credit Saatchi art

I am tired

Tied to death like this.

A lame pair

Roped in a three-legged race.

What a bother an April picnic is—

Spoon-feeding me desire.


But I’m no spring chicken.

Dashing off.


Frantic flapping,

Outstretched neck,



A shabby hen against the odds.

Imprudent, clawing toward the finish line.

And still,

The gravity of my situation only perpetuating my inevitable trajectory.

Every April, always dragging it out.

Tami Satterfield practices solution-oriented healing from a deep ecological perspective. Her specialities include hypnosis for anxiety, performance, and creativity. Sessions on-line or in Boulder, Colorado include cutting edge brain therapies that will change the way you think. Learn more at

Birthday poem 2019


I’ve learned
The distraction of aging.
The downward
Centrifugal spiraling
Towards things lost,
Things gone.

A day as good as summer.
The garden tractor idling,
The tall timothy guarding the still colt
Laid out
Bagged in the cloudy sac.
This nearly transparent film reeling from a lofty museum
Too beautiful for reason.

Grey lids drawn closed over her eyeball’s glint,
Lashes like spiders.
Nose dark as a drum beat
If not for the spot pink as a ham.
Her baby legs bent,
Graceful runners cupped in soft bone colored boots,
Perfectly preserved in the milky dream between us.

Standing at the edge of the map,
Shading my eyes against the light.
Beholding silence
Save the white sheets
Crisp as starched ghosts
Snapping against time.

Everything that runs wants to.

April 15, 2018
For My Birthday

artwork by Haenuli

In the midst of what you see as problematic, it can be difficult to recognize the opportunities. I can help you discover a new way of thinking that will assist you in managing and negotiating life’s obstacles. You will find that this new way of thinking provides you opportunities that you hadn’t previously noticed as well as affords you the confidence and desire to live your life in the driver’s seat.

Tami Satterfield, MSW, LCSW-C, NBCCH, HTP is a licensed psychotherapist who practices solution-oriented healing from a deep ecological perspective. Her specialities include hypnosis for anxiety, performance, and creativity. Sessions on-line or in Boulder, Colorado include cutting edge brain therapies that will change the way you think. Learn more at



Artwork by Bill Sanderson, “Dna In All Living Things”

I am wishing to say one thing,
Incessantly telling another,
My faculties
Am I slipping in my mind, forgetting
Or only now remembering?

What is that
Spilling over the earth’s edge?
A brilliant photon refracted,
Curled around a particle
Illuminating The wave?

The wave!
Oh I, am zealot. A drumbeater forever
Preaching from a state of perpetual desire.
The wave! The wave!
No, not The wave! A wave.
A wave of utter realization.

Is all My life a mirror?
Is the world not dark,
Waiting blank like paper
My eternal mark, sparking the Big Bang?
Is it not forsaken,
Am I not marooned for your secret keeping?

Am I beginning?
Or only a dimming past?
Ghosting and milky,
One among a collection of shards —
A Broken sparkly
Looking glass.

You are not the moon
Towing me under again.
The clouds don’t know Me,
Passing over Me.
Or is it Me, deaf?

No, I pray beneath my finely woven Hat,
Beached in defiance of the sun’s light,
Begging notice from the clouds.
A seagull
What about Me? Me? Me?

Headlong against an amniotic wave.
I am shelled in determination
Without Grace.
My feet claw for the sand.
When, just this morning
Did I become so crabby?

Generation after generation
Wrung out like a tight rope
Now unraveling,
Spilling a design.
Blood bursting through arduous veins.

Nerves on end, spidering outwards,
Grasping at sticky webs.
Thoughts spinning in circles,
Why, why, why?
Instead of The perfectly replicated double helix chains.

i am me watching Me.
i am not a bottled message of chemicals
As if
The Earth’s turning
Was an unforgiving mother shaking me loose.

i am collected in
The smooth sand sound
Shifting from particle to wave,

I am a quantum entity.
Hardly, to almost no degree,
A part of the equation,
And still
i am.

March 11, 2017


artwork “Lovers in the moonlight” by Marc Chagall

How many sentiments

Tender and soft-hearted

Fit on a sheet of red paper

Cleanly cut

After folded in two?

How many long and deliberate strides to shear out our hearts?

The crisp cardboard rasp

The blade sounding

Against the vellum

Yielding and permissive to measured cuts.

How many pecks between us these 12054 days?

Pink candied smooches


And blushed rosy

Our sweet discontent?

How many white moon faced nights

Did, by chance,

Round us up with scissored bodies and

Laced our swelling hearts

In fire and in fate?


I can not say,

The numbered times did hands

Pen fancy whorls upon the naked breast

And finger ringlets of hair.

But alas,

I do reckon one white parcel

Knotted in fat, red yarn

That unwrapped

Such a child’s faith.

February 14, 2017


He came to me in a green dream,
Lush tall grasses and fresh forage.
His hurt brown face
Right up to mine —
A curious child, cautioned.

The walls of the dream fell away
Taking the dark stained cedar barn
Where my son and I helped his mother.
Sweet and eternally scented,
Timothy and alfalfa.

I reached in,
Like picking a surprise
Elbow deep inside.
Backwards he came.
I pulled him out slippery and warm.

Face to face,
Like the time I cradled him,
A soft dreamy lullaby,
Rocked him to sleep in my daughter’s room
Soothing his baby belly.

It is all a happy dream.
Us striding along the path well traveled,
Side by side.
His hard-headed way,
The unexpected ram.

February 24, 2017


I saw them coming,
A display of wondrous white balloons.
My anticipation stepped up,
Like a child, for the floating sound of a far off marching band.

They were before me.
White-haired puffs –
Fair mothers, every one of them,

Rhythmically marching on a current air.
Ancient majorettes traveling festively,
Twirling their batons
And alluding to cartwheels.

Each a soft note in showy song
That made up a mystical show.
Grand birds,
Covered down and dressed right,
Descending some ancient world.

We were ridiculously charmed.
Hypnotized as we stood facing the sun,
Palms lifted high with the desire to touch one of those sacred feathers.
Our jaws fell open like peasants bowing to an esteemed troop.
We were inflated with joy.

A swell of them billowed past me,
Ghosts with soft, silky white plumes
Belly full and swelled up with life.
Their ceremonial movement
Paraded right through me.

Heads turned,
The dandy strangers parachute to the ground
And disappear, as if they’d never emerged
From the sacred loins of the Cottonwood tree.

Tami Satterfield, MSW, LCSW-C, NBCCH, HTP is a licensed psychotherapist who practices solution-oriented healing from a deep ecological perspective. Her specialities include hypnosis for anxiety, performance, and creativity. Sessions on-line or in Boulder, Colorado include cutting edge brain therapies that will change the way you think. Learn more at

Martin Adjusted 2photo credit Carson Satterfield

“Close your eyes,” the man said,
And the excited boy bounced a bit beside me on the new sofa.
Two sticky, little, pink hands came from behind me,
Covered my eyes.
The warm breath of a girl child’s voice in my ear,
“Don’t peek.”
That was more than two decades ago.

But this morning, you were a precious baby to me.
I wrapped you in your funerary blanket,
Cradled it around your head.
It felt wrong to shroud your eyes,
Your right eye, the one you exited,
Still seeing your trajectory.
Your sight, dead on your destination.

Out into the mourning sky,
You would get an early start.
By nightfall,
Fly pass the moon.
So I can waive
One last goodbye.
Farewell, my Valentine love.

I called him first,
He had brought you to me on my 33rd birthday.
And then her.  She had dressed you in doll clothes,
Dragged you around like a 10 pound sack of potatoes,
And fixed you in a doll’s chair for a cup of tea.
I called the man that was once a boy.
He whispered an, “ohhh” that sounded like the rising wings of doves in an empty church.

Your esteemed, grayed body,
Lanky and wooden now,
Stretched out.
I carefully wrapped your tail, the longest I’ve ever seen,
In and around your legs.
You might be sleeping, if it weren’t for your determined eye.

There is a hole,
Hallowed and already dug,
Beside the rose bush where you would disappear many summer days.
I will shovel the snow out
And see you there in the spring.
A glorious bloom,
Despite the thorny stem.

We were low,
Him and me.
Lower than the dusty ash
Spilled on the ground

And on my mama’s shoe.
Acting like a lady,
She fussed at the peculiarity,
Me a dirty smudge on her white skirt.

Oh, we were dirty.
Me and her on a road to disaster,
Like trash blowing,
Circling the grounds of domestic troubles.

She knowed-
I rolled,
Laid in the mud with him-
Lied like the rug he wrapped me up in.

It was a dirty mess.
My head and a horseshoe.
I found it difficult to hit it satisfactorily.
I was out of luck

With him and his dominion over my flesh.
Over my dead body
Raised my babies fat as a pigs on it:
“She never was no good. Done run off like a dog.”

But there’d be no peace. Me, a dog with a bone,
My jaw running, a slow promotion bleached white from the sun
Loosely hinged and chattering
To keep shit from settling in my mouth.

I held it together.
Made my way out.
My bones slipping away from the narrow choices,
A rock and a hard place.

A dog betrayed him.
Sniffed me out like a game of hide and seek
Inside that blanket of love he rolled me up
So as to catch all the gooey love that run out of me.

I finally saw the light of dawn
Clean and white. Ground to dust and ash
I settled down,
Astonished at the difficulty that is my homage.

June 12, 2015

Everything makes me sad.
Regina Spector singing about a mountain top.
The morning sky with its
Thin, white, cirroculmulus clouds
Detached and rippling,
Boastful and independent of the Azure blue.

Everything makes me melancholy.
The fawn colored dog
Curled in a patch of June sun
Watching ants,
Curious as the cat
Watching the squirrels fuss at the big, brown dog.

Everything makes me thoughtful.
The babbling sound-
Running smoothly over rocks,
Splashing into the pond
Filled with loud orange fish.

Everything makes me easy.
The rusted iron bird joyfully perched,
Guarding over browned men working.
The bitter taste of Arabica
From my favorite mug thrown with thin walls of stoneware clay.

Everything makes me content.
The watermelon scent of freshly cut grass.
The heat of the sun edging in like a child saddling up onto my shaded chair.
The anticipation of closing my laptop.
A Sunday morning poem done!

June 14, 2015

artwork by Camille Dela Rosa

Everything reminds me of something,
As if that is all I am –
A collection of the past
Chemically preserved,
Pickled in it.

Am I nothing but the past?

At each moment
The next moment
Compresses time
Into what matters
And the matter is me.

Am I nothing but the past?

My 100 billion neurons connecting,
Signaling each other
Like dealers.
I am a junky for the past.

Are all my actions reactions to the past?

A good housekeeper
Classifying and reclassifying
My changing neural pathways
Like canned goods in the cupboard
Easily discovered and ready to use.

Am I nothing but the past?

A dubious fool
Certain of only the uncertainty
Of me without my past –
My credence, my false God
My misunderstanding of the truth of myself.

Am I nothing but the past?

I imagine I am dreaming of a future,
But I am only
Circling my past.
A dog chasing her tail.

June 7, 2015