Sunday, December 6, 2009


Tonight, my love, the moon shall rise
the sandman come to dust your eyes.
His sand has heard the dream gull's cries
beside a sea 'neath silver skies.
It lulls you gently in to sleep
till, silently
without one peep, the angels come,
their watch to keep.
They'll hold you safe while dreaming deep.

The pillow cool beneath your head,
all star lit is your feather bed which glides the moonbeams like a
sled, above towns which glitter blue and red.

The Sun, the stars and on beyond
began to beckon
when you yawned.
In dreams, the things of which you're fond shall come to you
by a crystal pond.

You'll ride a ring around the moon
and taste it with a silver spoon,
while I shall sing a soft sweet tune
of butterflies which dance in June.

Then spin a web, between the stars
of silken strands and iron bars
to be a path for dream time cars,
a route to travel out past Mars.

And when you land on some planet where
you'll feel a difference in the air and find new friends
will meet you there with new adventures for you to share.

My lullabies shall guide you back.
Songs of rocking babies and Mary Mack
will call you from your dream time track and wake you
at the dawn's first crack.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Sunflower Summer

In April I held the seed, cold and dry and almost lost.

I broke the earth
and tucked it in but left the warming and watering to larger hands than mine.

In May, a tiny green appeared
and so did slugs
and large pawed dogs
and fragile life seemed doomed

I went away
but when I returned
that tiny sprout
dwarfed me
and seemed to be trying to compete
with the redwoods
to tower in the sky.

Every day it caught my eye
and made my lips smile
and lightened my heart

by October. the proud giant bows its head to the reign of approaching winter

It appears to be near death
until the blue jays come
screeching joyously
swinging on the stalk
like children on a trampoline

feasting on the seeds they scatter

scattering seeds
so next April
when I break the earth and plant one
13 will grow

like this year,
like every year


Thursday, October 8, 2009


Imagine, you have taken the hands of your children and walked through the sun and the sand to a lovely wooden house on a small dune overlooking the Pacific, where your friends and family are dancing to the beat of drums and feasting on roasting salmon over an open fire. As you turn the children loose to greet their cousins and run laughing through the tall grass, you are welcomed with a warm hug. Little do you know that in a small community of strangers they are hearing the drumming and imagining that you are planning to go to war against them. you do not know that one of the strangers has already died and that your family is being blamed for the murder one of the drunken strangers actually committed, and as your friends and family fall into happy slumber, you never dream that men with guns are circling your home. When the night explodes with shouts and torchlight and gunfire, sleepy people burst from houses and run for the scrappy trees and beach grass and the water lilies in the slough. Children die and as men hide under the lilies, the strangers stand on the banks and wait for someone to come up for a breath. easy as shooting targets in a shooting gallery at the fair.

This actually happened in a time and place not that distant from where I sit at this keyboard.

One day I took a walk through the sun and sea air to the spot, and there was little to see. A deer saw me, some gulls flew over, the grass blew in a gentle breeze. But even a memorial was not possible without inviting looting and vandalism, so the families lay together in an unmarked grave, and peace had returned to Yontockett.

Feeling both the sadness, and the lingering memories of a time when this spot was a thriving village. I wrote this poem.

No-one should forget that a holocaust happened here. That in the 4 short years from1853 to 1856 a strong civilization was plunged from 10,000 individuals to a few hundred, but we should also remember that the Tolowa have lived here for millenia and celebrate that they live here still.


beneath the July sun you move
and peace and safety seem your world
bleached grasses grow on hills of sand
where Tolowa houses used to stand
a deer strolls along the crest
but sees us
and is gone

upon the wind soar red-tailed hawks
a goldfinch rides wind blown grass stalks
and in the slough beneath the hill
the sun shines on green lilies still
and sparkles
on clear water

this tale you tell is true and sad
your people have lost all they had
this shouldbe a haunted place
where no white man should show his face
and the water
should be red

and yet I sense a healing here
this place has known much more than fear
and though one night the village died
and her few survivors cried
in pain
the slaughter ended

we all are our memories
as are these hills bu changing seas
so as the sun calms storm tossed waves
the grass waves over unmarked graves
and you and I
we mourn

and then begin again as friends
even huge sorrow one day ends
yes still your village mourns her dead
but chooses joyous memories instead
of many nights
when children laughed

Wednesday, September 16, 2009



I have practiced long and hard for this day
but the moment will be short and easy.
It can not truly be hard
when it is in my life blood
and fills my veins.
I smile
I raise my head and see the priestess

Laszona nods at me
It is a smile
it is an acknowledgment
She knows I will be good
She knows I am a challenge

Laszona the priestess,
I see her standing upon a tall rock
hands folded over her breasts
her thighs
her feet planted solidly upon the rock

I see Laszona
I await her permission to begin
then she nods once more
I remain motionless one second

I spring to life
I am the wind in the treetops
the autumn wind

I am the last golden leaf
I spiral to the ground in a furious whirlwind
I rise
I fall
I lay silent
My dance is done
I know I have danced it well
I know I have danced it better
than anyone before me
I rise from the ground
I smile at the priestess
a small
triumphant smile

She acknowledges my victory with a bow
She claps her hands
her attendants bring her on smooth
perfect grape

She holds it to the sun
She holds it to the earth's four corners

She takes it to her lips
She bites into the nectar
She bites off only the smallest portion

Laszona throws the grape to me
It flies through the air in a long, golden arch
I pick it from the wind

Laszona steps down from the rock
She who bows to no-one
bows to me

I ascend the rock
I smile
I take the grape into my mouth.

It is sweet.

By Dixie Miller Goode

Why Echo???

Hello, Hello!! I have named myself "Echo," not because of the myth connected to the sad girl who wasted away to nothing but her voice, although after I am gone, I should be pleased to think that some of my words linger on. I love the images of places where one stands and shouts out in joy and waits to hear the echo come back.

When I was a young girl, going through the, "I love horses" phase of my life, there was one very special Morgan mare living on my cousin's ranch in Wyoming. I never owned her, but I rode her, and fell off of her, and admired her and dreamed of her. Her name was "Echoes of Pandora" but we called her "echo" and when I first began posting on forums like, and I used her name as mine, "echo." I have posted some of my things on redgage using "echo" too. Sometimes that name has been taken, and spaces aren't allowed so I use pandorasecho, on twitter and a few other places as well.

Gradually I reminded myself, when it became tempting, even fun, to get involved in the sniping and rude behavior that the anonymity of the web invites, that I only wanted to leave behind "echoes of kind words," and I remembered that what Pandora had left behind, an echo after all the troubles she had turned loose on the world, was HOPE. So passing on Hope, and kindness became my goal for any interactions I would have on-line. A goal, which has helped me to police my own words and posts so as not to injure someone I've never met, just because I can think of the funny, cutting thing to write.

I have always needed creative activity. I have to write, or draw, or weave or sculpt or paint, or doodle on a rock with a sharpie. Having a blog seems to fit in with this need very well. I usually, doodle and then put it away in a storage box but sometimes I want to share what I have done, beyond leaving the doodled on rock on the river's edge for someone else to find and wonder about.

When I wonder what are the things I am expert at, what can I share, I come up with the following things that I have quite a bit of experience in:


hopefully, I will send echoes of my knowledge out to where it can help someone else as well. It is such a mixed world of pleasure, beauty and pain and ugliness. Hopefully the echoes of my life leave a little bit more in the balance on the side of appreciation and a little less on the side of isolation. I know that I have read things other people have written, and looked at their artwork, and found myself just a little better because of it. Perhaps it is my turn to give a little back.