Roswila's Dream & Poetry Realm

Dreamku/Tanka/Monoku with Digital Photos/Art; Other Poetry; more...

~ * "Wisdom begins in wonder." Socrates ~ *

SEE ALSO: ROSWILA'S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL (with The Found Tarot) and ROSWILA'S TAIGA TAROT (deck-in-progress) and TRYING TO HOLD A BOX OF LIGHT (Roswila's photos, from realism to abstract)

Tuesday, May 30, 2006


[New York, New York; photo courtesy of]

“Urban haiku” is how a friend of mine refers to my haiku written about city scenes. I think that makes a nice distinction between these haiku and the more commonly known nature-themed haiku. See my previous post called "Scifaiku" for some of my reasoning on the particulars of the haiku form.

Most of the urban haiku below were written while commuting to work by cab last fall and winter; therefore, all the references to traffic and vehicles.

torn blue recycle bag:
the ants trail
in and out


March winds –
traffic breezes along
until the tunnel


wild cab ride
barely legible
haiku notes


crossing the river:
a sight seeing bus
blocks the view


traffic idles:
brown leaves tremble
on the retainer wall


the driver and I
bundled and hushed
first snow fall


traffic halts
a bevy of cops
search the truck


shaft of sunlight
she displays her cardboard
homeless sign


after the tunnel:
half moon smudged
by clouds


traffic as usual –
the bittersweet comfort
of old songs


just shy of full:
the afternoon moon
above the overpass


sodas, cell phones,
and back packs
after school stroll


in tree of heaven’s
hot dog vendor


turning towards home
refracted winter light
fills the cab


open cab door:
oh, the shower
of golden leaves!


coming home –
a brown leaf curled
in the last blooms


smoke obscures the skyline a lone star

[The last above is a form that some haiku writers are using.
It echos how Japanese haiku look in their original calligraphy
only the single lines are vertical.]

* * * *

There are also two posts here about haiku based on dreams: DREAM HAIKU SERIES, and DREAM MOSAICS: WRITING HAIKU BASED ON DREAMS. And, of course, there’s the DAILY DREAM HAIKU posted to the top of this sidebar.

Resource: Haigaonline, a lovely site with haiga (illustrated haiku).

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.

Monday, May 29, 2006


Lucid dreaming is being aware while you are still asleep and dreaming, that you are dreaming. There’s a link at the bottom of this post to more in depth information on what lucid dreaming is.
It’s a skill that I gather can be learned, though some folk do it spontaneously.

I’ve always had a sort of partial lucidity in that when a dream becomes nightmarish - rarely, but it does happen - then I realize I’m dreaming and force myself to actually wake up. I spent many months, on and off, years back, trying to more fully develop the skill of lucid dreaming, as the literature makes some enticing claims for using it for self-healing and exploration. But I never got beyond a slightly more lucid level than the one I have when I wake myself from nightmares. Except this one lucid incident I share below:

As I come to the crossroads,
I recognize the wide street before me
as the one that leads to the boulevard
that will finally take me home.
The street lamps cast a comforting golden glow.
My heart and mind lighten.

As I lift my arms to fly and my feet leave the sidewalk,
I realize I CAN’T fly! I’m DREAMING! I am elated.
I remembered to remember I am dreaming.
The thrill runs through me top to toe. I am lucid!
And the night and street disappear.
I am suspended in a soft cloud, no ground beneath my feet;
no buildings, trees, or lamp lights glow around me.
I look around me puzzled, still fully aware I am dreaming
and that I can still do something with this dream,
if I wish. What should I do? What do I want?
I have NO idea! A wry amusement over-rides elation:
How like me to finally get what I want
and not have the vaguest idea
what to DO with it!

* * * *

Resource: DreamViews, A Lucid Dreaming Forum.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Dream of Three Tarot Cards

On May 15, 2006 I had a dream in which I was to "morph" into either the Three of Pentacles, the Five of Swords, or the Nine of Pentacles.

The Three of Pentacles:

is one of my "family" of Tarot cards based on my birth date. So it can be seen to represent the givens of who I am. I.e., a craftsperson (writer, Tarologist, dreamworker) attempting to heed and communicate the inspiration she receives.

The main figure on the Five of Swords:

has always looked fearful to me. He clings to all his stuff, afraid and unwilling to share it, maybe due to past rejections, misunderstandings, disinterest, and so on.

The Nine of Pentacles:

is the card I chose many years ago to be the logo for a series of open poetry readings I originated, organized and ran. I called the series "Kestrel," after the bird on the Lady's gloved hand. This Lady was how I aspired to be at the time: confident and centered. With the reading series, I was hoping to offer a creative space where my fellow poets could share with each other and within which I could showcase poets whose work I especially admired.

So this dream, at least in part (most dreams work on many levels), was emphasizing an on-going choice I wrestle with. Given who I am (the Three of Pentacles), I can either cling to my work and ideas, nursing past hurts and fears and refuse to release them into the world (the Five of Swords). Or I can nurture them until they are ready and then help them take flight (the Nine of Pentacles) as is their nature to do.

I think this dream was precipitated by the recent launching of my Tarot blog (link at bottom of this post). I also have a niggling intuition that the dream may be preparing me for negative feedback on some recent effort of mine, by showing me very clearly the choice I always have in front of me. I can close down out of hurt and fear, or I can concentrate on creating and sharing out of my life's three passions: dreams, poetry and Tarot.

Resource: DreamTree, fabulously resourceful dream site.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.

Monday, May 22, 2006

Evolution of An Image, A Poem

Forgive me, dear reader, I'm going to rattle around in the cage of some entrapping feelings that have been surfacing all to frequently for me these past several months, by sharing a poem of mine that was written well over 20 years ago:

Evolution of An Image

Trees in this dense wood are tall
and hung with vines that choke all light
so dark succeeds in seeping up my spine.

I clutch for balance and collide
with bars I cannot see.

Terror suspends me,
an infant cribbed in ebony.

I dig out slowly, sorting through the shards,
building out of and upon the ruins,
carefully painting all darkness a placid blue.

But dark bleeds through.

I am an abysmal cage, through which
an occasional cold wind blunders.

* * * *

If you want to further explore this sort of dark imagery, see the post for today on my Tarot blog (link at bottom of this post) about the Nine of Swords in the Tarot deck.

Resource: Dream & Dreaming Resources on the Net/Electric Dreams.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Friends, A Poem


I've been thinking a lot about friendships. My life and relationships have been changing dramatically over the past couple of years as I've moved into retirement. I was put in mind of this particular old poem of mine on friendship by today's rainy spring weather:


The walk to the park is chilly.
I sit on a bench and open a book.
Hovering clouds and damp grass add
to an aching coldness
in my body and spirit.

As a distant motion erupts
into a huge black dog bounding
toward me, I am split between
old fears of snarling dogs
and the greeting of this obviously
friendly stranger.

He sits before me,
for all the world smiling,
offering first head, then hindquarters
for a patting, and curls down,
his back against my feet
as if we have always been friends.

And in truth we have,
for I am again reminded
that all we ever have is now.

I return to my reading, the furred
curve of his back warming
my feet like a dark sun.

He rises in an explosion of padding
feet and jingling neck chain, to bound
away as quickly as he came.

I reflexively cling to the notion
of his affection,
then let it go with a blessing,
while through the clouds,
as if summoned by his parting
dance, the sun stretches
sudden ephemeral fingers.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Four of My Dream-Based Poems

[Tarot card from the Rider/Waite/Smith deck]

I don’t have any special reason for sharing these four poems below. Other than they are all dream-based and have been languishing in my files for years. Truth be told, I only rarely send my work out for publication, so this is not an unusual fate for the vast majority of my writing.

All of these older poems I’ve been posting on this blog, though, have had exposure when I was doing poetry readings and performances (“back in the day”) in the New York City poetry community. I used to enjoy doing poetry readings, once I got past my initial terrible stage fright, that is, and felt a rapport developing with the audience.

I hope you will enjoy this sampling of my old dream based poems.

How to Finish a Poem Started in a Dream

Curve of sanity,
stand against chaos,
egg of reason.

hold it up to sunrise.

Warm it
between your fingers.

See what births
from its beckoning center.

Do not lose
this serpentine image
beneath the burning
of its own rising.

Let it insinuate
questing coils
to the deepest branches
of your waking mind,

build and bind
unknown worlds
with its turning.

* * * *

A dream

A young dark-haired woman
in a white bridal gown
is alone in a living room.

It has dark wood paneling
and a mantel over a fireplace,
in the style of at least fifty years ago.

She is wondering why
she keeps being moved
from room to room
in this house.

She asks out loud,
of no one in particular
“Why was Uncle plastered in the wall?”

As if in answer to a silly riddle
a voice replies
“Because there are no bullets left.”

* * * *

The Trees Within

These ancient woods that dwell within
hold the broken sky together.

Tall familiar friends, whose sides I climbed
in other times to mend the sky.

Wise ones, whose shadows I curl up beneath
and dream of climbing dark sweet bark
that creaks and nods,

dream of being offered up to sky again,
to touch and heal, rooted.

* * * *

On Collecting

The woman in my dream
writes poem after poem.
She is tall and golden, with a smile
like a crescent moon lazily rocking
on the rim of the world.

She reels in line after languid
line, her words strung like nebulae
in which my envy spins,
a shadow catch.

Wakefulness intrudes,
trailing a stark wire across
the sky on which dark birds
perch, waiting to escape through
the blue door of dawn.

Her lines unravel, the dream
more a black hole now that traps
its own lingering light.

I cull and hoard lines from her lost poems
like Grandma in the Great Depression
saved the least bit of string, knotted end
to end and wound round and round
in a motley globe.

* * * *

Resource: Artists Without Frontiers–Poetry & Dream Imagery Article.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

MOTHER'S DAY: For My Mothers With Poems & A Haiku

brushing Mama’s
long red hair
summer sunset

Mother's Day 2006:

The above haiku is a memory from when I was nine, the summer before my birth mother died. I treasure this memory as it is the only one I have of her that is warm and close.

My father remarried when I was twelve and my step-mother proved to be a steadying influence in my young life. Though I did not develop a close relationship with her either, I was ultimately grateful for her presence in our lives.

My family has never quite “gotten” my poetry and I’ve become quite comfortable with this over the years. I have come to recognize that for most people poetry is an acquired taste. But an unexpected and most welcome outcome of sharing the below poem with my family not too long after my step-mother died, was how moved my father was by it:

Night Lights (in memory of my step-mother, Paulette)

Only the light on the far tip
of the night-stolen wing of the plane
assures me that formlessness ends.
Edges reassert themselves.
Boundaries re-embrace
the grief scattered soul.

Like her late night cigarette
that pinned endless dark,
guiding one or another of her children
through the front yard
to sit by her side and talk.

Clear chimes from her vodka martini,
marked the pace of her attention:
as wide, and often as pointed,
as the hovering night sky.
And always, some neighborhood cat,
chased by billowing shadows,
paused on the shore of her friendship.

Or those rate and precious times
she shed more light
on her turbulent inner life.
Wry self-knowledge or anger fluorescing,
she forced her words
past her fear of self-pity.
As I barely breathed,
afraid to snuff out this intimate flicker.

But her greatest gift was laughter,
that tickling, crackling, life-lighting stand
from which she tackled the universe.
As at the last,
her life stretched thin
to a thread more tenuous than smoke,
she grandly mimed holding, then smoking
the cigarette she could not have.
Requested an ashtray from a daughter.
And carefully,
so very carefully,
put out its light.

But her light is not gone, it is still with me. Just as my birth mother’s light is more available to me now than when I was a child, when I open my heart to it. It was in a dream I had as an adult that I finally felt warmly embraced by her:

In Mary’s Eyes

Perched on a night-time hill
I watch people file toward me:
children, adults, all ages in-between;
people I remember and people I don’t.

All are energetic, smiling,
moving purposefully as if answering
an urgent call to step to the fore
into the embrace of my vision.

I wonder if Mama will appear,
the mother who lost heart
and died when I was ten.

Then, at the end of the line
a tall figure appears.
It is Mama, come to life
as if stepping out of any old photo
I do not recall seeing.
Mama, walking gladly toward me.

She is a young woman,
of an age before she met my father,
in a soft silk dress
with a sweetheart neckline,
cheekbones shining proudly
above her moon-lit smile.

She is radiant for she comes to me
from a time before the war
of opposing needs and desperate denial
that finally tore her heart apart.

And she comes to embrace me deeply,
without pain, without regret
for the first time.

Our joy opens full sail in the warm blue wind
of Mary’s eyes, for she comes to me freely
from a time when she was happy.

And it is in joy that I share these small glimmerings of the light of the two mothers with which I was blessed.

Resource: Since I mention above that I think poetry may be an acquired taste, here’s a link to a wonderful essay on poetry Steven C. Scheer's Web of Words. You might want to browse his entire site, there’s a gold mine there, and not only for poetry.

P.S. My new Tarot blog (URL below) post for today is on The Empress card, the “archetypal mother” of the deck.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.

Friday, May 12, 2006

Several Of My Heretic Poems With Comments

Continuing in the vein of a recent post, below are several of my poems that will probably never see the light of day anywhere but here. I am, however, attached to each in some compelling way not only explainable by ego. :-) A couple were submitted for publication to places I felt might be appropriate, but to no avail. All have been languishing in my files. I have edited and re-edited each numerous times, but never to my satisfaction; I basically consider them failed poems as they stand now. Not that I ever consider one of my poems necessarily “successful,” just not “failed.”

I will make comments following each of them, and maybe get at what their holds are on me.

An Open And Shut Case

She had the look, not of someone who had no apertures – reflective or impervious – but of one whose many openings were stuffed. As if on finding herself in public of a sudden she had seized upon appropriately shaped objects in the room. And was now busily stuffing a well-polished dinner table into the gaping wound over her heart, a store bought braided rug into her stomach, and various and sundry ashtrays and knick-knacks into the seemingly random pock marks along her arms and cheeks.

[This was first of a series of prose poems that starts “She (or he) had the look of ....” The series is over 20 years old. I do remember trying to give over totally to my intuitive associations and let the images fall where they may. I think its pointlessness generates puzzlement rather than recognition. Although I always knew this particular one was prompted by my food/emotion issues, I only now see just how deeply it reflects those issues and how it pointed to the main one: as the over-used expression goes these days, social anxiety.]

* * * *

“Your death....”

Your death tore through our lives
like a prairie tornado.
But unlike Dorothy and Toto I have been dumped
right back in the dust bowl of my life,
bearing memories that wave
in the corners of my stare
like worn work shirts on the backyard line.

Is this all the living every really know of death:
these daily, hourly, minute-to-minute absences,
these sudden holes in the middle of everything
like the pupils in your drug-dilated eyes?

The last time you looked at me past the pain,
that last time I looked into your eyes
their light faded slowly
like great white birds
in a spiraling updraft.

[This one is about 20 years old and has been revised extensively. I think I keep coming back to it because of the intensity of the emotions that generated it. The first stanza has always been fairly complete, but the second and third are still problematic. It’s not a cohesive poem though it says what I want it to, even as it breaks apart on reading.]

* * * *

“there was always...”

there was always something
tender and raw about her

never more than when her newest infant
pulled at her breast
red and intent

I and the others
crowding that kitchen
wrestled for the least drop
of her expansiveness

never failing to leave her
sated by the sweet taste of blood

[I don’t even know how old this one is, but it has to be at least 30 years old. I can still clearly see and feel the experience that generated it to this day. Responses to it when I’d read it at poetry readings all those years ago ranged from “Isn’t that a bit over-stated?” to a repugnance at the final image. But I still stand by my experience. She was an ultimate Earth Mother and I feared for her; even as I benefitted from her attention and even as I hungered for it.]

* * * *


A curved black shape sheds water,
obscuring my excitement:

no whale here, only
the murky outline
of an off-shore rock.

But by what am I then clarified
as it watches this world through me,

warm and alert inside my skin,
pressing outward against my roundness
as if I were an old bay window.

[Oy! This one is about 20 years old and has been a thorn in my side. I am extremely clear on what my experience was, but any time I’ve tried to make it more obvious in a re-write for the reader’s sake, it has sunk the poem. As it is, it just generates a “Wah?” from readers/ listeners. I’d be tempted to say that the poetry “trope” just does not exist for this sort of mystical experience, but it’s far more likely it’s my writing.]

* * * *

Heretic Sister: Of Fire and Filaments*

Standing here in the teeth of your hunger,
I see we are much alike, old worm.

I face a fire fierce as yours
each time my taboo passions
rouse the millennia of sisters,
whom bearing me, I bear.

My designs burn as surely as yours,
extruding their melange
of intimacy and destruction.

For both you and me, old worm,
satiation promises cessation,
only to rise to hunger once again.

You and your sibling ‘trout resurrect
to weave new lives,
a pearl of unknown price
tangled dreaming deep within.

While I restored
further contrive fine golden threads
with which to warp a history
and cautiously cradle
galaxies of brilliant sisters
reacting in my blood.

*based on the Darwi Odrade character of HERETICS OF DUNE, by Frank Herbert.

[This one is at least 20 years old, also. It is quite problematic since it references and relies on knowledge of a particular sci-fi character. Not only that, but I am not referencing an actual portion of the book she’s in, but creating a comparison in her voice with the central element of the entire book series. I still feel attached to this comparison – never made in the book – between the worms and the sisters that I develop in the poem. I did submit this one to a sci-fi publication but it bounced resoundingly.]

* * * *

Well, if you got this far, thanks for reading these heretic poems. I’d love to hear any comments you may have.

Resource: Author’s Den an online community of authors and readers. You'll come to a registration page. Just click on "click here to login" to check it out before deciding. I’ve not joined yet, but will probably do so in the future as a place to get some feedback.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

* * * *If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)
NEW POST(S): A Daily Dream Haiku; Three “Portrait” Poems; Dream-Based Haiku; The Demise of Pegasus Dreaming; Using The Tarot With Dreams.
FUTURE POST(S):Using Your Dreams to Create Poetry & Stories (4 fun exercises); On Getting Old* * * *

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Three "Portrait" Poems

[Rider/Waite/Smith Tarot]

It occurred to me yesterday that this blog is the perfect place to share poems of mine that would otherwise languish in my files. The three "portrait" poems below are highly embellished and positive caricatures about friends as a god or goddess. They were written as gifts and are sixteen years old. A good age to "come out."

Although these poems do not require any knowledge of the people they were written for, they also do not reference any particular historical God/dess. This makes them simply a snapshot of my imagination’s process at that long-ago time. I leave it up to you to determine whether they have any resonance today. I share them because I still enjoy reading them. :-)

(a Winter Solstice gift, 1990)

The Lady returns to Her forest home,
bearing nuts and seeds, flowers, roots
and berries in Her baskets of reed,
Her cape of leaves trailing
lightly behind her.

Small creatures leap and scurry
around Her as She glides,
as if to celebrate
the abundance She shares.

A chipmunk rides the hem
of Her cape, falls off
and clambers back, chattering
at birds circling
and singing above.

Silence descends as The Lady settles
on a bed of leaves and pine needles
before an ancient oak.

A mother lion strides lazily
forward through the gathering
of forest creatures, stretches
and curls at Her feet.

The Lady bends to stroke
Her golden beast, a shaft
of light dancing
in Her dark, dark, hair.

* * * *

(a birthday gift, 1990)

The Lady lightly holds the reins
of Her golden chariot,
as it glides across the skies
and oceans, and rumbles
on the earth.

Wild and wondrous beasts, ridden
by singing children pull
her wheeling throne.

Their colors of russet and green,
silver, cerulean, and brown
echo in her wind-blown gown.
Dare a question as she approaches
and listen closely for Her answer.

For it may come in Her commanding
tongue, be roared from throat
of beast, or sung by vulnerable child,
but always it will open doorways
onto long-forgotten landscapes
or undiscovered dreams.

Long after passing through,
Her kaleidoscopic quest
will whirl in your heart:
no rest, no holding back,
only the hunt for truth.

* * * *

(a Winter Solstice gift, 1990)

When you happen upon The Lord’s grove,
leave the ordinary outside,
let time become a memory.

All here thrives on touch and space:
feel the jeweled hide of the snake
brush your bare thigh,
whispering "Play with me,"
or simply "Here I am;"
sense the trees honoring you,
filling the air with the breath
of their glorious growing.

Wait patiently by the central
shining ash tree and The Lord will appear,
draped in rainbows of serpents,
with herbs and flowers in His
wild silver hair.

Let Him wind his wisdom
through your mind, insinuating
nurture as balm for hurt,
and humor where darkness lies.

And when you leave, if you are lucky,
He will show you the cosmos
spinning surely in the palm
of His hand.

As the grove slowly fades and time
and the ordinary return, listen closely:
the trumpeting horn you hear
will be He, calling
for His handsome lover.

* * * *

Resource: Mything Links: An Annotated & Illustrated Collection of Worldwide Links to Mythologies, Fairy Tales & Folklore, Sacred Arts & Sacred Traditions.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

* * * *If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under "View my complete profile")
NEW POST(S): A Daily Dream Haiku; Dream-Based Haiku; The Demise of Pegasus Dreaming; Using The Tarot With Dreams.
FUTURE POST(S):Using Your Dreams to Create Poetry & Stories (4 fun exercises); On Getting Old* * * *

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Dream Haiku Series

[The Tarot card on the right is from the Rider/Waite/Smith deck.]

You will note I’ve started posting a “Daily Dream Haiku” to the top of the sidebar on this blog. I got the idea to do this after organizing the below series and noting how many dream haiku I now have. (Far more than I’d realized.) I’m also becoming a little more comfortable with writing dream-based haiku. I had been feeling that in my efforts, either the form or the source dream were almost always being short-changed. That seems to be changing, but only time will tell.

her small hand swims
in the intricate gold glove
waking to sadness

* * * *

the pawned figurine
of a woman and kestrel
shelved soul

* * * *

faithless companions:
cartoon dogs morph
one into the other

* * * *

she assumes
I'm the descendant of slaves --
how can I escape

* * * *

she beams her will
to mend the broken mirror
dream magic

* * * *

breath of life
she peels the plastic wrap
from the monkey's face

* * * *

she tells me to guard
the bundle she leaves at my feet
giver of dreams

* * * *

leap of faith
to join fellow travellers:
midnight express

* * * *

spell bound
large golden serpent of light
spirals at the center

* * * *

If you wish to be put on an email list to receive my daily dream haiku, please email me from under "View my complete profile" on the sidebar. (Your email will be used only for this purpose.)

Also, at the beginning of each month -- starting this June -- all the daily dream haiku for the previous month will appear here in a post.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

* * * *If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)
NEW POST(S): A Daily Dream Haiku; Dream-Based Haiku; The Demise of Pegasus Dreaming; Using The Tarot With Dreams.
FUTURE POST(S):Using Your Dreams to Create Poetry & Stories (4 fun exercises); On Getting Old* * * *