Woman, mom, teacher, writer, unicorn-lover, tree-hugger, magic-seeker, fox spirit, crier, human. Writing about life: my years of drinking and my awakening.
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Image by kinkate from Pixabay

Have we met before?
Before you rose
like a purple cherub
from my womb
Before you fluttered
your butterfly wings
in my stomach
Before the kiss
of your imagined existence
settled itself
inside the chalk of my bones
Before you waited
ephemeral and ancient
a pause
in the company of star stuff?

We’ve met before
I’m sure;
In a meadow
Under a mushroom
On a dust mote
Through a sunbeam
In the space between electrons
Under the crook of an arm of a galaxy
Behind the pupil of an eye
In the crater of a hawk moon.

Vixen Lea is…

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Hello. My name is Vixen Lea and I have been Razzle-Dazzle for 1000 days.

January 7, 2018 is the day that I made the decision to quit drinking.

It seems like such a small thing when you look at the words of it: I Decided to Quit Drinking. Like I just made a decision and then that was that and all was good in the world. But of course, it’s so much more nuanced than that.

I was SO AFRAID. It was like I was about to say Goodbye to my entire Being; like I was going to strip off all of my layers of self that I had spent the last 25 years…

What I did when my kids were quiet for 10 minutes

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It happened again.

I found myself standing at my kitchen counter, staring. At nothing in particular. The fog in my brain stirred just a bit, a familiar remembrance — I was going to DO something — write something?

I had words in there, I know I did. I should write them down while I can.

The house was still, quiet except for the low murmurs of my children playing together far off in another room, the basement perhaps. This never happens — them playing together without fighting. Well, maybe not NEVER, but rarely. Once a week, if the stars align.

a poem of fearlessness

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It’s too cold!
yells the nagging wind.
You’ll freeze to death out here,
whispers the pessimistic snow.
You’ll never survive those nibbling deer,
chatters the bossy squirrel.

Crocus don’t care.

Her bold adolescent sprouts
push aside last year’s leaves
and she reaches up to
poke at the glimmering sun.
No one’s gonna tell her
what she can or can’t do.

Watch me,

she tells that know-it-all squirrel
and kicks away the tag-a-long flakes.
Flicking a green middle finger to the icy wind
she rises, fierce and fearless. …

Change is the only constant

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It’s been far too long since I’ve cozied up on my front porch and watched the morning roll in.

Today it strides slow and heavy in a rain-soaked gray cloak, doing its best to whittle away the last muddy snow heaps from a winter who wore out its welcome.

An older man I used to know, a kind soul, a Sunday acquaintance, once said: “I somewhat like the winter. I like to look out my windows and see bare trees. It’s a nice change from seeing trees with leaves. …

Reclaiming self-worth and finding the joy in ‘doing’

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Today after my morning meditation, I pulled this card from one of my oracle decks ( Wild Offering by Tosha Silver): Being Enough.

I need to tell you how I really feel. I don’t like you!

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Dear February,

I don’t like you.

There. I said it.

I know you think you’re special…being the shortest month and all, with your cute little 29th day popping up every four years.

You decorate yourself in bubbly pink hearts, batting your false eyelashes and puckering your kissy lips. You think you are ALL THAT because you are the month of Luuuuvvv. How can anyone not love the Month of Love???

Ugh. You are such a people pleaser.

Your antics make me sick, just like those gross chalky conversation hearts that you try to pass off as real candy. Valentine’s Day…

a poem of repetitive motion

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sometimes shouts
in my head so loud,
my skull
a perpetual cymbal
ringing out fear
like a child lost in a crowd;
And I cannot decipher
if it ever had a beginning;
If the child ever knew
where it belonged.

Waking eyelids scrape past
eyes dry like off-track
sliding glass;
An unheard sound
of dreams stirs nightly, the
unreachable itch
behind my brain
disturbs nightly; and yet

drops its opaque overlay
upon my everyday;
Pending regrets lay
waiting to rise up
tomorrow; begin
again, always;
With dread
like an echo;
Like an inverted

Listen to this…

Sharing some gems from POM poets

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Photo by Mitchell Luo on Unsplash

When I first came to Medium in October 2020, I was looking for a way to get more “eyes” on my poetry. Like most amateur poets, I felt invisible. I was spilling words from my raw soul and yet they disappeared into the cruel world small and unverified.

It helps, somehow, to know that someone else read your words and knew you — even if just for a moment.

I found The POM through its Facebook group. Here was a publication willing to publish and celebrate work from a newbie like myself. Here was a group of poets, ranging from…

a poem of dustiness

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Photo by niklas_hamann on Unsplash

Chickens. 23 of them.
Clucking and crowing
and friendly as cats.
I’m laying on a hot couch
with 20 years of dust
and baked out here
like a dung brick.

Black flies. 100,000 of them.
Eating the sweat crust
off my thighs and dying
a sweet death
in the swamp hollow
of a Bud bottle.
And I’m splayed out
like a fat palm leaf.
and perspir-ating.

I can’t stand the scent of you,
even in this dry heat.
Breeze from a djembe beat
rolls down off the butte
and I breathe. …

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