomorrow but eventually. That is how karma works.

Roman Polanski

The mid 1970s and early 1980s held wild times. A new sexual revolution that became dark fast. I did not live far from where Roman Polanski was arrested, at Jack Nicholson’s home, for the sexual assault of 13-year-old. I knew the girl who was drugged and then molested. I never imagined something like that would happen to me.

Drugs, sex and fun was fundamental at that time. Luckily, my mom and dad kept guard. They were not always interested in school stuff, but they did keep guard. I was protected from the house down the hill. A single mom with an empty nest most nights. Except for the teenage boys.

The endless drug parties were unchecked by the adults in the neighborhood. Michael Myers, no relations to the character from the film Halloween, ruled there. Any girl 13 to 16 was not safe from his advances. The peer pressure was enormous!!

Once he was 18 he continued to make his moves. That is where Mike Hansen came to my aid. He was my boyfriend who protected me from the age 15 to 17. Until Mike cheated on me and we broke up. I started going out with another boy. We dated on and off for about 6 months.

Mike Hansen wanted us to get back together. One night he invited me to a party where he was living with Mike Myers. They lived in an old apartment next to a local Catholic Church. It seemed safe enough. A few friends were over and someone handed me a beer. The next morning, I awoke naked and alone in Mike Hansen’s bed.

I did not remember anything from the night before until years later. This narrative gets worse because I became pregnant. As a 17-year-old my voice was invisible. I was confused and overwhelmed.

Pregnant with two boyfriends. It was not a good place for a 17-year going on 18 to be. The bad words spoken, tension and moral pressure made me crazy. Mike Hansen wanted to entrap me into marriage. I said no. The other boy was helpful, but he soon broke up with me. I blamed myself. It was not until years later that the images of that night came forward. Memories became clear to me. Around the time after giving birth to my first son at 34. Yes, slowly it was clear to me. I will not go into the years of grief and despair that I worked though.

Looking back, I remember Mike Hansen was mad at me, so I assume he or another drugged me and let me be raped by whom ever was at the party. I feel that they planned it with intent and foresight. In a sense I felt relieved that I remembered this. I felt sad too for a long time. I did not regret the abortion back then. It was intuitively the best thing to do. I realize that now.

The window from Mike Hansen’s room

Today I went back to the apartments. I don’t live far. The apartments have expanded. There are more parking areas. The apartments are now secured and closed from strangers. The apartment where Mike Hansen and Mike Myers lived are at the corner of Serrainia Ave and Ventura Blvd. or De Soto Ave and Ventura Blvd. The streets change as one crosses Ventura heading west.

As a kid I knew this area. I walked by these apartments everyday, Jr. High School and later in High School. A few of my friends went to the Saint Mel Catholic School right near the apartments. Across the street, where there is now a Wells Fargo Bank, there was a 7- Eleven. My friends and I could get a Slurpee for 10 cents. Why wouldn’t I feel safe there. It was where I grew up? My dad owned a building only a few blocks down on Ventura Blvd.

My family had history here, a history intertwined with both cherished memories and painful realities. That history includes my rape, an experience that has shaped not only my life but also the legacy I carry. With each visit to this place, the echoes of the past resonate within me, reminding me of the strength found in vulnerability and the resilience required to reclaim my narrative.

Julie Myers was a good friend, but I had trust issues with her, similar to those I had with her brother. She shared revealing late-night stories about her brother and Mike Hansen, which made me feel jealous and uncertain. Although I listened to her tales, I struggled to believe them, questioning if I should have trusted her more. They were raping young girls. I was just another one.

My Mentor Tree and Eucalyptus Friend

The tree replied to me today, “I AM WHO I AM.” This is the same whisper I always heard from my mentor tree and eucalyptus friend.

Dad first visited the eucalyptus tree when he went horseback riding in the San Fernando Valley. The late 1940s. He rode from Ventura Blvd towards the dirty hills of the Santa Monica mountains. It is not easy to imagine that there once was a horse stable found near Ventura Blvd. and Canoga Ave.

He told me how he stopped one day under the eucalyptus tree and looked over the valley. Once he saw a for sale sign there, a hill covered with wild sage and wilder nature. My dad made it happen.

His brother was a carpenter / builder and his mother already invested in properties throughout the San Fernando Valley. They made his dream come true. They made it happen for my dad and mom. As a WWII Vet he secured a government loan.

Dad and his brother, Had, created a plan to build a house on that wild hill in the San Fernando Valley. They fought like brothers often do. My dad fought for the large sliding windows that looked over the valley. He also fought to build a house which cuddled around a eucalyptus tree.

I learned to climb that tree as I was learning to walk. The smell of the eucalyptus tree on foggy mornings before going to school or during rainstorms often filled my bedroom. I climbed that beautiful tall tree on my way to the top of the red brick chimney often.

Sometimes to see thunderstorms break across the valley. There I silently sat listening to the sound of coyotes in the distance and viewed lights in the night sky. All this magic still captures my imagination.

Once I left home, I often went back to visit with my parents. The first thing I would do was hug my eucalyptus tree. The seed pods from the eucalyptus are a wonder. Round and cone-shaped with a five-pointed star in the middle. Always a signal autumn was approaching.

Today a walk on a slightly foggy morning at the end of August brought back this memory of a eucalyptus tree I grew up with. I was beholding today to the only eucalyptus tree in my neighborhood. Whispering a scent and showing an aura that took me back to my nebulous childhood.

Summer Poem number 2

I used to see anarchy & chaos much differently.

Today I see it as something I will not agree to.

Yet the will of an individual can be applied for the benefits of all or for only oneself.

To harm others without caring.

I used to think it was to bring all others to the table and to change and make new ways of seeing the world creativity and imaginatively.

An individual can uniquely inspire a generation, or a few people, to be good human beings.

Or the opposite can happen when an ego causes dark chaos & we are witnessing this now.

It is a time to consider this all, …. as very important parts of who we all are!? So much for August… it does this to me.

July moves into August

July moves into August. A time of justice and heat, a time of foresight and deep. For me it is about the news… some bad and some good news. I know this time of the year to be delirious dark and forbidden. Today it has reached an illuminating place of thanksgiving.

Between our psyche and the cosmos is magic. Magic moves between our hidden unconscious coming forth from our dreams. Yes, that Magic coming with psychic foresight of knowing. Real causality or synchronicity does not matter to me. Natural magic! I live in all combinations.

Yesterday we went to Naval Air Station Point Mugu. Driving to Ventura from the San Fernando Valley can be harsh on a Sunday. We found a little farming street to follow down to Point Mugu. Its romances are the beautiful Pacific Ocean. Which is why we were there.

My dad was a WWII Veteran. As kids we enjoyed fishing on the pier that is located on this naval base.

My husband and I sat in our car for some time. Wondering if we could approach and visit the pier for old memories. We did. A tight solider asked for husband’s driving-license. As the soldier was taking the license from husband, I explained my family story. Before you could think we were quickly told to make a U-turn. No goodbyes or safe journeys.

Point Mugu has since merged with nearby Naval Construction Battalion Center Port Hueneme to form Naval Base Ventura County (NBVC).

We ended up at Port Hueneme Historical Society Museum. A sweet little place that smelled pleasantly old! The building was filled with old women and older history items. Outside the rather small building were many monarch butterflies. Hub bobbing around ourselves like best friends. We were then told the story.

It sounds like a magical potion. Milk weed, Cosmo flowers and chrysalis. It was the story of how someone took the time to love the process of this lovely butterfly. All it takes is a little love and a few nasty weeds to attract the attention of nature’s finest beauties.

Today upon waking up I enjoyed a particularly good dream. A dream I have been waiting for since my mother’s death. It was a closure dream. In this dream, the husband opened the front door to the usual UPS knock. There was another package, another calculus book, or similar book, for the kids. Then we heard another knock on the front door. This time I opened the door. From top to bottom the front door was filled with packages. My husband gave me a guilty look. A pouting praying mantis face.

“It is not Christmas time,” I said.

I pulled out one of the packages. A large white one. A box that might conceal a dress or new pants. Then I saw on top the name ‘Holly’ written in cursive.

“How could mom give me this after her death?”

A wonderful gift from her. That is what mom would do. Write our names on top of our gifts. It was her writing…. I know it by heart!

Today has reached an illuminating place of thanksgiving.

Summer [27 Anniversary] Poem #2



Would you could you
travel miles and miles
for delicious deep-fried
artichoke hearts?

I wanna go to Castervile CA
and eat some deep-fried
artichoke hearts
with spicy mayonnaise.

Near the lovely coastal region
close to Moss Landing,
a fucking pint at The Whole Enchilada
with a shot of hot vodka
with my anniversary man.

Take a walk on the beach
Smell the garlic in the air
mixed with the salty smell of tide pools
under the earthy breaths of
golden-green eucalyptus trees.

Lovely multicolored Monarch butterfly 
sweet bites of yellow-white 
lemon margarine pie
Pacific Grove embraces
never-ending waves
breathless roller coaster rides.

Summer Poem # 1

My oasis
And cave.

Not reaching out
But reaching within.

Agathos daimon holds my heart
Humidity holds me back.

“Coninuctio” “in mercurio”
Planting seeds
Which do not ripen.

Outside my oasis
Seeds dry in the heat.

Inside the cave
I listen to Mercurius speak.

“The desires of the mind
Will take you nowhere.”

As a friend of friends

Urania is talking to Uranus
Ambassador to the planets and stars
She calls to Earth
As a friend of friends,
Catalyst of goodness and humor,
to Uranus ascending electric magma
Eccentric insect antenna muses
Human Beings 
To be the best 
we can be.

In Return

Receptive, illumination and synchronicity,

I’m a wise old blooming flower, waiting to be pollinated,

I’m receptive to what I shall become, Let life approach me,

I do not have to go seeking,

I have all I need to succeed, I’m a beautiful rose,
wise, good and ready.
I can be trusted,

I follow things through, I speak my mind,

Let the spirit of god / goddess, move over my deep dark waters.
Receptive as an open flower.

Now, waiting for life to impregnate me.

“The Rose makes honey.”

Promethean fennel

The wild fennel is growing in my garden,

From the Santa Monica Mountains,

Only a few seeds thrown around my land,

From the staff-sheath that I have,

Near my hearth.

My wild Promethean fennel,

Smells of licorice and earth,

Feels like numinous beats,

Waves from the coastal region,

Myths revealing through my soul.

Prometheus freed by Chiron,

Fire consumes my heart,

Compassionate green healing,

Of my mind and dreams,

Love will grow tall and strong

My wild Promethean fennel.

The flourishing membrane


Thalia (/θəˈlaɪə/; Ancient Greek: Θάλεια, Θαλία;

"the joyous, the flourishing"

Breaking through 
Breaking through the membrane
Of turning 60
Letting go of
Youth, maidenhood and giving birth
Entering the world
Of crones and seniors with purple-grey hair.

Wise witches who stand
By old dark shedding trees
they sweep the cobwebs away
My repellent membrane.

Holding me back
Calls of youth, music, and romance
Death must be a friend
Calm and gentle friends
It’s my heart I worry about!

Will my tenacity be strong enough
To make It through the membrane
Will I be whisked up
By my elder ancestors?

My hands that look like grandmother’s
My need for love, friendship and companionship
Will I take my magic with me
The golden thread that brings meaning to old age?

Mystery, adventure, humor and longing
Will these qualities still inspire me
As my muses tease
Will my muses be waiting for me 
On the other side as I wrestle 
With this dark and flourishing membrane?

A Gift from Saturn

As Saturn moves from Pisces to Aries,

They say Saturn leaves us gifts…

This poem is an active imagination I had a few years back.

The inner world of a writer

often goes deep.

Into the world of our psyches.

We also reach high into the sky.

As we watch the Pleiades and Orion’s Belt

above us these winter nights.

As we walk our magical walks.

This is only one gift I remember well,

Many more gifts since.

We all need Saturn’s gifts.

Brightening our days.

I hope you find yours too!

I am leaning Saturn’s

Continuance.

Winged centaur

Invisible sounding hooves

Upon the backyard cement.

Lifted me upon his back

We flew through

The rain, clouds, and satellites

Rounding the earth.

Straight and fast towards

Saturn’s castle

He is to give me a gift.

I have waited upon the words

Of Buffalo yesterday and today.

“Today Saturn will give

You a gift… today today!”

I waited and wondered

Tonight, as I watch the hearth fire

I heard the call towards Saturn

As before …

I rode over frozen land

Blue ice and white paths

Overall, we flew

centaur’s wings outstretched

Gracefully I slip off the centaur.

I walked towards the big door

Dark but when opened

Filled with light and beings

Those who lived there

Those who were visiting like me.

An earthling’s visits are often short

Saturn, I found

Up the golden spiral staircase.

Waiting with a smile

And comfortable charm.

Saturn gave me a gift

A green box

Asking me

Not to open it now.

Wait until I am home

And place it over the fire

On your hearth,

The gift will reveal

Itself to you.

My journey home was fast

I made a space upon my hearth

Above the fire

Then turning to look out the window.

The wet outdoors

From a cold rain

Found me hoping

For a drop of cymene.

Of the ascending centaur

Glissading and glistening

Away from my soul through the rain

Under a full peeking moon.

Saturn told me

To write a poem about the green box

A gift from him

And so, I have.

Fourth Winter Wonderland Poem

Cold at night we walk
Around our neighborhood block
Hearts are pumping
Tall are the palm trees!

Turn the corner
A silence is broken
“Hoot, hoot!”
Then a short walk more
Another “hoot. hoot!”

15 years since we heard
The owls in the trees
Two of them maybe?
Near a Los Angeles cement waterway.

2 or 3 in the morning
The owls were closer still
The moon was almost to it’s fill
Westerly to the left descending
A round brightness of light.

Told my man
In sleepy slumber
“The owls are near!”
I’m awake with the owls
As they ascend away.

Second Winter Wonderland Poem, Saturn and Chiron and Beyond

Astronomical, astrological, metaphysical ~ trinity. Saturn: Time, Philyra: Form and Chiron: Solar egg sack.

It seems that people
are talking about…

Saturn on steroids
since ascending
to the high land of his home.
As Capricorn alerts the master !

Chiron to take on the power
A healing of this shadowy world …
much more beyond our knowing.

I am not worried
because of my years of
friendship with Saturn and Chiron

Education and evaluation
I am stimulated with wonder and energy.

Keeping myself grounded
becoming impassioned with life.

Philyra or Phillyra (/ˈfɪlərə/: Ancient Greek: Φιλύρα means “linden-tree“) is the name of three distinct characters in Greek mythology. Philyra, an Oceanid and mother by Cronus of Chiron. Philyra, one of the names given to the wife of Nauplius, who was the father of Palamedes, Oiax and Nausimedon.

First Winter Wonderland Poem, Neptune in Cancer!



I was thinking how Crones,
older women,
are not as influenced
by the cycles of the Moon!

I look back over
my feminine life
Seeing how unconsciously
I was driven.

Influenced by the phases
of the Moon,
my powerfully changing hormones!
Best described as chemical slavery.

A female body
a lunar ebb and flow alignment
with the continuity of our Moon!
I now see it also as a partial 
cultural brainwashing where; 
sex, power, and self-worth, 
is somehow all tied together!

Yes, Crones have desires 
needs of love and intimacy
I have come to experience
Crones are no longer ruled
by the cycles of the Moon
or our hormones!

There is the higher octave
of the Moon,
known as planet Neptune 
dancing with the astrological 
sign of Cancer
I join in this brightly aware dance!

The flutter of hormones 
emotional ways become silent
to the constant
moving river of insight!

For Crones
our external beauty wanes
our internal beauty waxes
as a luminous pearl
I embrace my pearl.

Consciously I slough off
many burdensome illusions
This is the correct time
An ongoing relationship
Between psyche and the cosmos.