Maya Massar Actress Poet Artist


Poem Blog

OK, so this is not technically a Blog page - my site only allows ONE blog page it seems - this means that the MayaBlog page and POEMS are going to interweave themselves. . .  what we will do is post poems on the blog page . . . And now and then we might post a poem or two here, too!


Dream Wild, Think Wild, Sing Wild,

Be Wild; its GOOD for you! (What is 'wild' anyway?  Maybe it's stuff like dancing with desert snakes, but maybe it's sitting in perfect stillness at your desk. . . whats wild to YOU?)





Poem for Living


I am fucking the world alive

Unto death


Walking perimeters has no place in the life of

A Saint, nor any



I am sad like a waterfall

My own bones


Like a barrel over edges

I never knew I had.


I am breathless

In Joy



Rages through my cells

At warp speed


All doubt of any form

Of Wild Gods


Death is my passionate companion

We hike the volcano walls like

Sure footed goats

Who remember these paths

From before the ice age


This is no ice age


Fire laps my body up like blood on a tigers tongue,

Drinks me like a whale does krill –

I am rushed inward

And in the belly of the beast

I find

I am at the center

Of my own





Death says:

You must Die to yourself to Live


We have misunderstood Her –

The purpose of Life is to prepare us for compassionate, expanded Death

Yes –

But the purpose of Death is to remind us


To Live




Curling around

My own spoon,

Bent and crumpled as it is,

I realize

That silver is not all its cracked up to be


My Vampire self

Is pleased to find that,

Whether given or born with it,

My spoon is Gold


When I dare to dive to this center


Gift myself with that wealth and, indeed,

It is a fine tool

For digging my way out

Of any cell


Yet shadow is no prison

It is gateway to passion


I choose to take it


Breath blasts through my lungs


Light pours down


Fire rages up


I am washed of belief

In any thing but my soul's and body’s promise:


To live,

Fucking the world Alive, unto Death.












Teeny poems

Tumble terrifically


The tangled tartan

Of my tortured top hat

Brains befall the beautiful bounty

Mangled moralistic meat

Makes my meal










My Mother was a tree

Though she didn’t know it

Dropping fruit

On the ground













Here is a poem-story I read for a handful of fellow actors, and its a bit intense, but I will preface it by  saying its NOT all gloom, in fact, its a HOPEFUL poem, a poem about the place from which we are all, really, Whole.  I am always interested in the ways we human beings find to integrate our pain into our Divinity.  Cuz we are, you know, all Divine. So please feel free to share YOUR stories and poems about healing and growth with me!



Chapter Two:  3-6


SEX really hurt the first time.

But at 3 years old, I did not yet have a name for what this was.

I didn’t know

What to call it

So I shut that part of my brain

That contained

The me

That couldn’t be free

To get up and go to nursery school

And play and laugh

Like the others


This caused two things:

One was the realization of my invisibility –

Thin as a non-existent wall, I became,

For my whole long life from three to six – invisible quite sure of it –

(for if I had been visible Daddy never would have climbed on top of me - would have noticed me there and said excuse me and moved his business elsewhere, right?)

I was so invisible I thought it best

To stay inside at recess to avoid being trampled on the



The day Mr. Rico the butcher

Looked past my mother at the counter, to the person in back of me, to say

“Hey there, and how’s a smart girl like you doing?  Have a nice summer vacation?”

But when I turned, no one was there, behind me,

And suddenly,

There I was – white supermarket lights heating up my skin, irradiating my very bones – I had arms, legs, torso and a head – he SAW me.

I was visible.

Though I could not get my mouth to open in response, this was a miracle

A joy, I thank Mr. Rico to this day for.


But it meant something terrible too:

Daddy was more unfathomably a demon than previously assessed to be; and  not a man that made a forgivable mistake.. .


The second thing that happened was:

I grew up lopsided;

When the physical, linear world

Is too big to

Stuff down your throat

When logical, speakable, left-brained Truth’s experience and expression

Is so huge that the

Heavy stench of it

Could crush your small body,

Your good brain

Keeps it from you

Locked up, locked down – just not there, so I wont drown.


Dyslexia set in.

A response to the

Shut down and re-routed circuitry of the linear mind –

Causing glitches in its previously notable high functioning.


The shame I felt at each small mistake – each letter misplaced, each word reversed, each sentence tangled

The shame when I could SEE the sentence on the page

But could not to save my very life

Get it out of my mouth


-   Shhhh don’t spill the wrong words  –

Choked back deep within the recesses of my good bones,


(Who held the secrets of my body safely from a me

That would have crumpled, fallen,

Had she had to read the pages of her own book)


So all the nutrients that should have grown my being whole

Grew me lopsided –

What the Angels saved me from in logic they gifted me in magic – the tragic

Locked up for later – I opened to something



I got to keep my infant Angel-Vision as a gift, was not asked to return it as most are –

Free gift when purchasing certain struggles I suppose


My right brain grew like a flower, on her other half’s supper

Drank the food that was its own, as well as the Lefts, (who sat in chains in the dungeon deep below

Chanting softly, but thoroughly:

Don’t know

Don’t know

We cannot know. . .

Not just yet)



I see you.

Yes, you.

I see you all.  I may not be able to see all the parts of me just yet, but even at age three four five, I can see in all your corners.

Your shadows, your light

The colors around your body that are your truth.

The light particles that surround you, made of your thoughts and desires

And I see your Angels.

You, here, weep not, for behold

You are bathed in and betrothed to a Universe that loves you more than you can conceive of.  

Look how they walk with you, each of you, and I.


There is some larger plan, no doubt

And thus, for sure, (I reasoned)

What is there to do but allow the expansion of my being,

Become all this

Trust that all unfolds in a time planned by something greater than myself and

All the stars,

Each star a Sun – there always, even when we cannot see them, out of sight out of mind like a baby – but think about it –


The Ten Thousand Suns pulsing and burning themselves out

Out of love for being – out there, night and day, we are


By a billion, billion love-fires, Always. . .


What specks we are of insignificance

And yet how cherished and shining

In the eyes of whatever you prefer to name such vastness and un-nameable wealth.


At six, I know this:  

I am a sun.


All that shines in me is built on that which lies in wait beneath the dark, so

I must also love that which is dark in you.



This is the beginning of the building of my house.

















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