falling into dreams 
the song the crickets 
sing beneath the silver
moon may enchant
you to dance in dew
covered grass,

where the distant cries
of coyotes and owls
hooting will chime in;

as you're dancing insomnia
will leave your bones—

you'll enter the house tired,
and fall into dreams
you cannot remember
when you wake.
-linda m. crate 

from a previous life 
old books and dust
make me sad,
i try to give them a new
life;

sometimes it is hard
for me to be captivated
by old stories—

other times i open the 
page of forgotten stories,
and remember something
from a previous life;

it opens a portal to my soul
which i hope leads 
home

to my magic and to the 
mythology of my bones.
-linda m. crate 

some battles aren't worth fighting 
dreaming violence
sometimes comes natural
as breathing,

no one knows the violence
required to become gentle;

but i know—

i wouldn't wish it on anyone,
but i know the deep magic
and all the scars it can leave
behind;

yet i also know magic
which heals and is kind and full
of light and love and joy—

when i feel my fingers curl
into a fist i just take my fingers
apart and remind myself of the
miracle of life,

some battles just aren't worth
fighting;

sometimes the best thing to 
do with the violent dream
is walk away.
-linda m. crate 

from a previous life
old books and dust
make me sad,
i try to give them a new
life;

sometimes it is hard
for me to be captivated
by old stories—

other times i open the
page of forgotten stories,
and remember something
from a previous life;

it opens a portal to my soul
which i hope leads
home

to my magic and to the
mythology of my bones.
-linda m. crate

parasites and monsters 
the treasure i buried
was my magic,
figured only the worthy
ones should be able
to find me;

a best friend of twenty
years forgot me

so i see no need in 
offering all the prettiest
songs of my magic to
any stranger—

if you want to know me
then you can deal with these
walls,

until i feel safe enough to
show you my shiny things;

i used to be openly 
vulnerable but i learned 
i needed thorns and walls
to protect me from the
parasites and monsters.
-linda m. crate 

what would their water be? 
a world without water
isn't one where i imagine much
could thrive,

perhaps machines would
roam the earth;

but what would their blood be
made of and what stories
could they forge or tell?

what kind of world would 
they live in?

could they see any beauty
in color or value anything that
once lived?

what would their water be?

i wonder what they would do
or what they would dream of,
what would they be?

i wonder what language they
might speak and what variations
to those languages there might be,
and where did all the water go?
-linda m. crate 

what would their water be? 
a world without water
isn't one where i imagine much
could thrive,

perhaps machines would
roam the earth;

but what would their blood be
made of and what stories
could they forge or tell?

what kind of world would 
they live in?

could they see any beauty
in color or value anything that
once lived?

what would their water be?

i wonder what they would do
or what they would dream of,
what would they be?

i wonder what language they
might speak and what variations
to those languages there might be,
and where did all the water go?
-linda m. crate 

meander into an adventure;

perhaps i'll see a butterfly
or a deer will lock eyes
for a second with me before
his or her white tail disappears
into the trees—

maybe i will see giant trees,
or go play in the creek;

you never know where a road
to nowhere may lead you—
and as long as the day is full
of light and the skies are blue,
i say adventure away;

no one wants to end up 
in a horror story.
-linda m. crate 

whispers in the dark 
the shadow people
roam around,
some of them are 
friendly and kind 
i am sure;

but i am always 
weary of anything that
whispers in the
dark—

i remind myself i was
born at night,
the moon and stars
knew my face
before the sun ever did;

so i try to tell myself
perhaps in the darkness
there can exist more than
monsters and parasites.
-linda m. crate 

this world too full of nightmares 
moonlight blessings
shimmering in silver,
pink, red, orange, purple,
blue, yellow, green, indigo,
and any other color she so
chooses;

the moon is a rainbow
hearted woman like me—

she taught me that i am
beautiful in all of my phases,
and always full of light
even when i don't feel whole;

she always watches over me
when i am sad or happy
and she never judges my moodiness—

she always kisses me with 
compassion,

a cool hand to soothe all the things
which burn me up in this world
too full of nightmares.
-linda m. crate 

song of magic 
lifted by faery wings
the butterfly seemed to
remember how to 
dance among the flowers,

and i watched those wings
sweep pollen off the
lilies as it flew past;

making the clovers dance
with more food for the
honey bees—

i watched the orange and 
black wings of the monarch,

and i think he or she 
watched me back for a moment
probably wondering what the
giant creature was doing;

but i couldn't help but be
caught up in the song of magic.
-linda m. crate 

something more practical 
dripping ink
would make me so
impatient,

people have talked 
about gifting me quills;

but i think i can write
perfectly pretty
letters in cursive without
them—

i can see them just sitting
behind the plastic,
gathering dust;

the ink never used—

so get me something 
more practical
or pretty because a girl 
could never have too many
jewels or crystals.
-linda m. crate 

shapeshifting 
the animal within
sometimes shifts,
at times i can be a
happy dog;

other times i am an angry
wolverine ready to slash
you with my claws—

sometimes i am the 
happy crow hopping around
in autumn or shrieking with
joy to see my friends,
who must collect all of the 
shiny things;

other times i am a melancholy
little cat sitting by the window
feeling forgotten—

sometimes i am the turtle slowly
crossing the road,

other times i am the impatient
hare who can wait no longer
as i speed walk past you;

but mostly i am just me
regardless of the animals within.
-linda m. crate 

an invitation 
the blank page
is an invitation,

always i want to see
what she'll bring
me;

sometimes it is
memories and other
times dreams and 
others there are worlds
i scarce remember
from another life—

but every blank page
excites me because the chance
of something new,
an adventure i've never known
waits and beckons for me;

and so i must go—

to lose everything weighing
me down,
and to gain everything i was 
meant to know.
-linda m. crate 

once i got it 
daisy chains
were never something
i learned how to
make,

i've always wanted a flower
crown of real daisies;

but no one ever thought to teach me
these things and my mother's cure
for everything was watching
a tutorial online—

i have always learned better
from someone showing me,

i could mimic the movement of
their fingers and learn how to
do it my own way;

but it is easier if the person
is actually there—

because i am curious,
and i need to ask questions;
i need to see it more
than once but once i got it i won't
forget.
-linda m. crate 

meander into an adventure 
roads to nowhere
where i can go
slowly,


the skeleton of who i was 
hypnotic melody 
whispers in my ear,
tries to make me
worship an entity whose
purpose i don't trust
or know;

i ignore the song
no matter how pretty
it may be 

don't need a religion
willing to sacrifice me—

i had one of those
growing up,
and i have left it behind;

those bones aren't something
i would wish upon anyone—

the skeleton of who
i was warns me that this
music is just a spell which
could undo me.
-linda m. crate