love as war

love as war
Cross Purpose
At time’s crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, pain,
radiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Taken from Mama’s warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm
in fool’s corner.
Such a chore — kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter
“I could bite off that little thing — make
you squat to pee.”
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
“We’re right.  They are inherently wrong.”
“Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride.”
Against our better fate, our race divided
along strict lines, by difference
nature instilled to make us strong
Many Voices
May we attend the funeral please,
for our sweet sister?
Nibble a bit upon her vacant flesh.
The foxes, the dear little foxes.
Mais oui, mais oui, the funeral, please,
for our sweet sister.
Mais oui, nibble a bit
upon her tender flesh.
Her day is over.
He’s digging a hole in the ground for me.
He’s digging a hole in the ground for me
and singing a song of sweet “I love you’s”
all the while he digs.
(minimizing his own discomfort)
Mais oui, nibble a bit
upon her vacant flesh.
Here at the bar again
Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.
Deepest Scorpio, gusts tinged icy.
Onward toward Chumley’s  2 pm Village poetry reading.
Searching outside book stall for bargains,
found a Paul Goodman
with cat and dog and baby photographs
to give to Cindy
a gift of love for a fragile child
Still affright from last night’s heavy scene,
wherein the police took my man away again,
this time with my blessing and accomplicement.
. . . A man is a hard thing.
Also a drag on my developmental aspirations.
When all he does is loom and threaten
Big Brute Violence
to storm my sensibilities.
(What’s frustrating is he doesn’t hear me
plead for shelter.)
Laughing in the park we loved
Crying in the night we parted
Oh, beseech I, gods above:
Why must you leave me broken-hearted?
(and I know he’ll be returning with more disregards
and diatribes and possibly pistol drawn to fire)
So I sit here in the bar, again.
Drinking sweet Kahlua and awaiting the poetry.
Taking a respite, you see.
Oh, Goddess, for this while,
bar nothing to this troubled child
(for child I feel, though woman grown).
Let peace alone assail me.
How that felt:
That icy black cavernous feeling
That falling and screaming mad panic feeling
That oh so languid nothing matters slow scorch
That “where is all the newness, the magic?” feeling
That “too bad, so sad 
    (goddamit!  I’m shaking mad)” feeling
That horror in the night 
    when I know I’m sinking feeling
That tight black knot 
    clenching my aching muscles feeling
That I’m strong, 
    just stay out of my way I don’t need you feeling.
That empty feeling.
    It was a brisk, bright-mooned evening in mid-Fall — the sidewalks and trees decorated in crackly orange leaves, which blew helter-skelter in the excitement of the wind.
    Marie, pretty little Marie, danced along the sidewalk, pranced across the streets, dressed in deep velvet and sparkling finery on her way to a night of music and joy.  Perhaps he would be there — the he of the moment in her heart — a still unconsummated romance, which, of course, added to the excitement in her eyes, the dancing of her feet.  She was sweet twenty-two with long brown hair and big blue eyes and out on her own for under a year now, learning about life outside of school.  By day a temporary secretary in various city offices, waiting for the big break to appear which would launch her career; by night an energetic blithe spirit of the local cultural scene, looking for Mr. Right who would make her feel warm and cozy and loved.
    Warm . . . and cosy . . . and loved . . .
    John H. O’Connor — Johnny O’ — less than dapper man about town, scheming and scamming and looking for his lucky break, also had gentler feelings.  Just because he’d been knocked about a bit, he wasn’t bitter, just wise to the ins and outs; and he wasn’t one of the ins.  So he looked for the wide chance, the long-shot with the heavy purse, and meanwhile dreamed big-time, often with chemical aid; and looked for that special someone who would believe in him the way he wanted to believe in himself.
    And they thought they’d found each other that bright, crackling Fall.
    She was shy but forward.  He was brash but shy.  So they engaged in bantering small talk, while burning into each other’s eyes — everytime they encountered each other at the bars and parties and concert halls, for something over a month now.  And tonight once more.  But tonight was special.  Tonight was magical.  Crackling energy erupted and there was so much more between them — like telepathy.  They kissed.  And walked each other home, hand in hand.  And ended up in her apartment,
where her roommates were conveniently out.  They told each other their souls and enjoyed bodily bliss and felt very, very special and blessed.  And Marie, sweet little Marie, knew deep down for the very first time that somebody loved her all the way through, without reservation, without condensation, and with only one condition — that she love him too.
    So let us leave these new lovers to do as lovers do and visit them later down the road of life.  Not too much later, for things move fast in these days of high-technology and mass mediated culture.  Let’s look in on them, say nine months hence, in the long, hot summer of their lives.  And they’re sharing a small apartment on the wrong side of town.  (What makes it wrong — well the glaring glass and excrement on the sidewalk, as well as the occasional passed-out drunk or junkie might hint at a less than luxurious lifestyle for the local hoi-polloi.)
    Well, how could she believe in him, fastidious little Marie, who may have been emotionally starved, but at least was always fed and clothed among the middle-class.  And he loved her, yes he loved her almost feverishly, but he couldn’t control her; couldn’t own her; and the fear of losing her was more than he could bear.
    What had started out as a glorious adventure had turned too starkly real.
    And the real world, in fact, has become much too stark and drear.  What do we see on the tv and newstands but nuclear this and bacterial that and crazy folk erupting into murder on the streets and schoolyards and AIDS-infected rapists and child pornography rings and arson and bombings, and man’s most brutal retaliation unto man, woman and child.  A long, hot, greenhouse-effectuated summer indeed.
    So he hit her, once or twice, or maybe, yeah, he went, a bit, out of control.  He beat her, pummeled her, showed her just who was boss-man, upper-hand, in control of the situation, able to rule her life.  And did she leave?
    Hell, no.  Where could she go?  There is no safe port home, you know.  Not when Mom and Dad have split long since and communicate mostly by holiday phone calls and birthday greeting cards with a twenty-five dollar check enclosed because they’ve both known better days. 
And friends, what friends?  He’s alienated all those who are less worse off than they and she, so blindly attentive in the early days of bliss, had barely noticed.  That brilliant career has yet to materialize.  We must admit she’d not really been pursuing it lately.  And he’s pissed away her weekly paychecks on deals made of daydreams and the occasional rent, utilities and food.  But, hey, this is the latter part of the twentieth century.  Aren’t there “Women’s Groups” and socially conscious organizations to come to the rescue?  Well, maybe somewhere; but not here where it counts so far as she can see.  She’s alone.  Except when he loves her in the warm, soft night, singing poetry with his eyes and hands and mouth — giving and taking and being all she could imagine.  Oh, for those warm, soft nights . . ..  But she’s got to go.  She must escape.  The total desperation of the situation has come upon her.  Nowhere to go . . . nowhere . . . nowhere . . ..  But go she must!
    So she waits ’til he’s out on the town, scheming and scamming and giving his all just to try to make it for her, to be somebody in her eyes.  And she just starts running, in no particular direction, no thought in her mind but escape.  She runs, then walks, then runs again, through the town, through the city streets, with no certain destination, desperate little Marie, living on the hope that something will occur to her as she runs.  And, running out of breath, she stops at a newsstand where the headlines scream of horrors far beyond what she has ever endured.  But she’s out of breath and out of options.  She’s got about $5.00 in her pocket, so she goes into the nearest bar to use the facilities and buy a pack of cigarettes.  And take some time to think.
    Pretty little Marie, they come up to her and offer to buy her a drink.  What the hell.  She drinks.  It makes her feel less.  Notice less.  And some sleezeball carries her away, arm around her staggering form.  And when she tries to scream, he covers her mouth and nose and face with the pillow.  So she screams and screams inside her mind.  And in the bright, hot morning, they find her, what’s left of her, in a scuzzy alley.  The headlines talk of her tomorrow, but it’s too late for her to care.

War Is Crime (please share)

War Is Crime
It’s a strange philosophy,
making war the ultimate decider of conflict or disagreement.
Over and over it fails, miserably, tragically. Yet the demand persists.
Lives not given, not shared.Taken.
Ripped asunder.
Limbs, guts, glory.
Shrieking abandoned waifs,
wailing inconsolate lovers.
Screaming bombs, squealing tanks.
Arms shattered,
vision scarred
for peace, for Fatherland, for prosperity.
Today, cold, raw, ice flecks
obscure a longed-for Sun.
Soft blood dries — throes of maggots and microbes
cunningly feast on folly.
Can the wage of war pay to feed our habit?
Vegetation of these mythic forests grows
twisted, tinged in dark crimson layers.
Smell terror, violent death —
fresh meat, or fresh enough for remnant
gnashed snarls of teeth and salivation.
Lullabies drenched in sweet hope
snapped for a dream.
all she has known forever ashes.
This ought to be a nightmare.
Here, now, it is horribly … overwhelming.
Heart, blood, breath, these are what matter understands.
Mind is elsewhere.  It has screamed into submission, reptilian —
Heart, blood, breath.
Terror reverberates
shakes tree limbs, wavers
vision.  Terror waits ahead.
Grabbing strength enough to veer,
steer clear,
running thoughtless through loss,
unafraid of the unexpected, uncharted,
Unencumbered by old terrors,
Ready by necessity to make do,
to start from simplest principles.
Who am I, today?
Tomorrow must take care
of itself.
Without law, there is no crime.
Without rules, no crown ascends
by common call – but only by
all against all
in squall of terrors,
contests of survival, games
scored in blood.
heart breaks and bleeds
scarlet ribbons
dripping into vital organs
coagulating breath, thought, awareness
there is no promised land of peace
no safe harbour free of misery
before the war
when water flowed
in abundant freedom
when the air was pure
of the stench
of progress
when everybody had
a sacred right
to feel
and believe
and dance in the moonlight
when we could afford to be
young, untried, open
to possibilities not cut off
by a sacrificial knife
repeatedly deeply severing
vital organs
without regard to the waste
with no respect for place
or the people for whom that space
holds stories
A Call to Russian Soldiers:
Why do you kill these people
who try to defend their homes,
or escape your hellfire?
What lie can you have been caught
by that would allow such brutality?
See the grievous terror you have wrought,
are still wreaking.
What can you plea as explanation,
How can you continue to make Hell
on earth continue, ripped into this
bloodbath of destruction, when you,
brave kind you,
could choose, use your might
to reclaim sanity, to save the world?
[“what if they gave a war, and nobody came?”]

color my world

Nonbinary – not just about gender
There is so much more to color
than black and white – these are not
boundaries nor imperatives.
These are merely metaphors,
print on page.
Humans can be perverse —
Caught up in fantasies that poison,
destroy our own lives.
We refuse to be wise, in favor of
self-flagellation, suffocating in hatred,
dying however we can, despite
that imperative instinct to cleave
to beauty, to survive.
Nonbinary – refracted light
isn’t black & white
It’s a Rainbow
Duality, dichotomy, antipathy
All we see is
black and white
wrong and right
day and night
running blind into sharp edges
unneeded bloodshed
See:  the world round, encompassing dimensions
all lives matter
and everybody dies
get over your obsession with black/white
and feel the grays, expand your sight
“Whites”, “Blacks”, “Browns”, “Reds”, “Yellows”,
“Indigos”:  get over yer sorry selves.
We are all tragically flawed people.
The rest is just detail, to give our stories color.
sexism, racism, colorism, ageism, ableism, classism, casteism,
any ism that teaches us fellow humans are our superiors or inferiors, are essentially the same ism
– that abstraction that tells us we can order living beings into static categories the better to lash out
with shame/blame/rage/violence rather than look to our own living beingness and tell our most wonderful stories.
Eyes taught to worship war respond to colors us v. them.
Eyes caught up in wonder reflect focused light like gems.
Feudal Diffraction
It’s not the color chart; it’s the hierarchy.
Hoarders of permission slips for supplies
thereby decide what gets prioritized,
which brick gets laid, or even fired,
who lives well,
who scrapes or no longer gets by.
It’s not our genetic code that compels social insanity.
Perhaps it’s a kind of manic compulsion,
depressive obsession,
mass psychosis,
St. Vitus line-dance to a zombie
caller’s tune.
What to do?
Meme-web reconstruction in increments
paradigm warping incidents
realign the pulse of macro/microsphere
benign gibberish cy-phones through?
Take back your time.
Take back your right to self-valuation.
Take back your place
outside of the lines.
If our needs, self-fulfilling desires, greater
ecstatic glory and grace
are to be based
on solid infrastructure,
on fruitful interplay,
on free and freeing expression,
let us take hands in multi-rhythmed,
undulating, beatific dance.
Let us be and do and feel
that which gives us permission
to be whole.
Mothers’ Night
cascading shards
echoes falling
“It’s our calling.”
Rape of Earth,
hot spurts, invective words,
savage knives.
Abiding Mothers,
sacred and mundane
twist into harridan
cold stars
wailing, hurtling waves.
Sad, old, crust of ages
sliced, screwed, carved up for profit
“It’s not the color of the skin,
the culture of the smile”
the scent of danger,
the inborn stranger —
all excuses for Us (superior)
and Them (inferior)
“They are not our breed,
but lower curs.”
We may kill with unfettered glee.
Cursed, clubbed, cut to our requirement.
Borders clear.
“Heretic fear fences in
our livelihood and wives.
Leave THEM to putrid pits
cunning jabs,
our pleasure.”
Stunning, treasure that might regale,
heal, exemplify true worth,
sustain humanity and Earth,
sold for pittance of potash
to wage a weary jig.
Unite Song
It’s not about
black or white
might is right
fuel to fight
It’s not about
East or West
who’s the best
forget the rest
It’s about
me and you,
if we choose,
what we can do
I am not blind to color.
I have never seen a black human,
nor a white.
People appear in various shades of
browns and reds.
Why do we not thus perceive —
Earth’s fertile richness in our skins: browns and reds?
How did we come to  need to pretend cold
simplicity of colorless You and Me?
Black + White — not natural life but
pre-judged lines, static and deadening.
We are calling in the dawn
Calling, gently, our many voices
How do we call thee, oh joyfully smiling mother
Welcome arising in our hearts,
Anointing our many-colored soul.
Take in the day
Rejoice in the sunshine
We are alove and strong
In primeval paradise
Upon a windswept beach
Our eyes, our arms
Raised in blessing
Totality is ours
Rainbow Shop
And she sold me rainbows
dancing gaily ‘cross the window
  windchimes in light.
And she smiled me daisies
and bursting bright blooms of summer.
And she told me, maybe,
if you’re looking in
the right direction,
  a miracle may grace your sight.
And I smiled
  into the day.

Queen of Sea and Mountain

Queen of Sea and Mountain
Winter born, Saturn ruled, not a saint nor a fool,
persisting over rocky peaks, through stormy seas,
not content to seek what comes easily.
Take a good, hard road and get going.
Mountains beg to be climbed.
Steep stone, this world of woe and
exaltation, daring to swoop, touch depths,
emptiness slick with tears.
Behind, terrors that made us more aware.
Beyond yonder slope, who knows what epics
left to find, to ride in wonder.
Breathing higher air,
the wise goat climbs with care.
Time for calm regard, to ponder,
to welcome adventure or whatever arrives.
Engage with ritual for gleaning
joy enriched deeply layered meaning!
Maybe study chapters from multifaceted lives —
refine as art, mining treasure from memories.
Wise in the ways of demons, oracles, gypsy Queens;
brave, adaptive, resilient, self-possessed;
Buddha-like compassion, learned in cycles
of conscious labor, blessed bliss.
Weathered, withered, listen, be risen.
Resurrected tempered mettle,
engorged with will to rise
ever again.
Slowly turning toward enlightened reason,
pausing at each portal to awe.
Ahead on the climb up this temporal ladder,
what legends of mastery draw us in?
Part of a grander destiny –
abiding through trials, tests, bitter lessons.
Never a finishing point, wisdom’s gifts —
ease of peace in contemplation, transcendent
imagery, welcoming grace — appear bit by bit,
day by day. Solace wildly spins toward
Time for the simple and natural, anointing
the soul in calm reflection,
to make of the whole sad cacophony
discrete instruments of harmony,
of divine symphony,
to act with impeccable integrity.
Rocky hazards face all who walk this ridge.
Take it slow; let time wait.
Immersed, made into a person, a defined moving space,
mesmerized, bound in measures. Outcast
from safe discipline of tribal faith,
to create from beyond common form.
Within this mad parade — the will to cure, kill,
carry on courageous —
The image of a wishful star:
a steady shine — but still so far.
The nights of hope; the days of pain —
on and on, that old refrain.
Counting out the chimes as if time were treasure.
Built on years of sun, storm, forces claimed
and reconfigured to bring us here.
Quiescent summit of hero’s mountain
soothed by view of waves, of distant heights.
Currents lift to flow, fall to rise.
Symbols, releasing over transits of Time
manifest intention, give birth to form and substance,
give meaning to here and now
as it expands into ever after.

in memory of Kala Snowflower

(for Kala Snowflower)
Magical child, the world awaits you
Not just this place,
any world you care to grace,
relate to, turn your lovely face to.
“We love you”
sing the winds, the seas,
the creatures large and small
“We love you always”
Singing and dancing long into the night,
you turn it into day.
Play that haunting melody.
It moves you
into a chance to name your trance,
to name us all
as we, before your eyes,
the skies will dance for you,
will open wide their hearts of stars.
Sparkling through the night,
Shining into day.
You play.
All of creation rejoices to your song,
creating worlds of joy.
Posted on March 8, 2019
That dream again.
Running, running,
but your feet are stuck, enmeshed in pavement,
though all of your intent runs in terror.
Demon warriors form themselves in the grey cloud that surrounds you, become denser, full 3-D attack.
You find yourself at war with your pillow, trapped in twisted sheets.
Another damned day to get through looms beyond the dream-storm tossed bed.
Creature, being, created from singular experience cocooned in dreaming.
Meditating, sitting, silent, still, watching metaphoric artfilm of revealed
truth waft like oracular smoke over beauty of this deep-blue pond contained
in floating ice offset by fog-faded mountain awareness.
Those dreams, those dreams, to live only there
where it all makes nonsense that feels so inevitable.
Stories unencumbered by beginnings, by logical progression, by
boundaries, yet pure and strong as sacred text.
That meat-suit we use for interface, to find and absorb sustenance,
input that makes us dependent on a scientifically defined world,
magically transcended, hours transformed outside of measurement,
of time.
Even those horrific, catastrophic images that angrily cast you back
into a waking sweat and terror, even they are breakthrough respite,
catharsis to contain, secure, untenable memories, fears.
Immerse with your story’s most salient themes.
Dream places connected in hyper-clear intensity
Lightning storm, steep stone climb from a college holiday
fair far below.
Agitated, observing, moving fluidly in the multi-tiered library.
So much to take in, be drawn into, imaginary conversations with
bright-labeled books.  The library like a horror movie medieval tower,
fearsome.  Those snow-robed mountains, forests, royal Guard,
calling so softly, so forcefully, Sirening in, holding
for exhibition.   
Hard hills of snow become Summer fountain festivals
on opium fields, sickly sweet and sticky bun bewitching,
that cloying ecstasy you never want to leave.
Puissant, what drugs want to promise.  Free theater customed
to a singular crowd.  Instant, hologrammatic slice of eternity.
Perhaps a gift, brief respite from agonized responsibilities.
Respite from cold, pain, everyday injuries of innumerable mites
infected with pestilence, endless war.
Who we are in dreams, unobserved for critique,
pictures imbued with emotional sensation speaking
directly to our most private desires.
To live in dreamtime, free of censoring reality,
what would that mean?
Immersed in sharp colors, sensual, deeply felt geometries.  Circus
fools, acrobat costumes, hidden rivers along highways thicketed in
mystically perfumed foliage.  Scenes never seen in waking life, yet
perennially home, in dreamtime.
In the innocence of dreamtime, what have you seen?
Tell me your dreams.
belated – Kala Snowflower
I just oh so late learned of Kala/ Ix’chel Neve’s passing
My heart is drowning in tears
My eyes search for her blessing
Nuit Report: weekly astrology Feb 27-Mar 6: Full Moon in Virgo. Matters of “Ultimate Concern”.
Aepril’s Astrology
I dedicate this Nuit Report to the memory of Ix’chel Neve. A bright beacon of Love and Light in this world, who continues to open hearts and inspire even as she has transitioned to the other side. A free spirit, poet, and Sister who’s openness and shared experience has been unutterably beautiful. We have collectively received a great gift in her, just by her existence on this plane, and she will be terribly missed by many.
“Do not be afraid.
The God is passionate.
The Goddess compassionate.
In Death prepare to live again
Come Spring.”
excerpt from “Change”Ix’chel Jaguar, October 2014. (C. 2014 , Michelle Neve)”
excerpts from  emerging visions visionary art zine
The faeries call me Kala Snowflower. For I walk the Earth, sing on Air, dance with Fire and breathe the Water. I am healer, poet, farmer, teacher, lover, child and tree. I am Love and Love is me.
Her Body Painted
by Kala Snowflower
Her body painted like sunset water
colors, the words of the gift burned
into her skin, the poetry
that so becomes her-
sheer fabric,
draped over her hips
to tantalize Beloveds, lifted
reveals the story told
and retold, at times
the letters themselves reforming,
retelling the kaleidoscopic life of the Lover
who holds a palette of bone deep wounds
and ecstatic caresses-
creating Herself
creating her World.
Her belly the sun spinning fire to prism.
Her arms wearing lush vines blooming blue
Water horses prancing joy into her
And kissed deeply into her ankle, sweet
scented jasmine.
Until morning, when dipping swift down
her cauldron of Art=Life,
offering vision for vision, releasing all form
toward emergence, pink fleshed, new,
unwritten, awaiting Dawn colors
while her light hot palms
hover over tendons strengthening,
joints loosening, fingers stringing
shiny beads swirling silver and gold
patterns around everyone she touches:
the cat who roots into her lap
and the green flesh of foxglove
crawling up her leg to be noticed.
Faery whispers, louder now
foretell the spiral garden her body
now builds, stone upon stone,
malachite, granite, dirt, seed,
flower and herb strung together
as a necklace for the Queen.
(c) 2006 Michele Neve
Golden eagle fly, and fly
become a carousel horse
of darkening cloud,
release the day
entering night
becoming You
see everything.
Ariel spreads his wings
and down goes the edifice
crumbling to the ground,
stones kissing again
Mother Earth
becoming again
hidden treasures.
Hematite, malachite,
sparkling quarry
seduce the sunlight,
my fingertips
initiate a threesome.
Liquid eyes held my own still,
so different from the moody
and wild storms of the mirror;
hers soft as a rippling pool,
seaglass underwater.
She kissed me then, soothing my fear
of her,
and whispered,
“all that lasts
will crumble
all you try to save
will fall
all you create
will be destroyed,
no worries,
come now, follow me inside,
breathe again deep down
and deeper, through
Kala Snowflower
Rainbow Reflections: Ocala, FL
Alone in the trance
I remember moments
like the sun that flickered
between palmetto
poised and ready
to fly through air, piercing
a spanish imposition
keeping back conquistadors
with their metal buttons
glinting, their swords reflecting
cypress gleaming green as their skin
after the poison settled into flesh
rotten as their intentions.
This was before they learned
and burned it all down
claiming a scorched land
and killing the exposed warriors
who wept not for themselves
but for the trees gone
and the land never the same
since Ponce de Leon found the eternal
spring where these days Russian, German, French
tourists bathe their wrinkled faces
doing nothing to keep out the alligators.
Alone in the dance
I discover again
from the lips of my swamp brother
oak and pine medicine
and gratitude
pouring out of my shiny sister
who serves up love
in a New Orleans kitchen
out there in Babylon, Louisiana
where the billboards catch
between messages.
She walks to work
breathing in mold spores
and flaking plaster
cannabis singing out from
doorways, ignored by the cops
who all see
that the hippies
the people.
Listen, all is revealed to you.
Your perfect thighs
are my thighs
your perfect breasts
my own.
Everything I come across
I offer you.
Everything I ask for
you give to me.
Your children
are my children.
My blanket is yours.
Everyone is fed here.
But first
we circle
hold hands
look into eyes
shining and soft
thank each other
the stars we are
crumbling toward
and Gaia
Mother of us all.
Kala Snowflower
Blue Eyes
Still, I wait.
Allow my self
to lift away
from myself.
Black and silver
release me.
My eyes glow red
underneath the blue
so I cannot see you
as you are, glowing
green light from your chest,
violet between your eyes.
Instead, shadowed by my past,
you wear the tint of that day
long ago
when I first lost you.
So nothing you do matters,
when always
you are leaving me behind.
Still, I wait.
Shadowed blue like everything,
there is a stone within this
glass walled world.
My head scratches against it
to peel me away and
free me.
At this stage alchemy
is nothing more than
sweeping away ashes.
The new skin shines brightly
now I see you clearly
through walls made of
and beyond.
(c) Michele Neve/Kala Snowflower
Breathing Her Breath
When the summer left
I stood alone
longing for the yellow haired
sunlight entangling in leaves
heaving oxygen, filling
my chest with the love of a woman
whose arms like branches
reach for the blue
blue sky, the rosy cloud,
the great star party of midnight
Woman whose roots reach far
beneath the mushroom family
dining on moss dressed graves
past the corpses fermenting
sweet worm wine
through granite and smoky quartz
spreading open dirt like thighs
to the core of her erupting
wild ways.
Loving a woman whose breath
breathes me into being.
Whose arms reach for me, hold me
closer to lips that kiss me
until when the summer left
I stood alone and
(c) Michele Neve (Kala Snowflower)
Directions from dreamtime:
Go to the same address
then down 1,000 stories.
Going back to the Beginning
before the beginning
when Nothing had a name
but everything had voices
for singing,
stumble upon a boy
alone in the forest
playing guitar
revealing such intimacies
you can only
watch sideways
hidden among leaves
as the music
takes you into
his whole.
Then run
deeper and through a violet door
between pine and stripped oak
and enter a gingerbread house
of lovers no longer in cages
where at birth they were welcomed
by a witch so hungry to eat
sweet innocence
but children can be tricky
so for thirty years
she’s been slow cooking
on the flame
and the children are grown now
yet linger among the cookie crumbs,
holding hands, awaiting
the main course
and dancing circles
around the oven.
Then open the door slowly
and enter through
the hot embers,
clinging to your robes,
your conical hat burning away.
Skin and fat bubble
and burst, juices flow,
basted in your blood
made savory.
Through particalized eyes
watch as the Children
of Light wipe you from
their lips with kisses.
Back again
to the beginning.
There was a flute
and a mermaid playing
and her lover praising
her Beauty.
And everyone took turns
sitting on a golden ball
that bloomed petals
while each Buddha beamed
and miles away
a single voice
balanced on a precipice
not realizing
he was smiling
as he fell over the edge
scattering coins.
(c) Kala Snowflower
Sometimes I fall to my
releasing the need to stand
and just allow
the Earth to comfort me
the red moon glows
between thighs
and my fingertips
enter her dark soil
that drinking
drains my fear.
Invited to dance by God
via Hafiz via a child
I wear a smooth stone necklace,
lemon balm anklet, dress
of forest, crown of
and seeing the rain begin to fall
summer hard
I rush outside
to accept.
copyright Kala Snowflower
Were a woman of design
To find herself in a place
Where fabric falls in rivulets
Of sound against her thighs
Would she know wherefore
And what to?
What would she call the space
Between the pages, the race of beings
That suddenly spring from her like winged
Creatures at dawn?
What would she call the new face
She found in the mirror’s eye,
Springing from her skull and staring
Beyond mere daylight from the
Darkest corner of her being?
Would a name suffice to explain
The mythological necessity of the traces
She would claim and someday
Or, what is it in a name
That gives voice to the dream?
Were a woman to design
The newest place to call now home
Would the faeries lend a hand
Or leave her quite alone
Until riding the east wind
On a poppy bloom
She is done?
copyright Kala Snowflower
All Existence is…
Give from heartsong tears
away, allow
soothing what was
water flowing, cleanse
you, dancing
gifts, this feeling, this
being inside, allow
bliss, allow
I cannot frame the moment
in gauze, mere
tapestries, movement,
allow myself receiving
the present, the sunset,
grave bodies decomposing,
singing past prayer, allowed
to be presently in flow,
allowing discovery:
how the light feeds
thought feeds
rooftop reflections,
Beauty dancing on eyes
sparkling sorrow, love
they take you
take you
allow you
healing for healing
allow fragments
like cool hands
warm touch
revival rising through
dark water, rising
through dirt, roots
entangling through
hair still growing
receiving manifestly
destiny cosmically
in sound, landscapes of
flesh, kisses opening
opening deepest
recesses from
coarse fabric of time to
immortal rooms beaming
bright solitude in crowds,
waves exclaiming, crests
of excitement riding,
speaking, whispering,
screaming out
Destiny, take me!
Love, Open me!
Wider, I’m yours
chaotically, beyond
purpose, light caresses
my hair integrates this
moment, rides the wave
dancing the cycle of perception
without thought, care, notice
only this
bright red fruit beckons,
enticing with life
Mother loving Father
Sun and Earth embracing
my heart kisses tiny birds above
with only one true purpose
pure with joy.
copyright Kala Snowflower
Oweynagat: Cave of the Cats
Undoing everything
the darkness speaks
knocks on the door
scared shit I pull the covers
over my ears, keep out
spiders, shush voices
all rational underpinnings
fall away like destiny
which too is rational
and nothing like the chaotic
symphony each moment portends
each moment holding
clues to the next, yet
it all changes
entirely new creatures
take off in the jet stream
clinging to my shoes
make their way into
the bright
Ancient people angry at me
for not opening my ear
tired of my fear
that is meaningless to them
when all they desire
is to be heard
like any one
of us
like me.
I am closing, closing
embracing myself
in the dark room
alone, alone
is what I’ve wanted
and there are those outside
who will never again enter
I keep them out.
I am not
Maiden opening
Mother nurturing
I am Crone alone
claiming space to writhe in
scream in, howl my pain in
slice through those who come
with my sword, Warrior Queen
on my bubbling throne
smite them, smother them,
protecting my Tribe, my claim
to my cave
allowing entrance only to those
who tie bits of their hair
to my tree
who expect nothing of me,
who come stripped naked
to feed with their flesh
my darling hungry Ravens
and who ask nothing and buried alive
die in the silence.
Your mind, your anguish, your anxiety, your fear
are nothing to me
but decorations
leave them at the entrances
and enter wiped clean
of who you thought you were–only then
my cool arms open to cradle you
my wet cave spreads wide to rebirth you
once you reach my core
you will never feel so safe
so loved, so real
so you again.
(c) November 12, 2007 Kala Snowflower
Magic Flute
Bright blue sky morning
brings clouds wearing
crow dark wings
slick walk stairs
bare black branches
and graceful Goddess tree
white surprise
beckons eyes toward
flirting with pine
boughs swaying
delicate needles scenting
winter water wonder
fish swimming
wearing mittens.
I emerge from centuries
carrying spirals on seashells
to mountaintops
offer rosemary
beckon back to underwater
where fins can shimmer pure color
where my tattoos rise up
Girl Scout badges
worn until fleshless
bones lie silent
speaking nothing of lovers,
adventures, descents
into caverns
until some poet looking down
finds femur
and bringing it to her lips
braves breath moving
through me again
marrow softening
water flowing
spreading wide for my entrance
I whisper music.
(c) Kala Snowflower
December 12, 2007
You Just Can’t Stop the Music
He said, “forget the poetry,”
and wide eyed, unbelieving
my heart so open the world
inside was dancing
until the words that stopped
the music, the dancers
halting, suddenly unsure
of themselves,
sat on their haunches
and cried.
“What have we been doing all these years?
Has it all been a waste, all
this learning to move our bodies
in cadence with the rhythm
of her heart beating?
Why have we bothered,
allowing ecstacy to shiver our bellies,
despair to make claws of our fingers,
grasping the drama of frenzied spaces,
careening to collide until something
makes contact, something
to hold on to
and let go of
when the changed beat
compels us to gyrate again,
undulate our hips
toward another completion,
sway our heads into new
contortions, capturing her heart
like the blue eyed Russian boy
or the drum beat that melted her clothes
into a heap of bear fur
after flying to Pluto as a dark crow
calling in annihilation?
What purpose is all this we do
other than for the poetry of it—
our throats stretched back taut like birds releasing sound
our chests spread open, leading the way
our bellies hungry for more and more movement
for lovers and lovers and more lovers
touching each other in the beauty ridden rooms of her making
where everything is permitted
the sky always day bright
forever lost in midnight
infinitely dawn pale blue.
(c) Kala Snowflower
Bridge to Genius
Blood down form
From out of the sparkling
Nothing she emerged
Sipping hippy crack
Music pulses
Releasing from her skin
Into sheer air.
And poetry came with her.
Although then still wordless
Awaiting the symbols to match
The sound of her universe.
When they came she grew larger
Her eyes even bigger
And at school they called her owl
Because she stared at everything.
It took her years to realize
The truth behind the slight.
The wisdom she always held
That the children saw
And misunderstood
Or perhaps knew
But did not know how to grasp it.
And how since then, perhaps
Always, she has longed
Not to be understood
But to be loved
Even in misunderstanding.
Thus the poems flowing
Year after year
That she locks in the drawer
At the bottom of her being
Takes out now and then
And then hides away again
As if they weren’t her world.
As if they didn’t mean everything to her.
As if they weren’t the key to it all.
But this is changing.
Her genius no longer content
With sniffing mothballs
And underwear
Must now emerge.
To get from here to there
There is a bridge
Shining, silver and golden
Bejeweled, a snake stretching itself
Across the crevice into her tomorrow.
The full moon calls her to cross now.
The time is now.
Once on the other side
there is no turning back.
(c) Kala Snowflower
Alien Eyes
Life comes in shining brighter than the alien who came once
To my bedroom, a cosmic cerulean cyclone cornering me under the covers.
I asked it not to come back. I didn’t want to see.
I realize now how it was showing me my future.
Only now felt in vibrations I am on riding high and certain
I would be called something clinical if I told the wrong someone.
So I talk instead to the moon, the trees, the water flowing under the bridge,
The moth, the cat stopping in the road to watch me, the crow,
Mint and nettle, red clover, the moss covered rocks and the witches.
And they tell me,
You think you see everything without looking? Open your eyes
Look as a child would! See my branches reaching out in all directions,
My leaves spring bright excited to come alive, lambs quarters by the
Side of the road, coltsfoot leaves widening, dandelion giants flopping over,
Buttercups tiny suns beaming, delicate chicory wearing pale blue, heart shaped
Violet flirting with golden rod proud stalks, plantain for salads and bug bites.
And so much more life comes in shining brighter now that I see with alien eyes.
The dragonfly wings busk imperceptible music right in the middle of the street.
White moth flutters under the bridge off to high tea with the troll.
Rabbit in stillness, watching, waits for me to look away to bounce into some portal.
Dog who I once feared senses white wolf walking beside me and stops barking.
Faeries floating inches from my face wear white scalloped wedding finery.
And they tell me,
Life comes in
(c) Kala Snowflower
(from Open Me)
Open Me
the light shines
the dark forest beckons
enter me
as the twilight lingers
embraces the clouds
with softest touches of caresses.
Let poetry come, pour through me.
My tongue on your
My lips on your
Your labia silken glitters
reflecting the moon.
Cowrie shells and conch
a blood red
tide swells inside
the new born boy child
who once gave
milk from his breasts
and the infant girl child
giving her first blood
at birth.
Relics of the connection.
The umbilical joining
breathing, tasting
with our Mother,
all giving and giving
and even in the expelling
still giving
the first breath
the first
singular experience
the first cry for the love of connection
the illusion of disconnect resolved
in flesh upon flesh
so that every time we touch
we dissolve and merge
with skin, muscle
fat and bone, inhabit
the womb every time we touch
the safety, the comfort, the shared
becomes us.
Maya, we are One.
As the Gaian Mind
embraces each finger
each tiny toe.
On our bellies, drinking
from Mother Earth
we erupt
we spasm
we settle
we cry
we rage
we engage
we grow
In the Gaian Mind
there is no separation.
We are always
giving forth
her milk.
Always bleeding
her blood.
Always drinking
through our navels
sweet honey
the presence
the source of our own hearts.
We are One.
(c) Kala Snowflower
(from Open Me)
branches that call me
sky as wet as my thighs
as deep as
my name.
Trees bathing their trunks whisper
Come now, we are waiting for your
touch, your healing ways.
And roots deep beneath the surface
moan with desire for me
for my foot’s soft graze
to wrap their long and curling love
around my waist—
hold me as lover
into eternity.
From deep trance
I emerge
find myself
knee deep
in cold
Walking my way
to shore
from the core
of my creation
I pour
ecstatic streams
of freedom
falling down my legs—
this water
of life.
(from book in progress, Our Deep Magic)
Of Course
The ocean this November scalds my feet moments after emergence until
my calves scream for mercy, so I run with waves echoing in the throats
of boys passionate to save a family of drowning mice among the rocks.
Boys who follow me into the foam, naked as Venus under my clothes
and playing a pipe to entice them while their Mother’s eyes shift from me
back to them and worry about the cold cold water, their own feet sane dry, and
wondering about my age, shocked that I might be a Mother to the boy holding my hand.
He’s not my son, of course, but if he was, of course I would still play this way,
running until my pants to the waist darken. I would still see the swollen
waves in the white mist appear as the Goddess’ bare thighs opening.
And her music would still draw me forward, toward the salty depths to the place where
forever I am a child of the universe and growing up means there’s no one to stop me
when the water shouts my name over and over and over until I answer.
Faery House
For Selina
Woodland eye wears whispers.
I listen as soundless
fae play dulcimer on your iris,
and your face a changeling,
alien who steps over the threshold—
you come into my world.
Who are you since I dreamt you
into being?
Do you come to bring the wild
world closer?
With elvin ears and omen eyes
rolled stones upon my altar
you tell my future,
and I believe you.
A child again in your arms
I kiss your lips, your cheek,
eyes and ears, slick lick
kitten, lapping up prophecy
like sweet cream from your palm.
I build you now a woodland house
of birch bark walls and pine needle floor.
A place to be with you eye to eye.
We nestle in on the coldest night.
Our hair entwines like roots.
copyright Kala Snowflower
Stone Woman
Sun, my center
dances to release the wind you warm
forward toward the stream
where we sparkle over stones
where we brace face
the new world
holding ourselves within
pillars of pure light
where my thighs hold
the secret.
Do you want to know and unfold
I have this gift to offer:
I do not need, I love.
In between grass blades, crazed ants
search, for hunger drives them
up larger hills and greater feats,
into dragging the King Kong
of insects over hills
down canyons toward
where we are going, with hunger
on our backs, held in our teeth,
moving over mountains to the bottom
of the ocean to find the place we remember
where lover scented sheets
await us
and the taste of the Earth awakens
us to choose, now transform.
Thousands of years ago
I held you in my arms.
Here I am again holding you.
That will never stop.
The sun on our shoulders
reminds us to be still,
bellies to the earth
reach down into miles
of dirt, crystal, stone,
reach and reaching
she reaches with her molten
core into our center.
Playing with light
mesmerized by the healer
his table holds my cheekbones
his hands fill my pores
with almond oil and cedar.
His fingers take away
what I held for so long.
Through the window, clouds unburden themselves
of long held secrets,
speak of the ice storm that took the lover down,
tearing away her arms and legs,
falling into snow.
It is spring so the broken branches float now
on the marshes, sink into the wet earth’s hunger.
The tree does not mourn
what is not loss, but shakes its body
lighter now and breathes bold blood into bud.
copyright Kala Snowflower
Michelle wrote poetry for over 40 years starting at the age of 7. She left 17 books in digital form spanning the years from 1997-2014 (as well as more in handwritten form). Here are selections from some her many poems. As of this writing her books are being edited and will be self-published in the early summer.”
Kala Joy reading Poetry at Beards of Valenccio – Aug 2013
Published on Mar 4, 2015
Kala Joy Neve (aka Ix’chel Jaguar) reading her own poetry at the Beards of Valenccio Art Salon on Aug 16, 2013.

Pisces’ February Fog

I have often meditated, thought/felt about unnecessary
suffering, all the tragic, miserable suffering based on
misunderstandings, or on situations which further down
the timeline no longer exist.
Diseases for which cures have been found, injuries in
wars that never needed to be fought, mistaken enmity,
all the gays and witches stoned and burned, all the
mentally ill subjected to horrendous “treatments,”
all the twisted secrets that never needed to be kept
keeping people entrapped in violent abuse.
In the way of meditation, I am drawn to thought about
Christian mystics.
Many were highly intelligent women who would never
have been taken seriously as everyday wives, but
cloistered from early ages, encouraged to give their minds
and souls and bodies to Christ, their writings preserved
show their grappling as mystic philosopher seekers, trying
to make sense of the suffering and brutality all around
and within them. Christ is love.  God is good and merciful.
If we suffer, it must be to bring us closer to our blessed
Suffering (Piscean empathy) not so much about healing
as opening up to the holy well of pain we as mortals must
experience to learn true compassion, to take our share of
that pain from the shoulders of Christ, and by the grace
of our ecstatic burdens enter the realm of the holy,
the loving spirit.
But there is another way along this route, where the
suffering is about healing, is about transcendence and
transformation, alchemical catalyzation.
If I can enter the pain and find my way within it, learn its
language, learn to speak with it, understand it to the point
of being of it, work with it artistically and in a comradely spirit,
learn its secrets and its fears and its beauty, I can learn to
transform the pain within me, and find avenues to send that
transforming out into the world of suffering, into the pervasive
pain and misery of those who are caught up in traumas and
dramas and debilitation.
Though gospel says Christ died for our sins and transubstantiates
to lead us into the kingdom of heaven, perhaps the mystical way
can lead us to live through the pain and into that untimebound plane
where the pain has evolved into awestruck beauty that doesn’t hurt
at all, a way of ecstatic celebration in mutual love, support, opening
into pleasure and health, release into another kind of consciousness.
Or maybe we should just shut up and take our prescribed medications.
Pedestals in intricate geometric arrangement
since the sculptured gods have run off
seeking glories and adventures
in less structured realms.
Petitioners never notice,
leaving putrid mewling remains,
sacred sacrifice,
rotting stench to keep the altars
Out on the playfields,
breathing in hearty exercise,
laughter expanding lung strength,
crying leaving damp rich soil,
incremental mineral deposits
essential to health.
Close to the Edge
Close to the edge, so close.
The music’s playing old familiar memories.
It’s a grey day, fog of Pisces,
a year of fear and hopeful reawakening —
is there hope of resurrection?
in these grim, grim times?
But so grim?
A time to newly discover
strength within;
to again see life as a discovery 
    — can it be done?
On a day so grey, in a year so fraught with peril
    and misadventure?
Slowly, one at a time:  take things one at a time,
and they seem so small and easy.
Why hold expectations that lead to dismay,
hiding from fantasy?
Breathe, meditate.
Build dream towers to climb to,
not nightmares.
But it seems so safe and easy to hide
in the darkness,
to never utter another “I”
to cease.
Why not?
Close to the edge, so close.
The fool looks over his shoulder.
The wise goat climbs with care.
The lonely may jump in despair.
How to be alone and strong?
Ask the high priestess —
All is within/without you.
But to find that smile of understanding?
It is a search worth taking.
Slow, easy, breathe.
February snows through conflated years.
Fear was my ally, hailing me on, hugging
with glorious laughter, carrying unsure steps through
onerous trails. And those ebullient ecstasies of survival.
Drunk on the gold that surpasseth science or light.
Touch the cold sting, letting the song sing through me.
Do you?
Feel the music?  Abandon your amygdala to dance free
awhirl in a swirl of laughing snow?
In dreams, inchoate, unremembered, do we play in those
moments of bliss to keep us balanced, to give courage in a life
less lived, less honored?
Old, glazed-over eyes seek momentary solace, look long,
longingly, into a silly mist of snow beyond windows closed
securely against the cold.   Dream world revealed,
in the interplay of eyes and mind.
February snowflakes
Flitter Flutter
Feathery powder
Melt into my mind.
zoom back into throng
the very pain of life a Holiday song
metaliminal passion play in several actions
foggy notions, robes of myst
limbic video bliss
let loose into this foggy dawn:
colours, still subtle, arranging,
catch cold liquid, dissolve in
undulating air —
tell a story.
A new day dawns cloudy and forbidding.
We are entering San Francisco in the morning fog,
early, early, the world still dreaming.
Or maybe it was Cambridge, Mass.,
lost in the fog, unsure of time or space.
Sometimes there is singing:
something about a “Yellow Submarine” or “Strawberry Fields”
or sometimes haunting melodies without words.
But it’s all about the words, even those implied by the music.
Wine can help.
By the gods, wine is sometimes all that can help
(tho sometimes even wine betrays me).
The stinking debris of mornings after the night before,
or just morning by the coast with the stink of rotting fish,
the cries of gulls or sirens, the emptiness without tears, the cold of morning
— I remember that too.
That no more mornings could touch me,
that I could hide contented in the night dreaming
flying dreams so none could touch me.
Fragments. Taking life in fragments. Folding each shiny fragment
into tender velvet pockets sequined to reflect the light,
let them be all right, feel cared for.
Let the nights protect us from the days.
Like a wandering hermit with a self-igniting lantern . . . .
Here, in a world of fog and fury,
blurred in twilight vengeance,
crows, ravens, portents of
dark flight circle above.
A crown of shrieks, feathers
cascade, rain like pestilence.
No blame in blindness.
“I could not see through feathered fog;
could not save you.”
Collar up against the wind and dark.
Rising smoke creates warmth illusion.
Wrapped in sanity’s delusion,
fog’s memory of mist, imagined tide.
Seated here, salt-etched wall
alone between vast sand and
murmuring waves.
No one sings.
The notes, the voices
Singers in the fog.
Outlying voices thin, yet growing;
accruing sound, like liquid, flowing.
Emoting tales of woe, resistance.
Shouted sighs of denied existence.
Insightful chants insist persistence.
We never died.  We’re knitting strong.
Born into a world-wide village.
Only from ourselves to pillage.
Hear our song.
Some bright good morning of
fish and loaves, cake and wine,
capacious tribes adjoin in movement.
Shining line of peace.
Cloud imagery morphs, calls forth
enchantment effused through morning firmament.
Pulls memories, wishes, muses’
wordless cinema
enhanced by rhythmic score.
Loosed within foggy aurora,
birdsong. Voices conflate
sums of experience.
Mauves, shades of color still subtle
mist rainbow
undulates.  Moist air
shares, surrenders whispered tales.
Prismatic atmosphere,
diffracted light.
Layered clouds, sustain
Ecstasy dissolves the lock
dividing everyday from magic.
World-eating fog encroaches.
No capacity to breathe in this miasma.
Rotting from lung to core,
gasping for something clean
to inhale, to cure.
Ooze gently
into nothingness.
No trace of panic
around which to coalesce
fear, malice.
Let turmoil bleed off,
dissipate as airless mist.
Creature, being, created from singular experience
cocooned in dreaming.
Sitting, silent, still, watching artfilm of revealed
truth waft, oracular smoke. Mesmerized by beauty,
this deep-blue pond contained
in floating ice offset in fog-faded mountain promise.
Those dreams, those dreams, to live only there,
where it all makes nonsense that feels so inevitable.
Stories unencumbered by beginnings, logical progression,
by boundaries, yet pure and strong as sacred text.

new dawn

Twilight at the Dark of the Moon
Moving inward.
into deepest silence.
Feel me here,
oh my most darling.
Here is the free-est flow,
river of bliss.  Bounty
of years of grey resistance,
incrementally awakened to
swirling shades —
mystic purples,
mad magentas,
sky-eyed blues.
There is ancient music,
crescendos to peals.
Layered millennial ears,
creatures of seas to trees
murmur through.
Ripples of soundwaves,
broker wisdom
not yet condensed into words.
Romances spun of clay and sand,
woven into fashion’s fabrics.
Hearty voices join,
create regaled mythology.
Star-shaped world story
reverberates with
chill and heat.
Nascent strive for enriched clarity
that must open ever more widely,
a luminous spiral
up, out, in, around.
Come, brave as you imagine.
In that brief eternal interval
all of energy
sow and weep
while you sleep
a new day grows.
Each new day we relive the old, acting out dramas unresolved.
All we need to do is breathe to play to dance into our unbound creation.
dawn could be inspiration,
bounteous gifts free of obligation,
uplift of
energy gleefully received.
This is the first measure of the first movement,
a pirouette, a dervishly delightfilled whirl.
Cast upon this rocky estuary, dance inner wise,
third eye calling dawn into destiny.
drums at dawn.
Inspiration and instruction
carried forth through song
Birdsong, voices conflating
the sum of experience,
let loose into this foggy dawn.
Colours, still subtle,
catch liquid,
dissolve in
undulating air —
tell a story.
Dawn’s pink-purple hue
breaks through over time
while I wander in dreaming.
Words of Peace
speak beyond structured language
sharing profoundly
in joy,
graceful dancing
to music of each dawn.
A bright dawn upon the kingdom
offers sparkling hope,
new dreams aborning.
Early morning dawn awakening
to a season of wild abandon
a golden moment of sensation
In a flash — alive to an open season
Alive to a new awakening
Dawning form seeps toward reward,
to speak out what’s been found.
charge fiercely into each new
Initiate, ignite.
We are calling in the dawn
Calling, gently, our many voices
How do we call thee, oh joyfully smiling mother
Welcome arising in our hearts,
Anointing our many-colored soul.
Take in the day
Rejoice in the sunshine
We are alove and strong
In primeval paradise
Upon a windswept beach
Our eyes, our arms
Raised in blessing
Totality is ours
There is no darkness.
upon dawn.
Listen for enchanting pipes
of Pan to follow, drawn on
painted sky.
What was lost may be re-crafted.
Daring quests begun anew.
In a world of lads and lasses
hale and strong, brave and true.
Joined in conjure,
raise our glasses.
Do as we must do.
    Hope emanates, flows into form.
    Another day dawns and lingers.
    We journey on.
peeping dawn high in colors of awe.
What world is this
in swaddling clothes
at the break of dawn?
Deafening nightmare, desperate storm
give way to rainbows, peaceful dawns.
before the dawn
take peace into each breath, each incantation
from the strength to align impeccably
with your deepest truth
childish agonies
dispelled with dawn’s
bright kiss,
Imagine the day that dawns when
you are no longer dreaming.
A new day is dawning, but is it sun or storm?
The new day dawning
it will encounter clouds and hailstorms,
turbulence and destruction.
It will be a day of startling showers and
unsettled wind,
of unreasoned pain
and empty solace.
It will be a day to try our souls.
But it will be a day of infinite possibilities.
A new day dawning in the
drizzle and the pain
[These little moments
of presence, of meaning
when for a bit all is clear
That’s what we’re doing here.]
Another chance to revel in the rain
Through weary hours of bitter nights
It helps if we can fix our sight
upon the rays of morning.
Some bright good morning of
fish and loaves, cake and wine,
capacious tribes adjoin in movement.
Shining line of peace.
Terror’s fear released.
A new day is dawning, but where is the sun?
Our freedom and faith are defined by the gun.
The symbol of power overrules everyone
‘Til we create our own electricity.
A new day is dawning, look up everyone,
it’s time to rejoice in the dawn.
New days, new dawns, new destinations
open endless, unforeseen segues.
Wonder creates, merrily navigates veils
as each falls, cast  away.
Luminous celestial array.
Lightning aurora bursts
expose prospective trails.
New days, new dawns, new destinations
open into never seen visions.
Wonder creates, gracefully navigates
through veils each cast  away.
Luminous color array.
Lightning aurora
bursting through.
ascend into sacred muse-ways.
Every day a new day
I walk softly in the morning.
Drink awakening dew, sunbeam blessed.
I take what has always been mine,
cherish magnificence
and leave rough visions
of apocalypse to human eyes.
morning sunshine
burns off fog.
Glistening sky and the luxury
of self-companionship.
Ready, take aim, begin.

regarding gods

regarding gods (in progress)
It seems to me that these people are mistaken
when they claim to be at war against Satan,
because the God they worship is the God of Evil,
Destruction, Death, and Despair.
Yet, there are other gods with other values.
How did this group gain so much control over mankind?
Why do we hate our lives?
Pray for Violence
The God of Abraham
enjoys His Master tricks.
Calls Chosen men to violent
revenge against all fancied slights.
“They’re wicked – Smite!
Pillage their villages.
Rape their disgusting whores.
Make their acres yours in My sight,
in My glory.  Give blood lust, My rightful
gory sacrifice.  Pride is My reward
when your sons fight in My Name.
Pride can pay the price, replace shame.
I am no pansy, no prancing debutante
at Papa’s ball.  I am no Mama’s man,
no Fate’s enthralled.  I am the First, the
Prime, the All.”
Pluto’s Wife/ Demeter’s Daughter
Persephone, your will is free
Even as your living is in bondage
to forces much older in their power
You are free to reconcile your fractured life
Daughter in Summer’s sun
smiling warmly, playing at innocence
with charms long practiced
Mother’s Fool
Mother’s Lamb
Saved from that horrible man —
Well, joint custody
Ever Her beloved child
While it is no secret
Down below you are honored Queen
among tortured souls ever needy of your
attentive care
Far from noblesse oblige, it is your
chosen career, though not chosen by you
Are you told enough:
“You do it proud.” or even acknowledged
for the prowess your will gives existence?
Free Will, not Free Choice
It is learning to make of the whole sad cacophony
discrete instruments of harmony, of divine symphony
to find, realize, act with
impeccable integrity
as child or Queen
or someone between
Persephone’s Worlds
I have wandered far from thoughtless girlhood,
am woman grown, a Queen
in my own right.
Yet I am treated with the expectations
of a mindless child
in my mother’s Summer home.
The Gods are all agog with Zeus,
fickle, abrasive, free to take full stance
above the laws he so imperiously commands.
My Dark King is so much more a man,
sincere, deeply feeling, committed to his realm,
compassionate, if not always kind.
Yet, this season I must obey the crowd,
display charm and grace
in haute couture, make small, insipid
conversation with useless socialites
decorating Zeus’ lawn parties.
Up here, life is meaningless,
All flash and doggerel
to amuse, O’, do entertain us.
So tiring to endure the ennui.
Those not privy to opulent entitlement,
relegated to the dregs of servitude, or less
endure for their time, brutal, painful, short,
for no good reason.
I hear their horrid tales,
back in my rightful place and purpose.
Shrunken souls, shriveled by life time hungers
still growling beyond the grave.
I am balm and wise mother.
At last they matter, their stories opening in me
a marvelous passageway through which they are
taken into paradise.
My life above, the petulant daughter,
the pampered goddess spawn,
I endure coldly.
Summer’s trivialities, properly obedient to
rituals of social condition,
know nothing of my true calling
under Winter’s glory.
For Brigid’s Day
Who am i to bow to You —
me shorn of love, without honor;
You an enduring Goddess,
long honored for your bounty
of knowledge, thought’s ground water
poured, shared, carried forward.
Goddess of brides,
of hope, of visions, of poetry.
We who want a deeper future for ourselves,
more kind, more wise,
a better definition for humanity,
assemble on bended knees to
beg, accept, express your beauty.
Humans alive to art,
flow of mystic cavern seas,
can synergize, can command,
manifest as Magick.
Dark encircling
Goddess of Night
from sacred firepit
feeds dreamers
the potency of stars’
cosmic light
concave distortion
myth’s shadow
Andromeda Unbound
Primal emergent scene of fear/betrayal/rage
Against prosaic life tuned to a simpler age
A woman and a man and progeny of course
A life tailored to plan, no stranger to remorse
So early in the days of what might hence occur
The learning of the ways of how to be are stirred
So legends have been cast, so myths in mist abound
As some realities are buried underground.
It was a cold and gilded house, camouflaged as home
It was a brutal game of chance camouflaged as life
Chain me to my jagged rock and let me bleed
Let the ravage start, I will not plead,
My tears will only flow when primed by raging seas
They say that life’s a school, we must learn or die
They knock into us what, where, when, forgetting why
Each put into our place and left to wait our turn
It’s not about what we may be, but what we earn.
Tree-lined sidewalks, car-lined streets, children at play
It seems so calm and peaceful, keeping fear at bay
Do the laundry, buy the groceries, pay the heating bills
Get it done, don’t delay, no matter who it kills.
It was a curse hurled from the gods, but it wasn’t mine
Punishment for a crime of pride I did not commit
Clinging to my prison door, I hide my eyes
Expecting no pardon from the skies
No where left to go to hide from my mind’s lies
What can’t be told infects a deep and deadly path
Buried wounds untended surface into storms of wrath
A beaten creature huddles beneath a snarling face
Dying for a welcome smile, the warmth of caring grace
Some doors left open lead to mystic hidden rooms
Of purple velvet drapes, plush carpets and rare perfumes
The tapestry of life upon an ancient wall
Or was it down a rabbit-hole you meant to fall?
I begged a chance to be saved, but it was not my time
The monster’s howl a hungry hound denying rest
Lost in a tempest, finding none to care
Petrified by my own inward icy stare
Bound and cursed by the gods, of what use is prayer?
Comes the time in spiraling life of do or die
Take the time to breathe the air, read visions from the sky
Willing change, allowing pain to tell its sorry tale
Rearrange the picture’s frame, learn to adjust the scale
The rules laid down to keep us bound were never friends
A hero’s quest with divine intent can open stories’ ends
Gods inspire nature’s desire for beauty, healing, choice
Reclaiming heart, we do our part, obeying our true voice
Opening my eyes, raising my voice, I claim my power
The gods respond not with violence but with joy
Claiming my life as my own, I turn my demons into stone
Free at last my spirit soars as I
dance by day through sweet Olympian fields — by night among the stars
Venus Guide Us to Peace
 a meditative poem
Not just sweetness and light
There is a strength; there is conviction —
there is a vibrant dedication to true worth.
If we can but believe again
in all the humane virtues —
Love is sharing,
in kindness, understanding, supportive regard.
Love is forgiving and being forgiven,
when it is clear that malice was not intended
or malice has been exorcised
— an acceptance of the positive power
of change, of growth in spirit.
Love is the assumption of “we.”
We are doing being going having creating
We are able to exchange our labor, knowledge,
possessions, positions
We are able to take in more than I — to synergize
our fortunes into wealth and integral well being.
Love is not just a song — a pretty set of symbols
Love is a power and a glory
and an all encompassing truth.
Love is addition and multiplication,
not division or subtraction.
Love enriches and inspires us.
Love is not blind, not foolish.
Love is not denying the self or self interest.
Love is seeing clearly, knowing wisely,
understanding and expanding the self —
expanding outward to take in the universe
of interconnected, interdependent being.
Love sees the ugliness; and loves sees the beauty.
The ugliness saddens; the beauty invigorates.
Love is to peace as music is to harmony.
But how are we to love in a discordant world?
It is within us to pick out the true,
enduring melody
to which our essential selves are tuned —
If we but look to, listen to, open our selves to
Venus, the Goddess of Love,
Peace, Justice, Harmony
as she manifests within us all.
Prometheus Descending
Stealing fire from the gods
was but part of a process.
Thesis, antithesis, synthesis.
Long, complicated tales.
Heroism, challenge, reciprocity
stamped into squirming genes,
appearing again and again
through the ages.
My father’s father’s father and yours
farther and farther into mists
of antiquity
words said, positions taken.
Complicated tales unravel
knots in temporal rewind.
We see hero/villain
rearrange, reverse, reverently
bow each to the other.
Who is the thief?  the victim?
What is this fire that it is not
equally shared
among the initiates
who understand the requirements
of its power?
Holy Chaos
Please, never mock at Eris
Lest Eris mock with you
She of star hot temper
Fells any who upset Her
You haven’t got a clue
It isn’t that you’re stupid,
or even that She’s wise,
but that’s She’s wildly puissant
You aren’t dealing with Cupid
mere love spells to hypnotize
She wields power of Chaos
She cares not about Right
Nor who is strong or bravest
What Eris wants She stages
to play within Her sight
Will charged up with magic
Slights small or large revenged
Express desire, She grabs it
Though for you it’s tragic
She laughs and strikes again
Best mortal, mock not Eris
Lest Eris mock with you
Unfazed by fear nor reason
She razes as She pleases
You haven’t got a clue
Ceres in Regalia
Call in the harvest
My Lady awaits (impatient
is  She,
as all Immortals)
She sends cauldrons for tribute
on chariots of Moon lace —
dervishly risqué
stars sparkle celebration
We humbly attend, extend
ardent service.  Gaily bless Sun and Earth,
nature’s noble accord.
Welcome Grand Goddess!
Indulge in dulcet fruits and glories
from Your largesse devotees’ labor hath wrought.
Love and Work
in pure adoration,
Her most gracious bestowals, our holiest
of offerings.
These myths about crosses, holy water, Christian artifacts, are in some sense amusing.
Such short-sighted arrogance these Christians expose.
Our kind greatly predate The Christ.
I have been told that some still walk who worshipped at the feet of our dark Lord’s bride.
Persephone, when she toured this world would take succor from such acolytes in Her secret night rites.
Children of the God of Death and Transformation, we are born in intimate blood ritual.
We are damned with immortality to experience Hades on Earth.
Ceres, mother of the Earth
Athena, of cerebral birth
Juno, queen of all the gods
Vesta, pure against all odds
Golden night rises.
High fields enriched in seed,
aglow. Listening for enchanting pipes
as Pan serenades
romantic lust, lingering hope of thrill and thrust.
Amorous nymphs a’hum in ripe foliage
answer in bleats of rapture.
Chirrups, nightwings,
mingled weeping and carefree cries
slowly reveal.  Pan to follow,
dancers bathe elation on night shores.
Legends cavort, their joyful voices echo,
kiss and tell, lithely merry on.
Mercury Trickster
lithely larfing pixels and waves
Happy adventure
creating mayhem silly and brave
wandering worlds, leaping between
with the flick of a dial
bringing a soul feeding smile
to the lips of a beaten down child
slyly ass-kicking evil demeanors
dancing outside the scene
to quicksilver change
flickering out of range
of censor or brute
soldier or suit
to give ’em the boot
when their attention is taken
up in their infernal machine
Immortal mixer
in our mundane affairs
playing at musical chairs
or the game of the day
unattached to our daily cares
merry and gay
spreading that sunny moonshine
then dancing away
Athena’s Valentine
Athena fair
stalwart daughter of Zeus
graces her time and place
with divine knowledge.
Today unlined face,
silken hair,
robust yet fragile form
are proclaimed as the graces
of womanhood.
Athena, lost in the pantheon,
whispers to the nightears
of her faithful,
saying:  “True woman’s mind
inclines to wisdom.”
But Daddy’s girl
wants more recompense
for loneliness.
Gaea’s laughing
silly antlike scavengers
groomed in self-importance
never see the joke
Eve of Hecate
As we approach the 13th of August
August celebration of the Dark Moon Goddess
under the light of this August Full Moon
Aquarius bears the Water, carries the way
along the electro-virtual waves
shining Moonlight, Faery Queen or fabled harlot
stirs potent night blooms, expelling myths of
what we cannot bear, cannot overcome
Feel in the electric falling starlight
Spells of renewal, of power to look back
upon our falterings, to find the seed now grown
yet changing still and ever, able,
willing, co-creating in the illuminated shadow
invoking the peace of dissolving twilight
of midnight’s hopeful resurrection
of the hinting flame that lightens before the dawn
take peace into each breath, each incantation
from the strength to align impeccably
with your deepest truth
An empty chalice, open, to be filled by spirit’s essence, placed according to ritual, waits for its turn.
Goddess of so many duties, so many eras, so many sorrow-filled worshippers, She feels the tears, the emptiness.
“I cannot fill you.  I can not fill the chalice of emptiness.  That is not my gift or purpose.  I can offer only what is already within you.”
Almost quiet, sea sounds, dank odor of lowtide, creeping Spring carries  melt of harsher climes.  She stokes the fire to remember warmth when the Sun was high and strong, and present.  Fire has its own secrets, its own order.  As do we all, each our own furnace, nurturing a flame that is destiny.  So old, She has been burnt by many flames — blistered, scarred, hardened.  She still feels every one, tastes fiery spice, seasonings, marinades.  It all moves Her to cackling hysteria.  You don’t want the pain of knowing what She endures.  You just want soothing stories, fantasies to believe in.
She understands your fear, and withdraws.  No need to escalate sorrow. She is self-contained in her work and close-knit layers of exquisite aeons, sense memories, distilled lives.
Was I a woman, then, upon the Earth, feeling sweet breeze of early Spring uplift my being when returning birds and budlings made ready for new beginnings?”
In the dark, in the cold, enclosed below that hopeful ground, stirrings still find Her.  She can not miss the Sun, the Sky, the open fields.  They are ingrained in Her, as there and intense as ever they could be.  There is no yesterday, no tomorrow.  Always all times, all places, all emotions, overwhelm, yet gentle strand by strand amuse.  She has no pity.  There is only action, including the action of long enthrallment, of stasis within unfolding storms.  There is no room for judgment, no excuses.  She sees all the rationales, the weak flailing attempts at blame, at justification.
Laughter takes Her.  It makes so much more sense to revel in explosion, expelling, cleansing for exploration, for readiness to take the next step.
Simple acceptance.
The dancer with the dance
entering pre-dawn mystery.
Quiet interval, enchanting music.
Undulating reverie.
Alone in Hekate’s garden,
breathing in memory
of jasmine and spice.
Weary roads traveled
crossroad to crossroad;
the journey continues.
Weary days have found sustenance
in secreted hovels, dimestore romance.
Convoluted talk, empty gestures,
soul-less ritual
take up the stitches of time.
Some brave midnight,
if I learn my lessons well,
I will eat the fruits of Hekate’s garden,
dancing in piquant reverie,
leaving my tears and anguish
along the windswept trail.
Ebullient music
dances me
as the Goddess kisses
my tearstains into
The fact that there are so many religions, so many “gods,” so many interpretations of what to believe makes it clear that no one group as “The Truth”. We each see our little part of the whole. Rather than insist  on converting others to our “Truth,” we would do better to spend our time looking further.

lazy days

Celebrate Laziness!
Mentor of Invention,
this easy first cousin to Peace.
Proclaim, reclaim, claim
such lovely virtue,
calmly, with gentle elegance,
languid flourish, impish wink.
Like a warm evening on the beach, all woozy from sunshine.
Tingle of sea breeze, that ocean scent of the wild.
As the sun recedes, cooling, refreshing, yet still a lazy summer eve.
Oh that luscious feeling, that overflow of quiet release.
In and out of sleepy reverie, so gently washing through pools, reservoirs
of elation.
Like a sweet warm breath caressing.
Beaches at sunset, quiet waves, sparkling reflection;
sand like dulcet bedding, lazily shaded serene meditation.
along a lazy stream of time
crossing whirlwind space.
We need more laziness:
Too lazy to be evil.
Too lazy to interfere with people
being people.
Too lazy to prevaricate, shill for hate,
devastate innocent civilians
to elevate your cause.
Too lazy to legislate excessive laws.
Too lazy to project your flaws, to bother
to pretend to perfection.
More nonproductive hours of blissful
reflection, extending perception,
enjoying the sun, the rain, expressive clouds.
Praise laziness as ours.
No shaming allowed.
Attention shift from winning enchanted toys
to attending to enjoyment.
Oh for the lazy days extending living
into grand stairways of heavenly languidity
the tale unwinds in brightly
colored ribbons
dances gypsy comedies
of lazy, dappled romance
we need a tune to dance away
give a chance for play
to wash and heal our wounds.
Smiling captivating tune
hums, caresses into sleep
lighting lazy seas of dreams.
Pick up bits of wisdom
on the way.
If you’re doing it right,
no need to delay.
Time’s neither fast nor slow.
Every placement relates
just so.
Beautiful day,
lilting lazy river …

on ego for Leo

Why do so many people get the self-esteem thing so wrong. Self-esteem is a by-product of feeling competent, of being able to act effectively in the world. Faking it won’t make it. Self-esteem is very important in the development of a healthy ego, of a healthy social being. In order to foster this important kind of self-evaluation we need to teach kids useful skills, not praise them mendaciously. That only gives them a false sense of self and of the world. So, perhaps the issues so many seem to have with “ego” is misunderstanding what a healthy ego is.
People get the ego all wrong. I do understand — it is what we are taught.
Ego is meant to be the organizing principle in our consciousness to help us develop and maintain focus, to live purposefully.  It is a hard-working, important tool if we are to be social beings in a material world. When ego is well used, it allows us to make sense of the flood of sensations, organize time/space/tools/intent into worthwhile projects, create appropriate interfaces for smooth social commerce, and generally function as strong, self-motivated, sane actors. Because we are misinformed, we often grow misformed egos that are not well used or healthy. This can create deep resentments, anti-social inclinations, general confusion about one’s place in the world. Rather than denigrating ego, we would do well to befriend our various strands and become more whole, more able, more socially useful and personally joyful.
The denigration of the ego as illusion or self-aggrandizement is often a barrier to appropriate understanding of the ego’s usefulness.  You have a goal; ego lets there be an organizing “you” to attain it.
Having regard for oneself, respect for that first person singular subjective locus, why would that be considered negative? Bragging, puffing up, presenting oneself as more important are not attributes of self-regard. They are attributes of insecurity, a need for constant validation, a role played to gain attention or misdirect. The person who is secure within their own skin is generally genial, with no need to take the spotlight, unless that is their role in a particular performance. So why is the ego, the self, the first person singular, the focused consciousness maligned?
Ego is not the problem, the separation, an enemy of flow or mindful awareness.  It is this misconstruing of Ego’s purpose and nature that we have generally accepted.  Healthy ego is simply the operating organizer of the mind, a flowing together of all of our impressions and understandings.  If we were to have the kind of sacred relationship to ourselves that accepts and loves we would have no need to vilify this or any other part of our beings.
We need an ego to be able to relate.  What needs to go are the unhealthy ideas about ourselves that corrupt the ego’s functioning.
The ego is an organizing principle within the psyche, much like government is an organizing principle within the society,
the problem with both is when we mistake a tool for a master.

blue new moon

Blue New Moon
 Dreams long enshrined touch magic of New Moon,
covered in shadow for her mourning journey.
New Moon howls, less than a crescent
empowers our over-seer sky.
Back and fore ground merge.
Seeds learn to navigate treacherous seasons,
acclimate, rise.
The moon is blue and dreaming
Cry all my children to sleep
In conquest dreams we deem to rule
In darkest halls we plot in torment
In empty caverns we deify glory
Dance, again, dance for freedom
Dance my children to sober dreaming
Of valor and honor and color and pain
Dance and cry and strive again
To hold a mass and state the Name
Call forth my demons from sleep
The songs of old and runes of yore
The empty words we’ve learned to score
The high and low and even
Listen and you’ll hear them moan
It’s dark and dirty here below
The emptiness can drive you
To a place you ought not go
You’ll die in horror screaming
Cry all my children to sleep
The moon is blue and so are you
You’ll hear its song so clearly
And discount it all to dreams
And when you wake, you’ll wonder
Why you’re screaming
Why you ache in places you can’t feel
Why your work and world don’t seem so real
Why the voices in your head are screaming
And you’ll count the phases of the moon
And wander in the night without direction
And keep a silent vigil in your secret heart
And turn quickly round the corners,
Lest someone see you
And when the curse is cast, you’ll hear it spoken
Without bothering to look for the absent speaker
And when the moon has turned
To other dreamers
You’ll see a vision overpower the sky
And answer . . . when you ask it “why?”
The moon is blue and dreaming.
Mushroom teacups sail in stardust
withered laurels snap in dustwhirls
tethered horsemen roam the skyways
soldiered remnants hiss through brushwoods
All is soon made clear.

MegaSolstice Summer 2020

season of change
Kind wind, scent of Spring
travels still extending
Tingle of choice
bound up in change
Colours mingle, edge into
mauves and teals, wisps of shade
and Sun, moody, descending
Eyes alert beneath flirtatious
puppy-beg for Summer,
whining to get out to play,
to burn kinetic
With thrust of flame,
to weld
a tight, unyielding hinge
Swinging door
to untested vistas
carries with its motion
changing definitions of out and in
You can have your equinoxes,
or cross-quarters’ fetes.
Lead me with Solsti, delineation of extremes.
Sun to Earth,
charged Cardinal points, sturdy in stubborn worth.
Symbolic enchaining
rock to sea.
Kinetic energy
defining space in relation to time.
Ecstatic Saturn
and brother Moon, sublime,
secreted in esoteric lore,
heroic stories,
everyday glories,
exotic songs
evoking prescient memories.
I dream a shining fountain of fame
upon a sparkling hill.
If wisdom can save us from
the illness of slavedom,
so bend the common will.
And the sky.
And the breeze
wrinkling the trees.
And the red-pink-blue of sunset, so late
these endless evenings.  Summer brings, they say,
dreams of younger days.
Terrified because no safe world awaits,
gives continuity.
Never to know or be known a moment more.
Awakening forever such sweet sorrow.
From what might have been if dreams could be covers
for transposition, doorways that might be forever closed
from that opening path beyond.
Apprehended by vision so vivid.
Ground to stand when ephemeral wings fail,
dissolve to clay.
“Who are you?” the stranger peers with glassy eye.
Hurry on, heedless of direction.  Bemused feet waver,
push off, rise.
And the sky.
Moon Child
Created from the Milky Way shining into Mother Moon,
Reflections from that ancient light emerging from her womb.
A sad guitar, a raging sax, emoting through the sea
Of stories sung through ages all, what was through what will be —
Were you the Lady of that lake, were you the piper’s reed?
Were you the luscious, sacred fruit fulfilling every need?
Yes, you the child dancing in the fullness of the night
To ring the rune and cast the spell to make the darkness bright.
Of goddess born to keep us safe and sing our lullabies
Till we emerge as sparkling stars to light the dreaming skies.
before the eclipse
before the dawn
before we are given our missions,
sent forward in time,
we must be ready,
must rise to the challenge
without map or guidebook to prepare.
we endure the patience to exercise
control over every capillary,
every synapse,
of our being.
it’s not the believing, but
the seeing.
a better world needs a new kind
of ware.
be a ware
for peace, for life,
for consciousness
before the wake.
The seatide ebbing/flowing of the music
more than hypnotized
as I watched people flowing
through an inner newsreel
of pride and misery.
People marching in various uniforms
to a beat of pride and progress in the marketplace
and war zones;
people marching or being trampled or
sniping from the rooftops
all in rhythm.
And a friend said to me
on a starlit evening,
“It’s so hard to know anymore what to do.”
On a cloudless, moonless night redolent of dreams
Towering waves inundate sand, glowing streams
shower pure delight, ignite romance’s gleams
A golden thread sowing together their seams
Sun and Moon embrace
as one
for brief eternity
all mystery reflects recursively within
Black and White
create gradation
radiate kinetic energy
We can achieve,
begin, begin, begin
Gardeners, planting vibrant fields,
planting food,
planting future flowering in
nurturing soil
perceiving wounds
to be sewn,
relieving loneliness,
revealing pain denied,
held in; applying benevolent medicines
to salve twists of ardent toil
If I could turn again
If I could turn
If I could
If I
Flying too high
confused, losing oxygen’s fire
infused with enthusing desire
Touch me
Don’t take me down
You, who never knew me,
grasping in space where
I may have lain.
Laugh to my face
exploding in pain.
O’, that’s no way to survive.
I want you to thrive,
be better than
still life man.
I’ll encase you in goo that
allows you to see
while you writhe
inside intricate mind.
Each molecule of remorse
creeps out of your eyes.
Sweet water
of life, grace effervescing.
(Lessons of Nietzschean blessing.)
Rocky hazards face those who
walk this ridge.
Take it slow; let time wait.
Patience  prevails.
Duration spans to build
bridges, irrigation ditches.
Inch by plodding inch plot
fields of grain, barrels for rain,
roofs, walls, windowpanes,
chimneys for warm hearths below.
Flowing rivers reveal lines for exploration,
mining ores.
Mine and yours,
that element missing from accounting calculations.
Earth and her hordes, a separate salvation?
Wherever did you hear that enmity
would take you anywhere but desolation?
Dear, darling man, so wrapped up in
some plan you think you’ve sussed;
delivering your birthright and your trust
without second opinion;
believing written history makes mystery clear.
How can I discover words you will hear?
Why should I any longer care?
Off am I, breathing higher air.
No need to share with those who
daren’t climb.
Sublimity, subliminally inclined —
nothing more to reach for.
No need to aspire.
If there is a you, and you choose,
touch me.
Don’t take me down.
Scrying on the Moon
~twilight of the goddess, call to song to aery dancing, lady fair your fiery trance rewinds our souls; enjoy these offerings of fancy: all art is yours ~
By sibylline light
images I recognize,
creviced captures of my life.
I know her judgment to be my own.
“Nourished by Moon rivers
mythical cavern blooms
unseen by sunlight
glow green.” 
Thus she sets the scene;
becomes the prophecy.
“Purest white simplicity
curved to suggest fragility
faith fed maiden ready for
given in bondage to womanly woes,
hard rows to hoe
for that human hug through 
crying of night.
Fate of mortal soldiers, sacrificed to lust.
Seeking relief, beg for the boon of drama
high adventure
sneaking into sad hotels
for a fix or a tumble.
deadly play,
danger, a real chance.
Barefoot in the snow
icy roads
winds so strong
I could not make you hear.
I thought you were my destiny.
Crazy thoughts, far from clear;
but I believed
song lyrics from Saturnine deities
would not lie, leave me
dying, fading into winter’s grey
drifting clouds,
endless sorrow endured for naught.
Lost on this careless corner,
dreaming of oblivion, intent on visions
like rain
tapping against eternity’s
vast windowpane.
Scenic serenity.
Nature’s gradations of green
soothe tired eyes,
trembling nerves, throbbing  veins.
Slivers of moonlight reflect
in withered refrains, unearth secrets
embedded in song
effervescing through cool pure air
cleansing the uprising nestling
set aflame
tempered mettle,
pure, wise, tested
engorged with the will
to rise”
Dark Magick
liminal space, where magic reigns,
crossroads, crises, cusps….
In the still of the dark of the moon
after the revelrie has passed on
deep, deep into the frozen fields of dreamless sleep
we, walking, silently, along the riverbed
breathing in ancient ash of woodsmoke
breathing out long-growing tears
to weave ghostly tentacles
along our path
take each others’ hand up to our heart
to pray, to kiss, to whisper
thus casting an eternal spell.

prophets and expanses

Boldly we go where so many have gone before,
each informed by our unique set and setting.
Some perform alchemy, mixing metaphors
upon a marble altar.
Telling sooth, or constantly mapping the stars,
we spin ourselves ancient fantasies,
reclothed to fit the current fashion.
There are werecreatures, energy vampires,
Lions and Tigers and Bears,
insects infected with rare, lethal archetypes,
angry demons mating with our own cells
to destroy us.
There are lethal conspiracies of demon-men,
bent on self-destruction of their/our whole half-species.
There are warships and projectiles of evil
invading our consciousnesses, destroying our dreams.
There are armies of the night, marching,
conscripting our young, our heartland, our hierophants.
We watch, and scribble notes, often indecipherable.
We chant like banshees, chattering primates,
impressed with our own noise.
Sometimes we forget for a bit, slip out of the script.
We awaken to find ourselves singing;
creating heavenly music.
a view between Heaven and Earth,
Above and Below.
Chilled, burned, abducted by prophecy
Whose prophecy is worthy to invest our hearts, hands, minds?
If our world makes a circle — no end or beginning —
may we slip between a then and now?
Sacred Calling
Cloistered for warmth in this area between.
I’ve learned its scenery, like lattice worked into my eyes.
Slowly turning toward wise belief, pausing at this door,
portal to awesome wonderment, pure radiant bliss
dispelling knots of pain and betrayal.
Magnetic psyche searing brand,
archetype of mystic revelations carried through
into the world of Man — I come to the promised land,
potent stream of prophecy.
Commanded, I lay down my burden, weight against my back
of gathered assets I was certain to require.
Freed to meet my mission, to accept desire,
immortal pleasure, the opportunity to sketch,
to draw out beauty, to paint leisurely upon prism glass.
Have I reached the bridge upon the crossroads, the glimmering?
Magick’s sea through which I now may travel, native soul
returned, having earned my keep, my long journeyman’s
wage.  I have looked at age, a deep reflective pond.
A wild road calls, beyond this threshold, sculpted by
oceanic power, rifts and meteors.  I feel self-created destiny
shudder slowly, seismically, move me as I prepare
in a wraithlike pocket
outside of time and space
none to command
none to hinder
how does the spark ignite?
Spontaneous combustion?
Multiplicities of zeroes
encircling void
before chicken or egg or seed.
Was there a silent prophecy?
If the system is closed,
nothing created or destroyed,
where does it all come from?
How far can it expand?
If the system is open,
how far does it go?
If there is no system,
chaos endlessly realigning,
helpless to demand rule of law,
form but temporarily
delimiting substance,
no matter.
In our space and time
we play at definitions.
“In the Beginning . . ..”
Words upon a screen,
over millennia.
Could Christian Fundamentalism be the dread AntiChrist,
and greedy Wall Street his ravenous Beast?
Could the Second Coming be prides of young
claiming back the streets?
Could Prophecies feared and hoped
to bring Sinners to our knees
to lift the Holy into just reward
by Blessed Hero’s mighty sword
defending, avenging the meek —
Could that parade be before us,
just not the scene we believed,
preached to prove the righteous right?
Has the final fight foretold been taking form,
storm clouds positioned for a hard rain to fall,
untidy time of transition as soothsayers call,
alarm bells chime?
Is the end of this trial of dependence nigh?
Can we break the Jesus code, create out of
Apocalypse our own golden age, reign
of Peace?
(may all your world ends hook up to better worlds beginning)
By sibylline light
images I recognize,
creviced captures of my life.
I know her judgment to be my own.
“Nourished by Moon rivers
mythical cavern blooms
unseen by sunlight
glow green.” 
Thus she sets the scene;
becomes the prophecy.
Flourishing prophets,
delectable, potent, wise
in the ways of demons,
oracles, gypsy Queens,
ascend into sacred muse-ways.
Every day a new day,
standing ground against a grinding
down to profit’s dust.
It can’t be a secret
if nobody’s listening.
But, listen:
places in your mind
will answer.
Reject me; reject hard truths,
long trod on diamonds, golden geese brought
to slaughter.
Obscured like icebergs, amphibious myths
kept subdued, symbolic
work songs, prophetic exaltation,
labyrinthine gardens,
we who are only dreams in your philosophy.
There are prophetic dreams.
They haunt or
creep upon conscious walls.
Tell all is not
as simple as it seems.
There are reasons, portents, allies
A dream of water is a prophecy
written into the DNA,
waiting for the day to manifest.
It is a dream about secret dreams,
sacred ceremony,
that which cannot be named.
That which is always present.
Somehow the source is speaking,
perhaps in rhyme and metaphor,
yet speaking still, insistently.
Let it insinuate into all the senses.
Let it speak.
Astrologer’s Key
The future descends
from fear-embroidered skies.
A vision of holocaust — when everybody dies.
A new day is dawning, but is it sun or storm?
We have a chance to make our mark,
but is it right or wrong?
The military marches,
the anti-warriors too.
We take our stand in battle,
the many and the few.
Spinning tales of magic, of wizardry and fate;
we want to know just how it ends before it’s all too late.
We sing our song too late.
We right our wrongs too late.
We want to know the date.
To find a better fate.
Can I tell you?
Can I help you to understand?
Can I utter words of prophecy that will make you see?
Standing here before you, I want to take your hand
to swirl up into a magical dancing,
divine worlds of beauty entrancing,
to give you the will and wonder to set you free.
Can you see me?
12th Sign
with necessities of success
lost, adrift in divination
A confluence of ripples
scoops up objects of prophetic reclamation
(seen smaller in the glass-eye of science),
readies to infuse diffuse forces, aquatic expression.
Elemental reaction.
Metamagick metamorphoses
(any body’s guess).
Smooth glide out from chthonic caves, hiding games
into buoyant seas.
Capricious Gaia applauds
release to navigate (no hesitation) past history’s
sunken shore
— forward explore
— captivated, not captured
Fleet (from soul to feet) saltate enraptured.
Sailing fate’s delightfully blithesome path.
Form flows with function
at last, to ride radiant waves
gracefully, recreated
as chance
I have wandered, lonely, sometimes abused, sometimes caught up for lifetimes in ecstasy, living others’ lives.
I am gifted, cursed, given that sacred choice, taken with brute force from Heaven to Hell, and less apocryphal places along the mystic trail.
I don’t know art’s definition, the barbed metal and sharded glass that mark those lands.
I rise alone, barely able to stand the glory, the mesmerizing starlight, the sheer backdrop implied in prophecy.
It’s not that I claim to be any more than a bashful ghost caught in this macabre machine.
These precious eternities in preternatural presence I am free.
Prophets may well be attuned to a higher knowledge,
yet they are human upon the Earth
with the understandings and world views
molded by the human ecology in which they live. 
Perhaps this is partially why new prophets arise
as our story evolves.
I prophesize by reading wine dregs,
which first necessitates the ritual in which
the wine is drunk by me,
and I am drunk by the wine.

my back pages

My Back Pages – a collection of links to my work online:
a collection of poetry, short stories and thots from my late teens through my early 50s
my geocities page (from last century — links mostly obsolete)
Philosophic and inspirational poetry and poetic prose. Notes from an ongoing journey of transformation, using language to capture visionary imagery. Complex, metaphysical, reflective — pieces embroidered in faery dust, others engraved in lead that alchemically turns to gold. Words from the Sky God, Uranus, progenitor of us all and grand inspirer through the chaos of change.
emerging visions
an online ‘zine displaying various visual and written visionary art connected into a derivative artistic statement. It is free for anyone who wants to view it
Root of Desire
working with a gaggle of characters in conversations, back stories and poems from their perspectives.
Venusian Air
partial compilation
chapbooks, cycles, montage pieces
and myths personal and reimagined
working title: [evening dionysian] – performance of imagination:
Dancers dance
musicians play
Enchanting sylph narrates stories
while seductively moving to sinuous
back beat, tick of chimes.
Occasionally emphasizes subtle percussions
with intense expressions, leaps, cunning
stumbles, falling to crawl into spellbound speech.
Scheherazade myths, archetypal passion
escapades, poignant weeps, salient shouts
to power. Exquisite meditations on mystic
climes, spirit and form. Merry masks,
sparkly costumes, paint and glitter as
embellishment to the tellings.
Theater as intimate ritual.
Anything could manifest.
lunar rambles, random acts of sharing
and works in progress
seasonal writing and other journeys
blogbbook word opera
the night’s pages precurser and random thots
night’s pages
{patchwork narrative} a flash fiction serial following the story of a child vampire, the eternal child monster working out that existence.
Something Sacred online
experimental metafiction scif fi fantasy
Something Sacred – Prologue

In the time of antiquity, back before our written records, we are told that humans and gods freely played together and created a beautiful city in the heart of an exquisite landscape where all were free yet happy to cooperate so all might share a common bounty and all might know the joy of engaging each in their true work, respecting the best in all. It was a peaceful time, a happy time, with energy displayed in healthful work and joyous art. Every day was celebrated and every contribution honored.

But then the gods, who are immortal and powerful, grew away from their human playmates. The games they played became more sophisticated, less easily joined in. They developed concerns with a longer view and devised complicated scenarios, complex barriers which humans could rarely overcome to play in the fields of eternity. We became confused and frightened. Some of us would develop feelings of superiority believing we were the arbiters of rights and wrongs, that we deserved and needed power over others, to make our dictates law and punish those who did not properly honor and obey. Others developed feelings of inferiority and great fear of insecurity. We started to believe that there could not possibly be enough bounty for all, that we must hoard and fight off those who might take what we thought of as ours. Instead of happily joining our efforts to assure common good, to find equitable and practical solutions to problems, to enjoy and honor our individual abilities, we broke off into groups that underscored and denigrated our differences. We expended our energy inventing weapons, teaching and learning war. We praised our warriors, poisoned our lands and our minds with the detritus of hatred, passed on violence, discord, deep pain within our families and against our neighbors. We despoiled the gifts the gods had freely given us, repurposing them as game pieces against each other, even against our own best interests, even against the peace-loving, hopeful and ecstatic parts of ourselves. We dishonored the gods and all they had given us. We dishonored our own beautiful potential.

The gods were horrified and disgusted when they saw what we had done. Being ancient and wise, they did understand that they had a part in the blame. They tried to tell us where we had gone wrong, tried to enter our hearts and minds to lead us back to our true paths. But humans, for the most part, had gotten too caught up in our own dramas, feuds, thirst for vengeance or wealth, power, fame. The newer generations had been raised with these values rather than valuing themselves and their collective talents. They had never developed an interest in working and growing together at a high level of prosperity for all. They had learned, instead, to be bitter and angry and depressed, impatient for wealth that even when attained never provided the peace they unknowingly yearned for.

The gods held council and discussed the tragedy that the humans had made of their lives. Taking the long, immortal, view, they decided upon an experimental course of action. They would plant songs, ideas, legends, methods of discovering sacred knowledge. They would at whim walk among us and whisper or sing, act out, prophesize for any who were strong enough or weak enough or somehow developed the space in their minds to understand. They would plant the seeds of salvation in a variety of environments, then watch to see if any sprouts took hold. In this way they hoped to slowly encourage us to find our way back to our true nature as vibrant beings, to help us relearn, become the glorious people we were meant to be.

That is the story we tell. But, of course, we humans had become entrenched in our unhappy ways. A promise of something better was not sufficient motivation to change. The gods devised crises of various kinds and durations to shake up our misaligned order and give us new configurations to deal with, in the hope that in being forced to learn new ways we would eventually turn to the abandoned way that had given us so much. And, despite their horror, disgust and sadness, the gods found joy in their efforts made into games for their own amusement. Some of these games, their stories, are passed down as legends for celebrations or teaching, or told by our storytellers as spontaneous inspiration.

I am an old woman. I have lived a blessed life, with so many wonderful and terrible memories to keep me company. I have gone on a marvelous journey and won the greatest prize. Well, actually, there were several journeys. There were long, dangerous roads and dramatic adventures. There was love; there was loss. There was dedication to an underlying truth that carried me along even when all hope and reason strayed. I have grown and learned from experience, into a deeper wisdom, a luminous joy that is all I could ever be, till it flows out from me into all I perceive and into the hearts of my people to go on into those who will come.

I was born in the City, the only city on my world. It is a huge and sprawling center of culture, seat of government, depository of knowledge. There are marvelous tall buildings, street and underground transportation systems, concourses of commerce, magnificent museums, libraries, concert halls, theaters. There are public ceremonies of much pomp and circumstance. There are great universities, industrial complexes, sports arenas, and all manner of commercial enterprises. It is an efficiently run city where public servants take pride in their work and everything is kept clean and gleaming. I only have vague memories, but this is what I have been told, and have seen in elders’ memories. The military trains in camps on the outskirts of the City, not too far from the prison camps, from which many of the troops are recruited. Nothing is left to chance; little is wasted. There is freedom for the citizens in their private lives, but only insofar as they obey the public rules.

My name is Caela, and I am of the witchfolk. That is what we were called on our home world, Earth, centuries ago. Where shall I begin? There was that ancient era when a craze for genetic solutions came with advances in genetic research, as the histories tell us. Fashionable parents of that age reveled in their ability to choose special gifts for their offspring through the miracle of gene manipulation. It was thought by someone with the clout for the research dollars that there was a crying need in their society for people with enhanced empathy, minds that could probe the minds of others — maybe as clinicians, maybe as spies, maybe as weapons. We were used for all of those purposes, and not to our benefit. We became vilified, feared and hated by those who did not share our gift. Naturally, we tended to band together, to marry and live within communities of our own, of those who neither feared nor revered us but simply knew us as we were, as people much like themselves. Bonding together in enclaves within which we felt accepted and protected, we left the others to develop their fears and resentments. We had natural advantages in myriad social situations, able to know what others felt, to enhance those feelings or divert them to our purpose. Of course, some of us had used those advantages unscrupulously — although that very empathy in some ways puts a damper on the advantages of manipulation over time. Thus, there was actually much less abuse of our abilities than was expected by the general population.

Over time many of us learned to keep our abilities to ourselves and blend in more with the mainstream. By the time of the big wave of colonization, most of us were quietly assimilated, not particularly noteworthy. Still, many of us hoped for less constrained lives on a brand new world. Those who came to this planet, Eden, so named because of its bountiful natural resources, did so as common recruits like anyone else, looking for the possibility of paradise. Genetic engineering technologies did not ultimately solve Earth’s problems of over-population, pollution, depletion of resources. The solution came from the science of space travel, the brave new adventure of colonization. As star travel and planetary exploration permeated the media and popular imagination, the idea of leaving the troubles of Earth behind to start over on other worlds became a common dream. People from all walks of life became enamored of their own fantasies of what they could become given such a new start. People from all walks of life ultimately made the journeys, took the chance, found themselves vastly far from home, and, perforce, created new homes which they were privileged to build from scratch, in league with the others who had made the journey with them.

prequel – Acts of Desolation
from: Acts of Desolation

When the battlefield torn by mines is all the school or playground in which to grow,
how can the children be taught to know, to understand a lexicon of peace?
Bitter hatred permeates mother’s milk and what there is of grain,
permeates the very rain, gathered in barrels since the wells ran red
with poisoned blood, since the holiest of sites became blackened
with pestilence and shame.
Rumors expand on who is to blame; not much else to go around..

I like to walk the dark empty streets. Late at night, the city becomes its own. The smells, the silence, the stark black and white, shadows and streetlamps, without the people the city can become comforting, peaceful. But never for long.

It was a cold night, early in January. It hadn’t snowed much, but there were icy patches where puddles refroze after the hours of the traffic’s warmth. She was huddled in a threadbare shawl, moving at a pace some compromise between care for the ice and keeping blood from coagulating to avoid frostbite. I don’t like to get involved. In the end you can only lose.

Sure enough, a large, somewhat threatening looking, guy appears, yelling after her.

I keep to myself against the reassuring bricks and steel, and watch the drama ensue.

But maybe I’m not as sheltered as I thought, since the next thing I know I am waking with a monumental headache in a far different place. Bright lights, loud noises, sterilized activity, I am propped up against a wall in an overcrowded ER, a place where my disheveled, disoriented presence is sure to cause no alarm.

Then, I see her on a gurney. She is deathly pale, still. I am starting to wonder if this is all a dream, or some superdrug hallucination, but the sensory qualities are all too real, and distasteful. I hate when that happens. Now I’ll have to deal with all this gross stupidity without the benefit of knowing what it’s all about.

A nurse’s aide comes over with a form for me to fill out about insurance and next of kin. I motion, slur, get him to understand that I am concerned about the young woman on the gurney. He probably thinks she’s my sister or girlfriend, and tells me she’s lost a lot of blood, but they will be transfusing as soon as the right blood type comes up from storage. It may be touch and go, but she’s in good hands. He tells me a physician’s assistant will be calling me shortly to examine my contusions and lacerations, and I should tell her what drugs I am on.

I see the guy from the street come in while we are talking. Should I try to hide or get away? Or is he just here because of her? I was just an inconvenient by-passer, after all. I can’t get my legs to work under me anyway. May as well just let it play out.

Sure enough, he sidles over to her, whispering something in her ear as the life drains out of her. Like I say, I don’t like to get involved.

I waited for my body to figure out how to cooperate, and got out of there. Back home, I’m hammering this out on my antique manual typewriter. There’s no electricity here in the hole. Thankfully, there is a working fireplace, and places to scavenge wood.

The city’s got a million stories. I like to squirrel them away in these recordings I keep typing and filing. You can see them unfolding, refolding, just out there, everyday. The hard part is not getting sucked in, becoming the story yourself.

leap day

Sway and leap, dance expressly.
Rhythm’s sweeps lets us less see
arms weaponized, more flesh and bone.
riding out on desolate plains
skies of colors, dark, forbidding
sending rays of electric
necessity, intensity, urgency
leaping my heart, my loins, my essence
grabbing onto the giver of lessons
My theories come in synchronicities and
instinctual leaps.
My truth comes in different shapes and sizes.
It is not free, but fluctuates
in value and price.
Sagacious butterflies may morph
into pre-archaic beasts
of mechanical flight,
then fission into visions
throughout multi-dimensioned space,
or coalesce into a perfect face.
Kind touch, open
reveling in shared humanity
etches a loving pattern
for integration,
incentive to dare creative leap.
Each bounding leap more distant.
Inviting opulence, opening vistas
I may take this leap,
wake from my sleep,
break from faith’s gilded glass cage.
The excuse of my age
no longer staunch enough
to make me behave
as a self-shackled slave.

holograms of beauty

Mourning memories of deep emotion steeped in beauty
no other mind will see
I look for answers in epic verse, archetypes, fairy tales.
I don’t know if what I find bears validity, but they can be lovely,
lyrical adventures that lead into deep, complex emotion,
ecstatic movement and poetry, a need to share.
I am consecrated to beauty, in all its terrible majesty.
Exquisite agony is everywhere to be discovered, held dearly, set free.
I whirl, leap closer to the fire.
Freed to meet my mission, to accept desire,
immortal pleasure, the opportunity to sketch,
to draw out beauty, to paint leisurely upon prism glass.
Have I reached the bridge upon the crossroads, the glimmering?
Magick’s sea through which I now may travel, native soul
returned, having earned my keep, my long journeyman’s
wage.  I have looked at age, a deep reflective pond.
A wild road calls, beyond this threshold, sculpted by
oceanic power, rifts and meteors.  I feel self-created destiny
shudder slowly, seismically, move me as I prepare
Beatific privacy, spacious fantasy,
Beauty’s secret sky.
Instant transport on beams of faery dust – pastel trails
fade languid to grand expanse.
Welcoming wilds, whisper of stories,
shelter of mothermoth wing.
Echoing, reflective pond plays soft consort with
lingering light.
Sadness is beauty brought down by ugliness,
truth succumbing to convenient lies.
Joy is opening all the senses into the
spectrum of beauty.
No moderation,
no limitation,
no convenient structural captivity.
Let the stars be shining beacons
calling us home.
Let the wind be a magical cloak,
the rain an exultation.
Let the cold, dark night be
a treasured, inspiring friend.
To see, to feel, to merge and undulate
through; to discover, uncover, swim
in the glory of original grace,
ecstatic beauty.
To see, to feel, to breathe in
all exquisite luxury of  prescience; to hold,
transmit as cellular energy.
To paint upon translucent canvas
subliminal etchings, private symbols
generously revealed.
Sagacity gifted, re-gifted,
planted in potent fertility
of visions, of cantations.
The tinsel of starlight;
the subtle scent of conflagrated pain;
the feather touch of eternity.
I fall into velvet voice, enchanting form.
Move with the rhythm
song singing hallelujahs.
Haunted by pretty memories,
stars, sunrays, miracles ablaze.
Loved and protected by gods,
smitten with ecstasy.
Fortune favors elegance,
grace of presence,
true nobility beyond codes of legend.
fairytales brought back from sleep.
Sprinting across that abyss,
beauty simple, profound.
Stories safely told safely
hold dream-hidden refugees below surface travails.
Lost in flailing, in crafts lacking integrity, cracking,
leaking, failing to protect.
Sirens devise ritual beauty, fierce death/wild rebirth.
Pulling energy, drunk from fruits of Earth, swirl
into ecstasy; face becoming.
inspiring, drawing upward those myths
seekers of meaning in desperation complete.
Beauty lives in curves
and correlations,
simple intricacies
fitting frame to frame,
the potency of exactly
demons and destinies.
Endlessly recursive beauty
Deep azure reflection
whirling stars
confections dark and
gloriously dangerous.
daily meditations
reach heights of ecstasy;
practice becomes mastery.
Beauty must disturb,
send waves displaying
meaning into neural crevices
thus saying:
Stay deeply in
this brief eternity …
The weight of the world.
The sadness of oceans.
The endless pain of life a’borning.
I am shaken; I am touched in that eternity.
If beauty demands sacrifice,
sacrifice demands such beauty.
As fascination leaves me
brilliant haze
oh! look! at the wonderfulness
dancing, prancing,
no consciousness
but of beauty and fun
no pressure, no expectation
light as air
practical as rain.
I am my own ambition to be realized.
Not a yoked beast,
but a child,
wild and free,
turning conundrum in
to be of service
to the muse
of my own creation.
Twirl into bright world of magic and melody and dance.
Send out twinkling moonbeams as smiles of delight.
Gift us all with love’s vision of bountiful peace.
Pour out joy that every beauty filled impulse increase.
Find a song that fills your heart
Feel a beat that sets you free
Embrace the wonder you are meant to be.
Rapid dance from idea to idea, moving so swiftly, so
deftly, to leave a whirl of orderly beauty.
Appreciation, cooperation imbued as art.
True beauty trumps
exhilaration of destruction.
The spaces that combine
dark and light
end and beginning
edge and sky
where flight and float may merge.
To see, to feel, to merge and undulate
through; to discover, uncover, burst renewed
in the glory of original grace,
ecstatic beauty.
Like a meditative prayer to beauty’s sacred well.
Drinking deeply with subtlety of sensation,
expanding metaphoric cells with
water of life and contemplation,
reaching for more.
Enchanted inward, beauty sculpted
pure, decanted music,
deep draughts of ecstasy.
Commingle, frolic with merry sprites,
conjured fumes,
intense, piquant elixir.
When beauty’s smile could greet our eyes,
define new mornings as we rise, why would we
otherwise choose?
Art lives, breathes, touches so surely
in the air, eye, mind of we who come to call.
With art
invisible renderings
take on a scheme
breathless with beauty.
Fleeting beauty
yet eternally expanding
integrating with starlight
recombining in those nuclear storms
I see you here, the artist
weaving sackcloth of diamonds
reflecting and protecting
that beauty never end.
There is the often grand and breathtaking,
often soft and ethereal,
beauty of the natural world.
There is such beauty as well
in the art and architecture of man.
Each has its story, its music, its water colour.
Each has the power to move the rhythm
of my heart and bring tears streaming down my face.
Each has the power to make me feel
hopelessly inadequate,
or to inspire me to reach to the stars.

Friday the 13th Harvest Moon

Harvest Moon (revised excerpt from Manifesting Destiny: Pages from Persephone’s Notebook)
Moon in Pisces
Harvest Moon, too overcast to see your resplendent glory. Pisces Moon moving through Neptune in her dance with the waning Summer Sun.  We’ve been dancing to, if not exactly under you. The weather should be clearer tomorrow night for the full Full Moon effect. Or will another hurricane come up the coast to drown you? Unsettled weather. Unsettling times.
I mind-see a fantasy, and wonder about the Christ and AntiChrist quoting scriptures, using prophecy to further causes of today. If Christians wonder why I mock them, or more likely take offense (turn that other cheek, guys), how would they feel about castigations of being Satan Worshippers, evil heathens, unbelievers in the One True Church (splintered as it may be). They leave no room for me. I, on the other (left?) hand honor them by taking their creed seriously. There’s room enough in believing for all of us. Why don’t they want to see that? They’ve only been around for a couple thousand years. In the beginning was way before any of us can remember. At the end we all die, onward to whatever afterlife does or does not await us. The Bokononists, in Vonnegut’s “Cat’s Cradle” believed the world ended when they died. Their world did. Of course, their world was a fictional one created by a human author. So like a god, the artist, creator of worlds.
Don’t worship me! I don’t want the responsibility. Why would a god? Why would a President? What kind of power does it really give them? Well, if we the people and our other representatives aren’t looking, paying attention, expressing our minding, who knows? Maybe it’s not some mythical AntiChrist and Beast as prophecy warned would bring about The End Times. Maybe the threat is much more mundane and RealPolitik. Myth or portent, humanity does need to PAY ATTENTION!  We need to understand and believe in our true reality, the world where we live.
So, dear Goddess, tonight belongs to you, under the Harvest Moon. My intention for supplication to your wisdom will be brought with holy honor. What is the nature of my harvest and my sacrifice? The Vestal Virgins were not physically intact, but free of the domination of any man. Perhaps I am in that sense a virgin as well. Though the bonds of love — but are bonds of love a domination if it is a love between free equals with no expectations, no demands? What am I willing to sacrifice? It’s not like I’ve got much. Maybe I can sacrifice my ignorance, my unfounded fears, my ill-advised temptations, self-imposed limitations. I sacrifice my weakness in the service of my strength. Sounds lovely. The thing with magick — be oh so careful when wishing that you are ready for the consequent reality after tweaking to magick’s demand. Be careful what you will for; it may become your destiny.  I am opening myself to destiny, not out of bravery, but necessity. What else have I got? It’s far too late in the game to switch over to a “normal” lifestyle. I have the candles, the incense, the herbs, the wine, the spell. Blessed be, all wise and witchy, and willing to manifest the joy of peaceful plentitude upon our world.
It is time to reap ecstatic harvest
of moonbeams dancing to dawn
Come, discover arcane treasure,
magic of my forest’s harvest!
Breathe radiant air of revealed bliss.
Respond to call of tribal chants
no longer silent,
embraced in resonance.
Layered legend long ripens, tangled,
mired below in brooding traipse through
dust and gloom.
Crafty synaptic flow,
dreamcatching from all hallowed and harrowed,
tasting subtle essence in the bitter grain
of sanctified harvest sacrifice.
Swept into light as destiny,
revealed by labor of cultivation, excavated,
bestowed honoured place
in ritual chorus.
‘round communal table, exultant vibration.
Energies blend, fuse.
Recombinant winds call timeless tunes.
Rhythmic movements re- and un- engage,
ever changing,
never wholly new.
Loosening from light, long hazy days ebb golden,
move through Sun grown fields and buzzing industry of
bringing in harvest as written in ritual lore.
Cold is still a legend, a remembered song
soon enough we’ll be singing,
huddled into aural lamps for mutual warmth.
Tonight, as twilight melts into familiar
constellations, migrating like flying life,
sweet fruit of harvest still feeds celebration.
Wizardry of synaptic awareness,
unlikelihood of consciousness,
Dreams, Visions, Reveries,
ineffable insights
too dear to deny.
See, smell, taste
chemical reactions;
hear reverberating air.
Feel through ceremony, festivals,
deities, seeped in ritual,
the glue
of worldview.
There is no limit
but that will assigns.
Strict chants, mannered dance,
keep reality in line.
Real lives yearn, feel need
for some promised warmth of care,
shared extremities that nurture hope
of shared deliverance, hands and minds
together strong;
surge of survival over uncertain destiny,
return to industry, if we might find that energy.
Realign expectant gaze toward peace, plenty
— planetary necessity.
Eventually to remember as poignant history,
ritual song, reverie
as respite to somber tidal drum
In these moments
stuck in migrating vibrations,
attached to this Earth,
mired (but not beyond mirth,
cosmic inspiration),
throes and woes,
undefined transformation,
laborious birth;
I am dignified, made whole,
giving service to vision.
Soar o’er awakened sky, past to now.
Taste surprised by puissant essence of
perennial harvest sacrifice.
Private seas pull grand tiding,
sweet, bitter sweet, salty sweet as candied seaweed.
Sunny, Moony, Star-eyed oracle snidely whispers
dense cues, cuneiform runes.
Angels and
Demons wage sacrosanct war.
Dice from a grail foresage trial or comfort.
Hungry Ghosts wail.
Vampires and Creatures
of the night seek shelter before
travails of daytime break them.
Skies descend, dark mirroring.
Smell the woodsmoke, intoxicating, soft and sweet,
masks the taste of bitter bile, secret vomiting,
starving despite harvest’s gay array of treats.
Faded, nearly blind, falling in and out of
shamanic fever, primeval native callings beyond sight,
ripple of tribal beat at the periphery,
ecstatic vision dark/light/agony and brilliant breaks,
star-bright constellations.
Private harvest. 
Cultivation rituals hung taut.
Shamanic divination
spun into fine golden fabric.
Gifts of remembrance.
Harvest nights given to ceremony, empathic
frenzied dance, spontaneous gaiety
— a tribal stew of sustenance,
warm spirit embodied.
Call in the harvest
My Lady awaits (impatient
is She, as all Immortals)
She sends cauldrons for filling
on chariots drawn by rays of the Moon
Faery Queen or fabled harlot
stirs potent night blooms, expelling myths of
what we cannot bear, cannot overcome.
Feel in the electric falling starlight,
spells of renewal, of power to look back
upon our falterings, to find the seed now grown
yet changing still and ever, able,
willing, co-creating in the illuminated shadow,
invoking the peace of dissolving twilight,
of midnight’s hopeful resurrection,
of the hinting sky that lightens before the dawn.
Take peace into each breath, each incantation,
from the strength to align impeccably
with your deepest truth.
Staring at Lady Moon,
breathing in sweet night blooming herbs from the garden.
She fancied hearing faint music in the rustling wind.
Slowly, not knowing that her body moved,
she danced, the wind carrying her like a lover’s arms
caught up in dancing slow and closer than a kiss.
She had so long felt helpless, unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow,
undulating power move through muscles and mind.
“Goddess?” Her voice quavered at the audacity; but she felt surer of her course.
“Goddess, I am your child.”
Nothing had ever felt more true.
Willing to be merry, to partake of
ritual, merging through
overarching trance elation.
Constellations, moving, shifting,
making waves in our collective
consciousness, appear to reveal
sparkling impulses of true vision.
Pleasure can win
salient treasure beyond
imagining’s failure.
Caught up in
rising song, brave steps, the play,
foresight gifts of gravid day,
celestial night.
Able to skip through vicissitudes as charmed emanation:
all is working inexorably toward fruition, true harvest’s peace.
Who chants behind that flowing curtain, charming?
What acts denote sacred allegiance, guide to mystics’ source?
Tribal myths, quests as lessons, collected anecdotes
signify ambient science for that era’s delegation. 
Zen koans, Aesop’s fables, lullabies,
invitations to meditate, to quiet, ineffable experience.
This yearn toward meaning harbors no enmity
to progressive projects magnifying kindness.
Golden night.
High fields of food and seed
aglow for harvest.
Harvesting Moonlight
Today the dark approaches, loosens veils of entropy.
Pixel colors whisper, hum of trails diminishing.
Lumbering, tales sweaty from slumber sweep
crumbling crusts, twigs and dust,
unencumber twinkling.
Luscious Moon, brilliant, rises
like a sacred flower unbinds, radiant,
smiling indulgence.
Celestial song, deep-breath effulgence,
wise spirit.  All we who hear it open our wings.
This night we fly over poignant fields of work requited,
imbibe euphoric mystery of peace.  Sweet day’s release,
rewards of harvest, ritual feast of play.
Uproarious dance with moonlight; voice, arms, lift
in embrace so strong, complete.
Mornings come later now,
permeated with scent of harvest,
green and red and the bright orange
of the Harvest Moon.
Morning air, heavy with moisture
seeps through my pores
into my bones.
I see roiling ships caught in rough sea,
their fortune a deity’s toss of dice,
or whim.
Ships laden with treasure,
sailors desperately loved.
Synchronistic vision,
on a placid pond three ships sail
a fine sunny regatta.
No longer await on the sickle,
deep fade of harvest
beckons to prescient chores.
Ritual gives form to meaning
(every merry crone doth know).
Every act from which we’re gleaning,
Every sack that we must sow
Gives rise to tides that make us wise;
Gives humor chance for binding wounds.
Does good these ancient weary eyes
To dance abandoned round the moon.


There is something very pure about a Virgo, no matter what muck s/he may fall into. You can be hypercritical, not out of meanness, but a desire to bring out the best. You are hard workers, because you don’t think of it as hard work, but as what needs to be done to make the real as close as possible to the ideal. You are practical, yet magical. You have a vision and no doubt that that vision can be realized. Virgo is the sign of the Vestal Virgin, consecrated to the gods, and bringing that spiritual consciousness into the everyday. Virgo is the sign of the farmer, working in the fields to bring forth the harvest to feed the community. Virgo takes care of the devil in the details, counts the angels dancing on the pin, and serves both commoner and king all in a day’s work.
Snow-white light on field’s relief
reflects upon divine belief.
Virgo native, life bequeaths you,
standing proud among your sheaths,
cunning service, gifts of grace.
In all fields is your place.
Virtue’s reason, mind and soul,
You plant the seed. You help it grow.
You till the soil and prune and weed.
You are the soil. You are the seed.
Work of lungs, the gut, the spleen,
all we’ve known, done and seen,
reason’s truth that marches on,
with much to do before we’re gone.

sign of the Sun

Loyal Leo will lick your wounds,
refresh with nature’s joy:
All our world awhirl in pain;
love and luck we’ll soon regain
Heart strings
playing in the sunshine.
out standing star sublime.
Ability to elevate each day.
A lilting aria of blessing.
Radiate your precious energy
to burn pure and true.
Brilliant spirit blazing through,
benefic empress of golden hue,
that’s how my heart sees you.
Mid-Leo Evening
Sitting here, in the cluttered fan-cooled kitchen
while a storm-brewing wind rustles
through the garden below.
The supermarket wine tastes tart and sticky.
The wine tells me stories, you know.
It’s the redness and the way the light reflects
against the glass, along with the drug.
Hearing voices in the silent darkness,
I listen without question.
As the night slowly falls,
I envision fantasies of former lives:
Glistening ball gowns and a smiling orange moon
in a starlit sky appear in my mind’s eye
along with
jugglers and dancers.
A fortune-telling maiden in glorious rags
places cards upon a table:
“The red one is Death; the white one is Honour;
the green one is Fortune; the blue one is Love.”
She lives in a log cabin with a unicorn and goat
who feed and clothe her and keep her safe.
There are many things I need to know
and few to tell me.
So I listen to the wine’s stories.
I wish it were my garden, below.
I would go out barefoot and gather ripe vegetables
under the moon,
breathing deeply of the cool night air.
Walk to the Sun
When I was a child, it was an old shaman
in our village who told the story.
“We used to walk to the Sun.
We would bring back gifts for the earth.
Everyone was happy.
Today, no one walks to the Sun. No one tends the earth.
No one is happy.”
Lately, I understand that
it was not the actual Sun in the sky
of which s/he spoke. It was that shining
place in our heart that lets us know how to do what is right.
I’m taking a walk to the Sun; want to come along?
*   *   *   *   *   *   *
Then she smiled a million miles
Sunshine bright for days.
brilliant sunshine warming
melting melodies

Early pinks ascend from eerie violets.

Sun’s lifting eye twinkles like a happy kitten,
tummy exposed for adoration.
Valiant mauve trumpeter of Sun,
rising songs from sleepy forest balconies, 
Souls dance in the sunlight
to song of far away stars.
Floating in the sunlight
ready to break free
to be
exactly who we are
protecting primeval fire and
seed of the Sun
bearing a glorious array of
multi-hued fruits
upon which we feast
for energy
sharing secret bliss
taste of Sun-kissed cloud and honey
I hold your recalled visage dear,
smiling like a sunshine ray.
Sometimes the world is very clear.
Cyclic time
Sun betrothed to Earth
Millennia revolve, fade, reassert
She stokes the fire to remember warmth when the Sun was high and strong, and present. 
Fire has its own secrets, its own order.  As do we all,
each our own furnace, nurturing a flame that is destiny. 
The well of sorrow metamorphoses into a peaceful pond
in which graceful gliding silvery creatures glint in the sunlight.
song singing hallelujahs,
place of play, haunted
by pretty memories
tinged gold in sunshine
walking long mornings into sunrise
Morning sunshine
burns off fog.
Glistening sky and the luxury
of self-companionship.
Ready, take aim, begin.
Hear adventure recall tribes to revelry,
chase lead of Sun’s bright, warm exchange.
Ignite past’s battles, burn discord as energy.
Surge ahead. Explore new forays toward
merry meeting.
The hope for bounteous Sun that bathes all
cares with caring.  Lengthening from center
outward, new growth bespeaks awareness.
learning to love
      together in the
Embracing in fields of daffodils.
Happy to be
      imperfect beings
Reach out to join our hands,
sharing warmth of your reflected love,
Mother Sun.
Daughter in Summer’s sun
smiling warmly, playing at innocence
with charms long practiced.
She grows fine long tendrils
sparkling in the sunshine
and dainty pearly flowers
for bees to hum over
and the long daylight and beaming stars
share the fun of a summer day.
Drifting out on a sunshine day.
Leaping hearts/meandering artists
keep faith to a wayward tune.
Sunbeams sing along brilliant waterfalls.
Sparkling rivers feed turbulent melody.
Those who have found the key
play here.
My firefly heart beats into a thousand rays
striking out into the stratosphere playing
with the sunlight, prism bright rainbows
beating, flickering, cold and hot and
How can I make you see?
Blind old seer, wizard, holy prophet
stumbling over rocky hillocks
toward the sun
Sunrays are playing
Warming the walkways
Flashing out rainbows
in random puddles and streams.
A blazing blue and yellow sun-rayed sky overhead,
and sparkling sea shells beneath your feet.
And the sea breeze and lapping waves make the only
sounds (noisy traffic, heated pavement, not
even a memory).
wild in the sun, in the shadow, against the highway
moving I to I in the twilight,
anticipate memories to come
Brilliant skies awaken.
Assert dominance, define upcoming
plans.  Feel their confidence as
seedlings burst to touch sunlight.
Ah to be a Summer gift.
Borne on Sun’s warm rays, a’smile,
a welcome lift for all our hearts’ desire.
Festivities, sparkling lights and
bless time of joyful celebration,
rise in salutation to this Summer star
Children ought to bloom
smiling daisies
laughing pansies
great grasping reaching to
the Sun, the stars.
Reinstate the quiet sunrise
smell of pine and wild roses,
of limitless sky entertaining majestic formations of earth,
unbridled passion encompassing silent reflection,
all orchestrated in bold tones, exquisite complexity
and simple truth.
In this small space starlight smiles, sun rays slowly kiss
strength and warmth.
Summer melt of sun and mud;
heat mellows, liquifies icy
tensions.  Beat down, swallowed in
sweat, too hot for questions
to make sense.
take a leisurely walk along an
old stone bridge charmingly decorated with ivy and flowering vines
above a swiftly bubbling river onto which the Sun is shining golden notes of magical music
sit and watch, letting the river bring laughter to your smile
if someone should happen by and join the fun, enjoy
if someone should happen by and call you names that are not truly your own, laugh them out of your hearing
if someone should happen by singing your true song, sing along
Welcome arising in our hearts,
anointing our many-colored soul.
Take in the day.
Rejoice in the sunshine.
I walk softly in the morning.
Drink awakening dew, sunbeam blessed.
I take what has always been mine,
cherish magnificence*
Stars, sunrays, miracles ablaze.
Loved and protected by gods, smitten with ecstasy.
Fortune favors elegance, grace of presence,
true nobility beyond codes of legend.
receptive to pleasure;
balming luscious nectars,
warm melt of sunshine,
elation, charismatic exultation —
ebbing outward
gentle ripples
bathed in sunshine ease
All woozy from sunshine.
Tingle of sea breeze, that ocean scent of the wild.
As the sun recedes, cooling, refreshing, yet still a lazy summer eve.
If the sky could, it would dream of stars nova bright raining through galactic clouds.
Move inward
as Sunlight descends.
Tomorrow, the Sun will rise.
The Earth will revolve.
Life will adjust, compromise.
flow with the forces
of nature,
in touch with combust eternity,
child of the Sun
sun rise
blossoms to a
rhythmic peak
sending out, sending out, sending out
radiant vibration

moon days




Ritual gives form to meaning
(every wiseman’s son doth know).
Every act from which we’re gleaning,
Every sack that we must sow
Gives rise to tides that make us wise;
Gives humor chance for binding wounds.
Does good these ancient weary eyes
To dance abandoned round the moon.




Full Moon Harvest



I could
if I willed it
go inward
beyond the cognition’s sphere.
Infinite bliss
the whole of the real
I know, I feel.
Eternity pulls me,
grasps my ambient air
into awareness.
All ways my destiny.
Incandescent transcendence,
resplendent artist’s delight.


in these moments
stuck in migrating vibrations
attached to this Earth,
mired (but not beyond mirth,
cosmic inspiration)
throes and woes,
undefined transformation,
laborious birth
I am dignified, made whole.
Giving service to vision
corroded, corrupted,
yet shining below that surface
I see
and uncover the light.




Full Moon reflection



walk city streets, ride subways as commoners –
subterranean consciousness,
ethereal siamese twin
to the everyday.
Shadow and substance
entwine as before
the invasion.
I long to tell you,
yearn so I loudly whisper,
but only if you really listen.
I cannot say these things twice.
Memories seep through,
acquire form.
Stand straight and true
as soldiers or Marines
giving full allegiance
to any who will take that load.
There are Gods foaming in excrement
begging relief in the form
of sacrament
potent and deadly.
Angels and
Demons wage sacrosanct war,
dice from a grail
foresaging trial or comfort.
Hungry Ghosts wail.
Vampires and Creatures
of the night
seek shelter before
travails of daytime
break them.
Morning Star
winks salaciously.
In wild’s kingdom
all manner of creatures
Eagles soar.
Lions roar.
Whales sing.
Humans open a
veiled third eye.
The World rejoices.



With a word, the stranger gives a hand
An image stronger than the sound
Water falls upon the land
A smile peeks out from a frown
An eclipse returns dark to noon
As men’s minds walk upon the Moon




Eclipse Scrying



Where’s the fun
in hiding in the eye
of the hurricane?
I want to be bodysurfing
the storm,
madly dancing in the rain,
cast off from restrictive form …
I want to taste sweet grapes
break crisply;
Embark on a journey of ecstasy
to be all I have
thought to be;
Yet safely reside
in a place deep inside
away from the prying norm.
I want romance in the sense of
sensation inviting and free.
I want a chance to believe in magic.
And I want what I want to be
crazily in love with me.



E)clipse Dream



Jump! Jittery. Nauseous claustrophobia . . .
l e t t i n g g o s l o o o w
Whoosh in a leap faster than my breath can catch me
moving dizzily, half-blinded, out of focus
moving along a tree-shadowed path.
Enchanted forest?
smoke curling upward
gingerbread cottage in the woods
may I rest here, recoup my losses?
Savory soup simmers over the hearth fire.
Shadows fall over the corners
yet the center of the room
is surprisingly clean and polished.
I sit in mantra embraced
by soft silky wings.
Outside winter is falling.
When I awaken from my trance
planting season will begin.

The wild rains of spring
have caught me napping.
They catch me up in torrents
swinging me along
a cradle in the sea.
I am dreaming mazes
wondrous pageantry
woven into ivy walls.
The sea surrounds me.
I acquiesce to secret ceremony
believing the earth to be my home.

July the Fourth be with you

,The Lay of the Land
From your smoke-coughing cities
to your desolate plains
The children of Midas have taken the reins
And left you besoiled in blood-splattered stains
With none fit to wash you to purity.
The air-waved cacophony pleads for a song
That will once more unite you ennobled and strong
To take back the glory to which you belong
To wrench freedom from dreams of security.
The old man, he wanders through opiate clouds
The young take their distance
to move through the crowds
And every one fitted for life-draining shrouds
Reflect only on death’s dance of conformity.
While poisoning rays permeate land and air
The high class step out like they haven’t a care
They’re bound to discover their world-rending tear
But can they comprehend the enormity?
Ridiculous sages exhort peace and love
Say we each have our choice of reality
So we fight over contexts and deny what we can;
But reality marches on.
Journeyman upon the road
Listening to the jungle drums
learns to bring it all together
as nightly his guitar he strums.
From the Woodstock Nation on to ’84
With his banner of music he learns to keep score
And the score, as it’s written, keeps costing him more
But it’s also what’s keeping him dancing.
With a beat in his heart and a song for his soul,
it keeps him journeying on.
Winter creeps whitely over streetlamp and spire.
Muted to whispers the Grand Freedom Choir.
A clattering chatter overtakes the high wire
Pure white like the night of beginnings.
The children have nestled all snug in their schools
In joyous rote marching, they take in the rules
Determined to never be taken for fools
Or give back an inch of their winnings.
Silent, the singers are searching for voice
They know in their souls it’s a matter of choice
They need to find reason, a cause, to rejoice,
A newly turned path to felicity.
A new day is dawning, but where is the sun?
Our freedom and faith are defined by the gun.
The symbol of power overrules everyone
‘Til we create our own electricity.
But under cover of darkness a banner’s being stitched
Of patchwork-bright colors and radiance
To someday soon be unfurled in the breeze
As we march to freedom’s song.
Recreation at the End of the World
The end of the world as we have told ourselves it is.
Widening eyes align with changed designs, underpinnings,
first causes, metaphors, stories of us.
Disruption, distorted transition, fear and distrust
wildly gallop to trample the field, cry out the call
“Just let me rest.  Just let us lie here, ashamed, afraid
to allow such blinding disarray.  So much safer
to fall, over the end of the world.”
Could we edit together songs, pleas,
harmonize with birds, bees, thunder, settling sighs,
meme shattering symphony, dilated eyes happy to see
randomized patterns coalesce, myths reassessed,
zest of surprise?
Would we recreate deity as an image more easily
caressing, Empathy for the 21st century?
July 4, 2012
The right amount of government —
just enough to protect freedom
without destroying it.
Just government
protects everyone’s freedom
without destroying anyone’s.
But who decides what that line is,
each with our own dispositions?
It may be up to the fate of
social evolution.
Not a satisfactory solution
for we who cannot wait.
Our lives are forfeit now
to silly fields of behavior
deemed acceptable
to the respectable
who rule the day.
While life is so disrespected,
devalued, expect those
learning their behaviors from
the crowd
to coldly laugh and kill.
If that is the will of the people …
Such death is what we freely choose.
Those who would desist
are not allowed to exist.
Instead organized Reality tv fights
define our rights.
Thirteen Wizards Shall Guide You, rotating in 7s,
to be chosen from a wizard test administered at regular intervals
to any who wish to apply.
Each wizard shall serve at his/her pleasure — until they decide to move on.
Any wizard may return by retesting and getting the highest score amongst
those currently in line at the time of a vacancy, like any other candidate.
The test to be devised by a wise pre-council to ascertain qualities of
wisdom, compassion, responsibility, integrity and clarity of communication.
The test may be reviewed and revised at any time that the full council agrees
to do so, based on evidence of better result to be gained.
The wizards do not make the laws.
Laws are made by direct democracy, after a sufficient period of debate when
an overwhelming majority of consensus seems likely.
Wizards do have veto power.
Wizards do not control the economy. That is the province of the market.
The wizards do oversee the use and conservation of common resources.
They do oversee a social infrastructure that assures everyone a comfortable, secure
livelihood. They do oversee disputes to assure that everyone is treated fairly
in the course of commerce, and in the course of community life.
They are not paid an outright salary.
They are given comfortable living conditions that their minds may be free
of personal want.
Freedom isn’t free.
Neither need it be paid for by war.
Freedom demands integrity,
acting from the core.
Freedom is
not a chore.
It’s how we’re meant to be.
July 4, 2010
And He became The One
as we all swarmed together
in His direction
anointing our Saviour.
We, so impatient to be saved
from evil history
from slavery, hunger, hate
to make a better fate
for our kids
(and, don’t kid yourself, ourselves).
Caught up, trapped, in the trappings
of fashion, co-opted hypnotic
Drugs to cure us of our many flaws;
because if you’re not flawless you
haven’t got a chance.
In marketplace fierce competition,
a youthful escapade can ruin you
for a respectable life,
that adheres peers’ and elders’ expectations.
And then where are you?
May as well be burning in eternal
damnation — at last.
At least Satan wants you
for your sins.
In a mythical colony,
far from their petulant King,
it is said a people
fought and died, and stood their ground
for freedom.
It is said such pageant plays
are widely performed today.
“Freedom is not Free; but based
on blood sacrifice.”  They say.
Freedom dependent on militia,
on strictly disciplined troops
firing into pregnant crowds.
Ancient wizards foretold
potent prophecy.
We will not listen.
We insist on martyrdom,
worshipping, as we do,
cults of murder.
Thus human life leads inexorably
to eternal death,
just as we demand,
when we all come together
anointing yet another One.
Freedom FOR Security
Either, by nature, you’re plagued with paranoia
Or you’ve bought pervasive propaganda.
I do understand:
It was so cheap, and in your color.
It wasn’t labeled “Propaganda.”
Sold as “News,” common knowledge,
accommodation to the norm.
And it fits your internal dialog so well
“Danger is everywhere these days of disorder,
scary change.”
Just like all the days
when Freedom seems such a flimsy wage,
a cheap exchange
for sham Security.
We Didn’t Know
Efficient development requires deprivement.
No profit, no playground to feel alive in.
Those few groomed for career cheer, mocking:
“Can’t you hear; that’s freedom knocking.”
“Work for rent, or stay in school, dude.”
You get no cake for being a loser.
Orwell warned “Big Brother is watching.”
We didn’t know he meant on you-tube.
We didn’t know our life was a crime
Sentenced from birth to pay all our time
Cast from the truck to the roadside to rot
Drawn outside of luck, all about what you’re not.
Media screams their revealed truth feud.
Sell saturated garbage labeled food.
Orwell warned; we were warned:
“The best of you will be co-opted.”
We didn’t know they meant on you-tube.
80’s legacy (happy Independence)
Don’t blame the GWB administration, it was Reagan and his merry crew.
Though we protested in the post-Vietnam ‘70s
hot and sure about every error
the point is, we had that luxury.  Yes, there was poverty,
groups and individuals in need; but going hungry was not the penalty
for lack of a paycheck.  There was real community
spirit, especially on the lower rungs, but philanthropy as well.
There was a strong foundation that made sense
and listened to well-wrought reason.
The ‘80s brought in a different paradigm,
more wide and wild.  Days of cocaine,
champagne, glamour and celebration for sweet deregulation,
when every schemer
could believe a neo-capitalist vision of wealth unbound.
Before it was found that
poisonous as plutonium, in the gleeful hands of the truly greedy,
just what we
were free to become.
Since then it’s been spinning our balance off to bits of
blast-warped brains.
Such harassing hatred and spitting disdain.  Psychic
Cassandras said at the time, his numbers are 666.
A man possessed by
Hollywood fantasies of what we all should portray,
folie a deux with a nation.
And here are those snowy yesteryears roosting
in our rafters, laying out
the macabre future of their disaffected youth.
Who is it, really, that we as a people choose to be?
Distanced from our history,
adumbrated by convenient lies, what are our chances
for recovery?
July 4, 2010
When the national project was stolen before our horrified stares
When it became our duty to kill and destroy for the convenience of profit
When humane policy became anathema, unworthy economic drag
When the will of the gambling elite gamed the rule of law to their pocket
Did you scream so loud that bitter blood poured from your lungs?
Did you set up mourning camps to gather forces,
to train grief and rage into worthy opponents against true freedom’s foes?
Did you gaze into the cold eyes of propagandists and say “No!”?
Or did you march along in the parade, assured:  “First they get theirs; then we get ours.”?
social net
to paraphrase that great poet, Donald Rumsfeld:  We work with the Congress we have, not the Congress we wish we had
Yes, of course we ought be fiscally responsible.
Yet of far more import is that we be rational.
Hyperbolic apoplectic, Apocalyptic rhetoric
reduces us from politic to stagey raving maniacs.
No need for such hysteria; learn from recent history.
The flagrant ways of LBJ, Reagan and GWB
found mitigation in administrations following.
The People, energized, expand instead of wallowing.
Exciting industries take hold, real worth — not hollow gold.
The conversation we as a nation need
is not a war of virtue versus greed
or capturing the rules to win a game
or playing catch with sophistry and shame.
We need to ask and answer in sobriety
Who we best can be as a society
Drunk on destruction,
to fell inclusive truths of good faith,
triumph of the crazed.
Under Lying Message
Coma Baby, salivation of ubiquitous tragedy.
Petroleum under the sea
breaks surface.
Fissures exposed, eroded social contract.
Corrosive wealth.
Corrupted Earth.
Tell me a tale of forgiveness.
“Tough choices must be made!”
Congressional random phrases.
The difference between faith and bliss.
Engine of tar-black submarine,
leak of held back tears, grief of millennia.
I feel America crying.
Taste blood salt, polluted brine, dystopia.
The best hope for our regeneration,
for our continuity,
for our survival:
Let GO
Let the race be won,
the trophy given;
the competitors disperse
aglow in glory.
While we who endure
quietly, quaintly, alive to each moment,
slip between the slicks
Live Revolution
Revolution comes when it is ready.
Sparks so many times seem sure to light, embolden change.
Only when the tinder is sufficiently arranged will fire take hold.
Blaze clear fidelity to this erupted moment, charging forward.
After images, ash flakes in settling dark, take flight,
swirl within echoed breeze.
Readiness, relative to chaos, free range of human whim.
Revolution is but a shared anthem, parts of anger and revenge,
parts of reaching toward a new religion.
In the aftermath of violent schism,
what bright vision will sustain?
Raw, piercing howl
promises places
not here.
Dirt-framed, sore worn tracks demark possibilities,
thankful for the regularity of commerce
allowing travelers meaning.
Caged, kept from indeterminate freedom.
Irony does not escape me.
I find comfort in harsh Revelations
babbled by a shining eyed prophet.
Mad peasants and their Lords,
progress through tribulations,
power games of strategy and fate.
Millennial betrayal. Land sold from under pensioners,
savage beating of broken laborers,
children learning their worth without a home.
Is this Almighty Covenant?
Eras, tools, enemies revise.
The game journeys on.
Rising gold Sun absorbs mist.
A righteous dawn.
The smell of enduring prairie after
the train’s rushed through.
On this side of the bars,
life is slow,
awaiting judgment.

May days

May the Fourth be with you
blisstoday, blasttoday
May the Force stay with you
inspire more heroes like
Lucas and Luke
Light sabers, Jedi tricks
Empiric adventure
Scripts for all ages
Fiction distributes truth
Dreams long enshrined touch magic of New Moon 
Fourth day in May, cross-quarter fully blooms
Ecstatic dance to merrily entice
Into brave chance, Dame Future’s vast surprise
Divine delight invites inspired mirth
Renewed to life, we worship gifting Earth
Mother world, our one true holy land
Time to kindly honor Her command
for the May Queen
Tick Tock
Times a’creeping
Maidens weeping
beating rags along the river’s edge
shallow floods keep the land aware
destiny is seatide
Crazy lady mending her endless tears
Throat flumed, a voice to run from
Love never tarried, though many she married
She cocks an eye, arrowing flocks of fears
Cackles and coaxes sweet mourning doves
to carry her coffin to market
Buyers beware
Don’t stop
Don’t answer
Don’t stare
Don’t be seen
Hide in the green
Hide in the hole you call home
Never admit you belong
to the caste you belong to alone
Never assent to succeed to the throne
Wait for cover of darkness
Wallow in comfort of sleep
Trade what time you’re given
for a secret you can’t keep
Destiny is seatide
Love Song to the Queen of May
Electrical air, thunder praised lightning.
Aware, hug of ineffable gaze.
Aglow in nature’s snare.
Natural child.
Let her go wild.
Follow her there.
Enjoy these humble Spring delights,
softened days, enchanted nights.
Flowers of the May Queen,
bright expectant buds
waving, euphoria fragrant,
joyfully risen to
Earth’s celebration.
All that is or ever was or can occur
exists in whirling mists, vast cosmic blur
to set out bit by bit a brilliant poem
weaving eternally our common home.
Perhaps a poem of love,
thick words upon parchment
to hold to, warmly comfort sodden heart.
As flashing floods inundate, suffocate,
cleanse or lacerate from resultant rust.
Such perfumed promise might seem
a heaven sent reminder of what has been,
could become.
Romancers, lovers lifted above rhyme or
rhythmic scheme in perfect tune,
imbued truly with yearning spire of adoration,
create in shining halls of imagination
lyric poetry that never dies.
Gushing bloody revelation through fangs sharp and wise.
Temptress, tempestuous, oh tempt me pure and thorough.
Unrestrained wet, red essence
pumping into ecstatic relief.
Hidden as a jungle creature.
Learning by thrill, pagan exultation.
Strong scent of fecund Venus,
lusty scent of earth.
Mothers’ Night
cascading shards
echoes falling
“It’s our calling.”
Rape of Earth,
hot spurts, invective words,
savage knives.
Abiding Mothers,
sacred and mundane
twist into harridan
cold stars
wailing, hurtling waves.
Sad, old, crust of ages
sliced, screwed, carved up for profit
“It’s not the color of the skin,
the culture of the smile”
the scent of danger,
the inborn stranger —
all excuses for Us (superior)
and Them (inferior)
“They are not our breed,
but lower curs.”
We may kill with unfettered glee.
Cursed, clubbed, cut to our requirement.
Borders clear.
“Heretic fear fences in
our livelihood and wives.
Leave THEM to putrid pits
cunning jabs,
our pleasure.”
Stunning, treasure that might regale,
heal, exemplify true worth,
sustain humanity and Earth,
sold for pittance of potash
to wage a weary jig.
Imagine May Day
Brazen witches arise, fly
dark Moon nights, stealthy, silent
in joyous revelry.
Bonded to Earth, creation;
learning at mother’s breast
to bear life’s gifts and lessons.
Man may proclaim, murder
for fealty, to swear allegiance to
their hunt’s command.
They may elevate One True King,
kneel and obey. They may employ
counting measure, ceremonial sacrifice,
taunting torture or other trials,
thus find each loyal swan a pond
to plunder, to parade in royal color,
their place of pride.
Cruelty descends, more than tactic;
enemy of joy, of flavor,
caring, work of love and honor.
Yet, on real ground, work companions
to soil and rain, engineers trained to each
moment’s urgencies, philosophers of stone and mud,
reason and toil, persist. Their sinew and bone feed
the ages, build clay and richness on which
wealth relies.
Wisdom carries practiced movement,
flexible to unexpected barriers, able to modulate
quiet or loud as the crowd ebbs
or grows in credulity.
Where wisdom counters
prevailing poisons, invigorates blood to nourish
minds and hearts, look there for blessing.
Arise, lovers! Summon better days, to play in revelry,
enjoy as neighbors our labors and our fruit.
Ally in magic; imagine life into this world.



It’s all information.
Sensory input synthesized
with lessons past
shape, rearrange contexts, meanings,
strategies of behavior.
Expectations and despair
that follow lonely poverty,
or expectations of repair,
of guardian fates,
of co-creating deities,
of boost from true community.
A story lived to be rewritten,
page by page.
Edited to fit
the going rage.
Electro-chemical data
set the course.
Scientist, mystic, mage,
data manipulators all,
reordering configurations.
With practiced art
invisible renderings
amplify to scenes
breathless with beauty.
Our major resources are infinitely renewable —
thought, imagination, information.
Combined acts of conscious beings
develop labels and experiments
to better understand given environments.
Science, not decrees of some overarching god,
ongoing history.
Experience we attempt to “know”
by categorizing, crafting systems.
Information flows through, leaves
inspiring bits, tills imaginarium —
well tended inner flower bed from which
variegated seeds freely
spread, carry attunement to essential center.
It’s not about either/or, duality, dichotomy,
even though portentous pendulum keeps swinging.
Not brain malformation,
inculcated information
shouts, whispers, insists
Hand turned in to fist, shake explosive arms.
Charms of hate, to capture, ensorcel, growing minds.
“It’s weak to be kind”
Creeping pendulum, the sweep of evidence
(which changes over time and place),
mainstream definitions,
these but chains of thought that build,
transform, include ever more.
The center is not about faith or submission,
authority or politics.
It is interconnections
as they coalesce
to form a cohesive experiential whole.
Layer upon layer
of ambient ether condenses into
We speak of science as if revealed knowledge,
as what is real.
Yet, we people create acceptable reality
as collective agreement (though not all agree).
In laws and theories, we describe
to understand that segment of everything
accessible to senses and reason.
Attending to that part
on which we focus our “I”s.
Like old sayings (further extended):
Some look at a problem and say, “why?”
Others look at an opportunity and say, “why not?”
And still others look at our vast accrued mess and say,
“I’m not cleaning that up!”
It’s not as if I have declarative answers.
I merely offer open-ended questions
into which theories and possibilities can be dropped.
If reality is about perception,
and the reality apparent blows ill,
peruse leisurely, entertain unusual perspectives,
expose beautiful shapes and contours.
Hover bees buzz, calms me to sleep.
Gently drink effervescent nectar.
Spread bless propagating pollen.
Send wayward tales,
swing forward my fate.
I hear staccato buzz.
Onus is no part of privilege.
Privilege defines desert.
High prance noble private parts, flog
broken faces
with terror.  Hastening dust flirts with pillaged
Conquest by dictate.
Summons a bizarre maze of disfigured mirrors.
Unaware of consequence, of karmic games,
of simple quid pro quo: A resolving into A
for Arrogance, for Anger, for Allegory.
Fallen Angels glamour dance in pinhead glee.
Ecstatic shimmy well past the veils, will to see
slim glimmer of Pan’s freedom.
Nature’s buzz, that subtle strain,
echoes shifts in drumbeat.
New Queens rise, take flight.
Brilliant skies awaken.
Assert dominance, define upcoming
plans.  Feel their confidence as
seedlings burst to touch sunlight.
Thought Screen
It’s just a silver screen
a way to rationalize our being
a dialog along
the agonizing day
it’s just a way
to carry on.
Why should well thought out scripts
be any more well thought of
than any salad of words?
Why expect
attention or  respect or to be heard?
Why should loving words,
or thoughts, or thoughtful actions
result in any sway?
Has it finally been proclaimed my Nobel day?
What can I say?
There is a point in
all this farce?
That the fool on the precipice
dances wisely?
No matter
what the cost
there’s a prize worth the price?
There is good advice
in the stars?
There’s a lucky star,
and it’s ours?
There is magick,
to believe in?
There is hope and life and grace?
There is more than we imagine?
There is gold in inner space?
There is danger; there are dragons?
There are knights and righteous cause?
There is more than we imagine —
There are underlying laws
that we obey?
(Why would you listen, anyway?)
It’s just a veiled screen,
computer coded dreams,
what we see, based on
what we’ve seen.
It’s just our time-lined place
stored in inner space,
packaged in paradigmatic memes.
Accepted ways of being
interfacing real-time streaming
moving in and out of order
on either side of mind.
So what I track inside
is what I find.
But I haven’t got a clue
how to reconcile with you
with language 

dream times

When I was a child I suffered a series of terribly frightening nightmares. I finally found a way to stop them. When I awoke afraid, I would go into the dream and find a good solution to the problem presented. I would complete the dream not as a horror movie, but as a problem-solving feel-good flick.
With all this Neptunian transitory influence I have been hoping to find some kind of message in my dreams.  Lately, though, they’ve been too vague and mostly nonexistent once I awaken.  There have been images about having to pack up a lot of junk, to move elsewhere by choice or in response to disaster or inconvenience.  Stuff about crowded living situations or helter-skelter moving about to find I don’t know what.  Nothing distinct.
This last morning, though, I was surprised to find myself dreaming strong images, even if scattered in the way that dreams do that.  I was waiting in a lovely waiting room with happy, even serene, people to be handed my new baby.  I believe, though I don’t think it was mentioned, a girl.  She was all little and perfect and sweet.  Everyone was excited, pleased, welcoming.  This went on for awhile as the scene morphed a bit into myself and child with a group of friends/family celebrating.  We went to a lovely European-style restaurant, open to the air, with beautiful artwork including the furnishings and tableware.  It was an open, breezy atmosphere, rich in colors, fabrics, yet not cluttered, enjoyably energizing and relaxed. 
The waitress came over to us to take us to a table.  She was dressed in a kind of alpine costume, with long blonde curls and a drolly made-up face.  She was all smiles and warm welcome, happy to see us, happy to have us enjoying her restaurant.  I looked at her face as she touched me gently on the shoulder.  I was amazed to realize that this was the woman who had so taunted, tortured and destroyed me in real life.  Yes, it was her, but so changed.  She was happy, warm, friendly, inviting, especially once it became clear that she also recognized me.  She went about introducing me to the other staff, very proudly, as if I were a long lost friend who had happily chanced to refind her, here in this beautiful place that she was proud to show off.  I had initially been quite (though quietly) aghast to see her.  Very shortly, though, I was happy as well, for everyone was being very merry, very loving, without the slighted hint of any edge or enmity or ill-will.
This dream has been lingering:  I was wondering about in a place I had once lived and returned to. Explaining my presence to someone, I said I had lived here before, but had been living in NY and a lot of places had changed.
Then I was back in NY, apparently to take care of unfinished business. I didn’t have enough money to pay for my exorbitantly priced room. The shrewish proprietress gave the room to someone who came in while I was arguing about the price. I was out on the street.
I ran into an old acquaintance in a dark parking lot, outside a bar. Apparently we had parted bitterly. I apologized for what had happened and asked that we be able to get along, if not as friends not as enemies. He agreed to try.
I was inside the bar, in a largish ladies’ lounge, sitting on a wooden bench. Another woman, friendly, offered to share a cigarette. We smoked and talked amiably. Another woman came along and offered a glass tube, which she put to my lips and blew a white smoke into me, several times. I realized I was enjoying kaleidoscopic visions when I awoke, thinking: aw sh__! Just when it was getting good.
I was dreaming that I was walking along a verdant highway shoulder with my brother and his wife. She was asking about my mental health issues. I explained to her that I was coming to the realization that I was no longer “sick.” I had gone through a long healing process. Now I was not a sick person healing, but a new person I had not been before. My task now was to learn how to be that person effectively.
As I was saying this last bit, she let us know that we needed to cross the highway here, to get to a place she wanted us to enjoy in the woods on the other side. She and my brother raced across when she said: “now.” However, I got caught by traffic that came up on my too quickly. I have a recurring dream situation in which I am trying to get across a street or some such and find my feet somehow glued or tarred, unable to move. I remembered that and expected this situation to ensue. However, to my surprise, I found I was able to, lane by lane, cross the highway after waiting for the oncoming traffic in that lane to clear. I woke up before reaching the other side.
an image from a recent dream. I understand my dream offers no authority: I had apparently been the victim of a violent crime and was arguing with the police detective that it was not right that I be denied a role in finding and dealing with my attacker. I passionately argued for the rights of the victims, supposedly those we are meant to be working for in efforts at criminal justice, to be empowered by being an integral part of that process. Yet I was being treated as a bystander in my own life.
Just a dream, but then,
truth can come from dreams
hidden far beneath common
compasses and brandings
useful for daily social norms
truths enrobed in symbolic forms
reveal in dreams
dream imagery can be so evocative
without making sense
without kowtowing to the senses
to scientifically observable fact
running without legs or pavement
smiles lingering without cats or mirth
dense, immediate quarrels
never begun nor ended
I roll over crimson seas in a rollicking
ferryboat, bartab with no way to pay
dreaming, outside responsibility
catching glinting glimpses
open to interpretation
Here, in this still place,
prior to awakening,
which dream takes hold?
Dream whatever dream you see.
Reveal your potent imagery.
Release your awesome wings
— it’s okay; it’s just a dream …

marching on

Soldiers marching in a desert,
remember not their daily cares.
Remember only endless marching.
Caught in dreaming, unawares.
marching to Bethlehem
Things fall apart.
The center does not hold.
We, along the periphery
dissemble for survival.
All our pretty goals
dissolving in the face
inevitable despair brings.
The wise babble desperate incantations.
The weak of will and mind
sing Hallelujahs and kick the peasants
as they pass.
Perhaps we are in the hallway
of a great reckoning.
Mad Earth grumbles loudly,
threatens to rescind Her bounty.
Men of illwill, men of destiny
proudly proclaim their birthright
to pillage, to plunder, to prey upon
chaos, annihilation.
If only the poets sang truth in such
majestic certainty, with such
charismatic humor and allure.
Things fall apart
Here, along the periphery
we carry our burdens,
sink ever more deeply
into rotten crevices
singing our selves
into sleep.
March tune
Substance obscured,
mucked in human manure,
grates through the common sewer.
Unembraced, unengaged with
disgraced as a gutter myth
given no say or power.
Keep a tight lid, kid, on
who you were, what you did
that never can be allowed.
Never let them see you sweat.
It’s dangerous to show regret.
You’re not a target; you’re a threat.
Do you get what we’re all missing?
We could be questioning and listening.
Giving credence to each other’s dreams
needs and abilities.
Healing rifts with respect,
gracious civilities.
Because the puzzle is only complete
with all of the pieces in sync.
Brain cells invited to think,
brawn to chop wood, carry water.
Souls dance in the sunlight
and to song of far away stars.
Pilgrim’s progress
White Anglo Ethos
Petulant brats demand obeisance
to our code of conquest, of dominance,
of hard-assed outcast of deviance
Rule over Earth and her issue
break them to work for our wishes.
Honor, respect,these are authorities’ own
the war lords we place on our thrones to command.
Progress is forward motion on opening roads.
Marching, no conscience nor care for what may explode.
Let our Great Destroyer sort it.
There was a Roman soldier bored with war,
with whores, with bloody babies.
Hoping to escape, he wrote a history,
moved into
his Holy fantasy.
It’s but a Shangri-La, a piper’s dream.
Metal men, formed from clay,
scream upon fields of hostility,
when nerves
catch up with senses.
Soothed with martial melodies,
gratefully march to serve.
There is a sweetly drifting tune
Meandering like wisteria
Is it a dirge?
A sassy New Orleans carriage ride?
Is it the beating of my heart
Spraying a trail of bleeding homage?
It is a wedding march,
Played slowly, out of time,
Beat by beat, more slowly
Marching On
I give my wandering children
Anger to protect you from pain
Rage to ameliorate agony
Fear of what folks won’t explain
Fraught laughter to counteract tragedy
Music to move you to heal
Theater to unite what we feel
that vague sense that nothing is real …
Lost at an indistinct edge made of snow
Unsure where we’ve come from, with nowhere to go
Beggars and bullies and braggarts and whores
iron chains on our windows in rooms with no doors
Fire roams freely, unleashed by cruel wars,
feeds forever on days we will never see,
worlds we will never be
March Hare
Another kind of rabbit hole.
Ghastly dark and bruising.
No recompense of wonder.
No luxury of child’s imagining.
No spritely tea time story.
Only caustic mud awaits below
at tumbling’s end.
Young rabbit hops
beside Edenic flowers,
sniffs puissant nectar in the air.
I am complete in this instant.
Now, I leap to a farther garden
to taste the bitter charms,
the salty repartee, tropic spice
and cold beer. Sense, sensation,
cessation of sensation —
not happiness, not bliss.
The essential can not
be sought.
No destinations wave aloft
as banners.
We act.
We affect.
We move on.
I am the rabbit.
That chic Alice had the hots
for me and we had planned
to hole up for awhile.
But then thing’s got too
surreal.  Lewis Carroll,
wacky jabber?
I began to feel used
as a plot device.
Can you blame me?
I ate some of Caterpillar’s
mushroom, grew into
a pooka and moved
in with Jimmy Stewart.
Redubbed myself Harvey.
Loved the cocktails.
Later, I haunted Donnie Darko,
puzzle poser of his final fall.
What I mean to say is
that fiction
is born, bred, propagated
out of pain, vanity, desperation
and the humor we conjure
to spite it all.
I have no legitimacy.
It is enough if
I deign to cavort at your call.
March of disorders;
unstable chemicals break down,
crush frightened innocents
into dust.
Gonna build our army for God
Oh the glory, Oh the rapture
millions of souls marching home
There are armies of the night, marching,
conscripting our young, our heartland, our hierophants.
Marching, in orderly fashion
Or beatifically walking to a sacred drum.
The horizon shifts through daily duties and nightly prayers.
We take what we can. We give.
March of novelty
sad kabuki metaphor
drowns in destruction
Three Penny Opera and Grateful Dead:
What They Mean to Me
I was listening,
under a grove of budding trees,
on an early Spring  evening,
to the morals of our time as displayed
in popular music,
and thinking of the many tiny travesties
of personal moments all around me.
The seatide ebbing/flowing of the music
more than hypnotized
as I watched people flowing
through an inner newsreel
of pride and misery
People marching in various uniforms
To a beat of pride and progress in the marketplace
and war zones;
People marching or being trampled or
sniping from the rooftops
All in rhythm.
And a friend said to me
on a starlit evening,
“It’s so hard to know anymore what to do.”
Musical march of human history
heads toward individual liberty.
Taking our streets in
big bold singing, dancing, laughing, power
A new day is dawning, but where is the sun?
Our freedom and faith are defined by the gun.
The symbol of power overrules everyone
‘Til we create our own electricity.
But under cover of darkness a banner’s being stitched
Of patchwork-bright colors and radiance
To someday soon be unfurled in the breeze
As we march to freedom’s song.

all hallows message

All hallows
All holy
All sacred
All souls, drifting in ether and
move with deep ambition
to command the living through all channels.
Stop broiling ranting of your wars
just for this instant:
Hear desperate matter between,
holding, securing us,
breaking.  Like ice under steam.
Spirit escapes with no tether,
no purpose, no solid sphere
to cherish memory.
Listen!  Hear, all hallows,
all sacred vessels, all poets
of binding, protecting rhymes.
Extend unbridled wisdom as element,
as air that clarifies our minds,
teaching sad mankind to heal
before all chance
is gone.

little emoges

Little Emoges
The internal monolog, salient images,
won’t translate into written language,
mankind’s boon for communicating
beyond gestures.
Yes, I see,
clearly as if on screen,
not like stagnant memory,
avatars of me along the way.
Could I bespeak her,
become companion, trusted friend
at these small moments fraught
with inchoate destiny such that my psyche
keeps to reappear as if to engage
with fresh senses?

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #43

Caela’s Story #43


A strangely dressed, obviously old, yet regally postured woman appears on the balcony of the City Council Building, arms outstretched as if in benediction. Calmly, serenely, she faces the uproarious crowd surrounding from below.

Caela breathes deeply inward, accessing that bright core she has built from all the loving wisdom discovered throughout her life.

“You can be healed.” Her simple statement echoing, reverberating throughout the crowd. Everyone within range of her electronically enhanced and broadcast voice feels profound resonance.

Every one of them feels tender, loving presence reaching deeply into their secret, festering wounds, bathing their pain in beautiful soothing light.

Caela, smiling inwardly in joyful communion with the forest daughter entwining her consciousness, responds to each and every pause of wonder. She sends soothing musical visions with her words.

“There is no shame in pain. There is no cure to be found in blame, regardless of accuracy. There are so very many ways to be wounded, deeply injured, horribly scarred. Our natural desire would be to heal, end the siren signal of pain, the suffering of what has been hidden rather than made whole. It is natural for hurting children to offer up their tears and fright and indignation at their wounding to parents who will make them well again. Hiding, making dark secrets of unhealed wounds, is not our natural recourse. We have mislearned, incorporated guilts and shames where openness to nurture was meant to be. Sharing our pain, our stories of wounding, our attempts to regain wholeness, with caring family and friends is meant to make us stronger, individually and together. Go deeply into your greatest, most intractable, pain too intense to touch numbing wound. Listen, intently, to its story. Succor it as you would your dearest child. Then to the next, and the next, until all your despicable woundings are adored offspring of a closely loving family. Share your family tales with the people you see every day. I give you all permission to allow this vulnerability.

You are not about fear or anger or intractability. You are alive, growing, changing, learning. Learn to share who you are, really. Magical synergy can give us all everything we have yearned for, felt missing in our lives, individually and together.

I don’t know when, why, how it began. The social structure meant to house and contain us, safe, snug, happy children growing to become strong, joyful, nurturing families, instead becomes a prison. Structure meant to be loyal friend and servant becomes heartless master, imposing order without thoughtful consciousness, sane flexibility, wise encouragement of playfully creative boisterousness which might lead to inconvenience, mistakes, disorder. We can always pull ourselves together to clean up an inadvertent mess, correct mistakes, make amends, share discoveries. This is gregarious human life’s natural course of education. Rote memorization of rules, that is but an exercise in discipline. It is not learning. We feel a need for rules to create a safe structure; but the rules are but tools, not the project itself. What is our project but full, true, glorious experiences of life for each and every? To be full and real, we know there will be pain and wounding as well as love, useful work, private contemplations, fun, frolic, humor, loss, death, sorrow. What we do not need to include is hopeless despair, empty loneliness, unwarranted guilt or shame or restriction of opportunities for restitution and true forgiveness. It’s not that we need to avoid breakage, but that we all need to learn the arts of repair, reconciliation, growth that heals and enhances us all.

I am here to help you. I offer you the benefit of what I have learned. I am creating a school of healing where you will always be welcome. We will offer you our knowledge of healing techniques, therapy sessions, consultations and training. You may decide for yourself, and redecide at any point, of what offerings you desire to partake. Those who can will be expected to pay for our services in order to keep our operating budget in operation. Those without funds will not be turned away. We expect that what we teach will then be shared, expanding the resource of knowledge, healers, trainers, interactive healing groups. Very simple. Nothing hidden. Though our offerings may only be able to accommodate limited numbers at first, quickly enough we will grow. You, everyone who so chooses, will help to grow us, together. Ultimately, we will all learn from each other. Together we will be able to figure this out, this living thing. We will learn to live with the clarity and wisdom we create for ourselves. We can learn to embrace the bountiful gifts and wisdom of this planet that is our home. We can learn the blessings of interdependency, of give and take based on honor and respect. We can revel in the enlightenment that reveals each of our own self-interests gets better served when we truly, deeply, wisely know that we are all in this together. Can you sacrifice your despair on the altar of such a realization? We can together will a manifestation, of true possibilities. I offer not a vision of idealized perfection; but a readily obtainable viable answer.

Guiding a flow of unblocked healthy energy toward the beauty of balanced fully realized lives – this is a mission I gladly accept. Oh, my beloveds, think clearly about what you have to lose, and gain. Feel the compassion, the challenge, the call. Take what I freely offer out of my own great need for connection. We are family, a living interactive system, able together to achieve so much greater happiness and well-being.

You can heal.”

Thus will it be.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #42

Caela’s Story #42


Jorel has been enjoying getting caught up in Caela’s vision as she spins it out for him. He sees the potential of this fine university of healing arts, including the healing to be found through fine and performance expressive arts, touch, movement, meditations, creative play and experiments in communications, even more spiraling out beyond his imagining. A too good to be true fantasy, of course; but he allows himself a momentary luxury of getting caught up in the beauty.

“My dear Healer,” deciding it is well past time to inject reality back into their conversation, Jorel adopts a tone of impatient irony. “I am certain I would be glad to accede to your demands. Just tell me, how am I to spirit your charges away in the face of that?” With an angry flourish, he points to the mob, seemingly just shy of storming the barricade around the building and taking them all by force.

“Have we a deal, then?” Caela responds lightly, as if they’ve not a care beyond their civilized negotiations. “You do your part, Councilor. Leave the rest to me. Watch and learn why I know my plan will succeed for all of us.

But first, one more favor, please. I will appreciate your arranging for electronic amplification of my voice, and for my live simultaneous broadcast over your communications channels to reach everyone tuned in. I know you will find a way to sneak the others out safely while the focus is on me.”

Jorel is aghast. “I’m sure it is quite noble for you to sacrifice yourself to save these children,” he begins, ready to plead. She is extraordinary. Perhaps they can figure out some way to …

“No need to fear for me, Jorel. Just watch. Listen. And do as we have agreed. We are agreed?”

A quality of her voice, her will, commands his full attention. He quickly, authoritatively, arranges for the broadcast and amplification equipment, and transport for both contingents of Lukin’s extended family.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #41

Caela’s Story #41


“I believe you have recently closed and taken control of a school to the north and west, far enough beyond the centers of population to afford privacy. There is enough land for a buffering zone, gardens, basic self-sufficiency.”

Unsure where this might be going, Jorel concedes her information. “The Harmony Academy. Several of your people were shareholders in the enterprise. Some as well were prominent faculty. The people had been hearing unsavory rumors about goings on there. Some of your social experiments, group sex, occult ceremonies, dangerous ideas being spread. We arrested several of the major shareholder/instigators. The property is in the hands of the City Council until we auction it off.”

“Yes!” Caela seems almost glowing. “A dangerous idea – but danger can be a challenging doorway to glorious adventure, or the price of a longed for treasure. Sell me this school. I will pay whatever price you ask, over time from my profits. I will start a school to teach our people how to find their precious abilities, along with immediately practical healing techniques.”

Jorel is intrigued, more by her thrilling energy than her words, her proposition. The Chief Councilor in him smells trouble, but it has more the feeling of a reflexive defense than a real threat. It’s not about a financial arrangement. He has no doubt this witch woman will make good. He fears her power. Yet, somehow, it is a good fear, a call to challenge to his self-image as a brave man.

Or was that the witchery? Was she playing on his sympathies, bewitching his mind, dissolving his strong-willed resolve?

“How would this school help with the immediate situation? Are you going to single-handed convert us all? What could you teach us that would be to our advantage? I am sure you could turn a fine profit and pay your way, benefit the city coffers in return for our protection. Though I am also sure we could not guarantee your safety at any price. What are you offering these people?” He gestures grandly toward the ever greater unrest of the ever larger crowd just outside this governmental edifice. “How will you pay them for your life?”

“With theirs, of course.” She laughs, briefly, out of irrepressible mirth. “I am a healer. I have learned long, well and wisely so many methods, so many ways of being ill and injured, how to recover, become a new whole, stronger, better prepared to go forward, healthier, more completely alive. But I have no need to take the whole task upon my self. I can easily train those willing to learn to assist me, more easily at first those who have already developed the sensitivities more natural to we witchfolk. Over time, with longer training, we will be able to expand our pool of potential healers and trainers from graduates of our school, no matter which of our clans they have been born of. Really, it is simple. Together we can make it be. Let us be partners, allies in a wonderful enterprise.

Please, now, arrange for these children waiting for their verdict, and their chaperone, in the next room, to be taken to the school grounds. Make arrangements also for their parents, now held in your prison, to join them there. They can get started putting the place in order for our clientele. Eventually our children can learn together, and from each other, what we need to know to be a successful people together.”

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #40

Caela’s Story #40


Her senses and contexts expanded by what she has learned, accepted, assimilated through her interchanges, gifts now shared with the forest, Caela feels the wounds these people carry, incubate, spread. “Here and now.” Her eyes move from the disturbance escalating outside, lock onto Jorel’s. “Those abilities within us that you fear, that you covet, keeping you caught up in the belief that we witchfolk are a superior enemy to be shunned and destroyed, that gift is already yours as well. You can learn to find it within you, to access, develop, use your own innate abilities. You can be set free of this mistaken need for hatred which drains your energies, takes from you what you could be.”

“But how? Even saying you might be right about some latent witch genetics in some of us, that would just be more divisive. Even those of us with the potential for this so-called gift would have no idea how to make use of it. If they did learn, they would just be more of you, no longer to be trusted.” Jorel’s attention, divided between that enthralled to the witch’s spellbinding charisma and the sure threat of the outside mob scene, is not grasping how to reconcile the two.

“Not some, not witchblood. Human blood. Our people came of yours. What we have is but amplified genetically. The right kind of training could build these abilities from potential within all of you as well.”

“If you could get them to take your training, even if what you say were true. They would rather tear you apart then ever look upon you as their human kin. You are not their kin, nor for that matter mine. You are as alien to us in your own way as the natural lifeforms of our adopted home. What do you intend? To simply walk among those angry mobs and break them to your will with a smile?”

Caela smiles broadly. Jorel sneers, not knowing what to make of her, feeling mocked.

“No, I am not mocking you. I do respect your words, your experience, your sincere desire to avoid rampant violence.”

Jorel is mollified. He really does like this witch woman, wishes she could, they could, resolve this mess he knows is partially of his making. But if the instigations of his political maneuverings were all that was in their way they would not have such an intractable problem. He had only manipulated a deeply held antipathy, not brought it into being.
“I am sorry.” He admits his culpability while regretting the futility of his power. He does not understand why she still smiles, obviously, gently, as a collaborator rather than the opposition.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #39

Caela’s Story #39


“Your people believe they want us gone. Whatever the reasons, these are palpable intentions. They are inflamed, and need careful tending lest they explode. This would harm them, and you, more than we would feel it in the situations we are already in.” Her voice and manner so sweetly calm. Images merely illustrative, not as inflammatory as what they represent.

This is merely prologue.

Sandwiches and energy drinks are brought in by an aide, for those in the antechamber and the two in the main room. Apparently energy will be needed both for waiting and for negotiations. The aide silently disappears, on to other duties, perhaps speculations.

“Yes, those festering people in the streets, living out their day to days, waiting impatiently for justice, if that is all they think they can get. They don’t know we’re here yet, do they? Under the auspices of their representative in chief, eating sandwiches and leisurely chatting or sitting quietly in an antechamber awaiting the possibility of freedom. Are we your enemies?”

He could feel implicit threat, but softly gloved because this threat could cut both ways. Delicacy in the balance of shifting forces is not a theoretical concept, but obvious sensation. The thorny, twisty problem is clearly delineated.

“If you but think, you know, at this point of our social history our biologies have mixed so that many of our people are not one thing or the other. In the natural course, this will continue. We are not enemies, but kinfolk. We are human beings upon this planet foreign to our origins, but now the only home we know. All of us are aliens together, making this world our home. We are natural allies, tribesmen, sharing our individual wealth of skills and personal resources in common enterprise, as our ancestor colonists meant us to be.”

“That’s all very nice and philosophical.” Jorel has found his voice. “We have an immediate situation to deal with here, as you yourself point out. It certainly isn’t gong to help quell the fears of the masses to tell them you people have infiltrated their very DNA. They won’t know who to trust. That could create widespread panic less controllable than what we have now. What can you tell me, witch, that I can use?”

Outside the window of the Chief Councilor’s chambers, a crowd can be seen slowly gathering, gaining in numbers and loudness, on the street below. They do not appear to be in a mood of celebration. Their voices are angry. Their words indistinct, but their faces look more pinched and resigned then empowered. This is not a crowd expressing healthy anger against injustice, or grievances for which they expect redress. This is the face of a desperate response to long felt helplessness, ill-use, built out of a poverty of trust, foundations crumbling. Caela feels their surging waves of murky emotion. Disgust, fear, raw rage, harsh bitter brittleness, ready to break. What has done this to a people whose legacy was meant to be freedoms and opportunities far beyond what would have been left to them by the human confusion, pollution, insanity their ancestors had thought left behind on Earth?

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #38

Caela’s Story #38


The Chief Councilor was not a simple soldier. He was not a follower, but a leader practiced in the ways of power. He was a senior politician, used to tricks, manipulations, maneouverings, his opponents’ and his own. This was not a man easily trifled with or stared down. This was a man who could be persuaded, only if he could be made to clearly see his own advantage. Caela could do that. She could show him in clear imagery and well placed words exactly what he had to gain, and what losses he would no longer need to fear or calculate. Caela was not a politician, had never seen herself as a leader, or a follower. She knew the human mind. She understood the inner workings of will and desire. Power may think itself an irresistible force. When it meets calm acceptance, wrapped in well-reasoned, irrefutable logic, power can become a sheepish child happy to find common ground, if that power is backed by intelligence. 
The Chief Councilor is an intelligent man. He can acknowledge Caela’s wisdom, in his own self-interest. In this case, how fortunate, it is enlightened self-interest, a win-win-win for himself, his constituents, and Caela’s.

Toriv and the children sit in the anteroom while the principles palaver. They do not feel assured of their fate. Fear, though, mingles with hope, a most potent cocktail keeping them still, locked in their long moments of anticipation.

In the Chief Councilor’s chambers, something akin to a miracle seems to him to be taking place. Even before she spoke, this strange, primitively dressed old woman has pulled from him his total attention. He feels he would not be able to turn from her nor tune out one iota of her message even should he be able to form such a desire. So much more than compelling, this is the most immediately real experience he has ever known.

“I am Caela, of the witchfolk.” Her words enter his mind accompanied with rich imagery, a gestalt of intent and comprehension. 
“You do not need to be told of my journey, nor my history. You need to know that together we can come back from this mess between our people. We can all gain from each other, and become the one people we are meant to be.

Someday, after the immediate wounds have healed, scarred over, my people, the exiles, or your people of this city, or both, will make inroads into the land between. Those of the witchfolk here are few and dwindling. They have shown serious concern to improve their numbers through social experiments designed to increase procreation. I know you have noted and were nervous about this. But my point, they are dwindling. You could round them up or let them be. They would all but disappear over time. Yet the time bomb still exists to your South. I tell you this to let you know I come not as an outside agitator nor advocate for others. I have a stake in this outcome. My agenda is open to you. By the time the people I have been a part of reunite with these of the city, the rift needs to have been healed. The reuniting must come as separated kin coming together in celebration.”

Caela’s imagery, more than convincing of her conviction, flows, eloquent. Chief Councilor Jorel (proudly named for his spaceship captain ancestor), finds himself to be fascinated, eagerly awaiting what may come next sparking from her intelligence to his.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #37

Caela’s Story #37


Caela and Lukin touch hand into hand, facing each into shining open eyes, hug solemnly. The children feel as secure as any mother’s love could provide. Toriv as well feels that love, allowing himself the relief, the luxury of relinquishing a responsibility he had no idea how to fulfill. None doubted, assured in Caela’s confidence, that no harm would now befall them.

The knock at the door was no shock, no surprise. Neither were the officially uniformed pair of large brutes whose entrance their knocking barely preceded. They were the ones not so much shocked or surprised as amazed and disarmed by an old woman from the other side of the deep woods.

At Caela’s instigation, she, Toriv and the children were escorted to the official vehicle brought for their transport to an interrogation area.
“You mean to take these children, and the man who has harbored them, to someone with more authority than you for their questioning and incarceration, yes?” Caela had quietly, patiently suggested, clearly eyeing the soldiers. They could but nod, confused.

“Take us all to the supreme commander of your government. We have negotiations to begin.” She commanded them as surely as any of those officers they had been trained to obey with alacrity, without question. Also, there was some strange subtly commanding desire they could feel overtaking any objection before it could form in their minds. It did not feel strange at all to do as this unknown woman said. It only felt strange to have any idea to the contrary.

Off they all go to see the Chief Councilor, head of the city’s governmental body. On the way, Caela is able to collaborate with Lukin in forming a link of communication with Merin in his cell at the prison compound. He and the rest of the adult members of Sira’s extended family are being held, their jailors believe incommunicado, out of sight out of mind of those of the city’s populace enraged against them. Unthinking rage, used so easily in political rallying, is not always so easily controlled. None of Sira’s political enemies had ever intended harm to the children. They thought the outrage would die down once the maligned adults had been apprehended, sent into perdition for punishment of their insinuated crimes. Yet the people were calling to extinguish this evil subspecies, as they imagined the witchpeople to be, from their lives, utterly, completely, finally. These people had for so long been unhappy, silently or uproariously building up angers over the miseries they felt visited upon their lives from some unnamed foe. Having found a name, they now must vanquish those of that brand. To their rage, it was all quite simple. Anger can be a potent force for action. Once devolved to impotent rage, it is bereft of the solidity of reason and can only, when released, destroy.

Merin, glad for the distraction maybe even more than the hope of aid, fills Caela in on the pertinent history, the players, the games, the scores and strategies, cultural myths, background conditions, that she had missed while living her life on the other side of the woods. He is promised a detailed history of Caela’s community once the crisis has passed and there is time for the less immediate.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #36

Caela’s Story #36


Out of the Woods


Under cover of storm, those who might have been about all secured in their dwellings, Caela walks across the fields in a straight line to her destination.

By the time she got to Toriv’s school, the storm was spent. Soggy ground, grey sky, wind and rain now but wistful breeze and mist. A dark wet day for a stranger’s sudden appearance. The main house was abuzz with speculation.

There was already much concern about the troop of children Toriv had mysteriously taken in. Some kin of Merin’s, a dear teacher to many of them, but still unsettling. These are people who spook easily, do not trust strangers. They are not even on easy terms with their neighbors. They have chosen to live this more primitive style of life, as they see it, in order to be left alone, away from prying eyes and possible recrimination.

“That was why we had to. We had to protect ourselves. We couldn’t appear to be dangerous, harboring undesirables, enemies of the state.” They told themselves they had no choice. They needed to protect their own noble cause, the preservation of their kind. Toriv kept to himself at the school, apart from them. His concern was his own son, Kirin, and the children he taught; but now these other children as well. He is not part of their cohesive group, not really. “These children aren’t either, none of our concern. What are they doing here anyway, needing to be fed and who knows for how long put up with? It’s not that we wish them ill. Of course we don’t. They are children. But surely no real harm will come to them. Surely the authorities searching for them have everyone’s best interests at heart. They will just send over a couple of city reps to take the children away, probably to quite appropriate and loving foster care. We will be left alone. No one will have any argument with us.”

But perhaps this stranger has come to spirit the children away. “Perhaps we were too hasty in our action, reporting the presence here of these controversial youngsters. Oh, we don’t know what to think.”

No matter. Ripples of forces in motion find their outlets, moving acts and actors into place. Caela hears the chatter from the house as she walks up to the school door. She feels familiarity from those inside. They have been expecting her, without entirely knowing whom to expect. There are others expected soon, by those in the main house, whom Toriv and the children are happy not to see yet at their door. Never mind. It will all play out very soon. First, introductions must be made, brief summaries of stories exchanged, the creation of a bond already in the forming to be acknowledged.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #35

Caela’s Story 35


There is still a distance, more than several days worth of traversing, between here and there. Caela prepares for sleep, for potent dreaming. There is something within her in need of awakening. It feels, yes, just ready to be released, to claim its power. Is this a spirit child of Caela, of the forest mind, ready to be born as Caela’s sacred internal daughter, a part of (not apart from) herself?

“I see the cruelty, the stupidity. A tight fist. Harsh measures. Petty meanness because we dare not weaken, dare not show a chink of kindness, dare not relax. Nowhere that deep relaxation, every cell of life open to receive, to exchange expiration for inspiration. Tight disciplined cognitions, never too alive, never to allow dangerous chinks of doubt, unsettling openings to chaos. Fear is palpable, but more. It is gripping. Addictive. You need more and more to even feel, to not go numb with the senselessness, with the constancy. I feel it all. Where? How? I am moving through a forest. One footfall into the next. I see is in dual visions. I am perceiving far beyond my natural range. My senses, my cognitions, doubling up, increasing in velocity and intensity. The me I have known too slow to keep up falls behind. There is so much more to me. No binding down into mere panoramas of perception. I feel, see, cognate, extend, a greater totality. This I is not a limitation. Consciousness accelerates. Mind is not a boundary. Every sensation is infinite, eternal, completely integrated. Yet, here I am, still conscious of my own being, biography, will. Ecstatically integrated beyond my temporal concerns, yet so very grounded, root to stem, to sky. I am of this ground, of this sky, and of what comes between. I am a woman traversing a forest that has become my kin and my home. I am a multi-cultural consciousness in motion through space and time. I am a story in the telling, spinning outward, revealing my wisdom as it is acquired. I am a harbinger of sanity composed of beauty, of grace, of intricate balance moving dynamically through simple resonance.” Potent dreaming, indeed.

She awoke to a world exactly different. Nothing significant had changed in the time of her dreaming, except for Caela herself. She made all the difference. Seeing, hearing, touching with a different mental construct to decipher the sensory code, she discovered a whole new world.

Lukin’s impressions are still available. She can look; she can feel his pain, as his not hers. She knows her help and healing is needed. She can taste the forest throughout all her senses, molecular communication from self to self. She can also sense all the busy beings, all the selves working out their lives, or not. Pain, pleasure, the ennui of emotional defeat, the exhilaration of new challenge, the fearful raging, exhausted confusion, the newly forming consciousness opening an inner eye, the lurking of an inner smile. It is what it is, malleable, ready for change, so long as no one let’s it know it is changing.

Caela reaches, tentative and sincere. Enjoying the flickering light of subtle conclusions, she feels herself gently calming, a feathery serene presence, in Lukin’s consciousness. He tells his cadre there is help on the way. Strange, but he can know this so surely without knowing how or when, or whom. Strangely, they trust his seemingly occult knowledge. On that not quite conscious level, they too feel touched by the strands, the subtle movements of change, the ripples on the breeze.

Not all prayers are answered. Not all needs are fulfilled. Tragedies often come to pass, unaverted. This is not one of those. Sometimes there is a miracle. Powerful, subtle forces converge. We can feel that electricity playing among our circuits. Not all storms bring destruction. Rain, wind, electrical release, can bring potent healing.

Caela feels a beautiful storm brewing. She stands open to the elements, ready for their guidance in the ways of power.

The forest, proud of its consort, sings into the wind and rain, rejoicing in storm and song. Unnumbered flowers await blooming. What a beautiful day!

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #34

Caela’s Story #34


Opening that sharing place in her mind to full sensitivity, Caela feels bathed in totality of loving joy, bliss. All the busy interplay of forest life flutters through her senses. Not so much walking as dancing in that interplay, she partakes of life’s daily rituals. It is a brief, though eternal, idyll.

A human voice not her own, but one now well recognized, falls like thunder into her peaceful reverie in forest time. It is the boy who called her here, his own mind, not the forest’s allegory. He is somehow physically nearer, though still at some distance. Perhaps she has been moving with purpose, closer to his situation. It is not her mind he set out to link to. She is an accidental recipient, along with the intended ones. The story he relays tells her that in the greater scheme this accidental receiver is exactly the person required by that situation. Currents are crossing, lives in the balance.

The boy, Lukin, his story, sifted out from what he relays from his grandfather to the other children, his family. They were more comfortable sharing this information in a manner avoiding the wrong people’s overhearing. Not sure how or why she was let in on these family secrets, Caela delved deeper into Lukin’s memories. She felt no resistance, despite his clear alert cunning in the face of danger. “We both know I am not dangerous. It is understood that I am here as ally.” Caela listened and took in the background of her original calling into the forest by this child caught up in more than he could clearly comprehend. Caela, from her vantage point outside the maelstrom, could apprehend the bigger picture.

The children had been sent, under cover of subterfuge, to a sort of uncle, Toriv, a witchfolk teacher of the young. Their parents were being hunted down malevolently, essentially for thought crime. Guilty of the wrong kind of identity, of hiding their guilt. Conspiracy. Cover-up. Making authorities in control of terrible power feel like fools. Yet, it is the quiet power of these frightened, pitiful few that those in authority fear to the point of demanding extermination. A real mess these kids have been thrust into. Now they have word from Lukin’s grandfather, Merin, with whom he has maintained a mind link, that the adults in question, himself included, have been arrested. No further help can be expected for these forcibly abandoned children from their forcefully incarcerated kin.

The forest is complicit. These children must be aided. While Toriv may be a good man, he is too much an innocent, caught up in too much that he can not understand. His education has been more in ideals than practicalities. He has allowed himself to be sheltered from truly harsh experience. He has been foolish enough to see his disappointments as tragedies. Faced with so much more drastic circumstances and consequences, he is but another frightened child.

Does Lukin, the young leader of his small troop of frightened children, possess and pass on these insights about Toriv? The forest somehow amplifies Lukin’s mind for her. It has a stake in this meeting and outcome. Caela, beloved, healer, has intertwined missions to accept and follow through. This is a time of crisis. A point of stress built up of forces now converging offers unique opportunities. For abiding consciousness, preparing, alert to rumbles and shiftings that foretell action available to outside direction, this is a sacred occasion.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #33

Caela’s Story #33


So welcome to be undivided, safely within forest consciousness. Feeling every experiential frame falling into place, blending. Light, airy viscosity, like breathing bliss, in, out, all around, a solid-liquid-ethereal state in which thought, movement, awareness is fluid, unset in form, actively adapting, expecting only what is.

“I am actively adapting. I am whole as solution, dissolving while redefining, in all ways an accumulating summing, of perceptions, cognitions, interweavings.” Revelatory impressions rippling through, Caela walks in a foreground shaped by her background, steps interacting with ground, skin interacting with all the migratory molecules, movement as a whole system, within wider wholes, spiraling cycles, widening Caela’s range of perceptions. “I am; and I expand and am expanded, with every interchange of breath, every synchrony of symbol and response, every crystallized moment merging into the next.”

And the next

“I had to learn, to teach myself carefully, who is this I, my private self, my separate consciousness. I had to keep myself whole and pure, individualized. I needed to be me to hold on to my ability to work with my patients in pain, help their separate individual systems to heal after wounding. Of course I felt deep bonding, relationship, love. I could let go with Singer, fuse with his so familiar, so inextricable beauty. Even so, I knew: this is me, in pieces and their combined integrity. No mistaking others’ cognitions for mine. Here, though, I am integrating with this other, this nonhuman consciousness, communicating in direct sensation on liminal planes of natural awareness. I as myself continues even as we expand through mutuality. Strongly self-identified, I embrace, assimilate, share beyond compassion. It is not so much a separation as a hyper-awareness. All these floating impressions, imparting graceful strands of wisdom, enhancing my tapestry. I praise the artist, consciously in awe of the art flowing through me. My multi-layered friend, I know you understand. Your comprehension is whole, absorption essential, active, taking nothing that is not enhanced and shared. How have I lived so long in your presence and never before known you at all? Singer only knew of you what you both needed to sing, a specified arrangement of love. He shared with me what I was willing to see, shared his music that was of his essence influenced by yours. I was busy, caught up in concerns of what was then here and now. You were not my concern. You lived as eternally, abiding, direct perception, without my conscious thought.” Caela’s human cognitive impressions work though perception’s code, translating into a foreign tongue. Tasting her essence in flicking serpent-like strokes, thus pleasured, the forest releases its love. We know what and who we know. Love exists as grace, or not at all.

“I am proud of being human, woman, tribal representative, individual being on my own. I am proud to know and be known by you, to feel this loving acceptance. I am amazed, awed, deeply gratified by your stories, the grandness of your beauty.” Thus grows a beautiful friendship.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #32

Caela’s Story #32


Another mother appeared, ghostly drifting in sudden mist. “Did you grieve for me?” It is Letta’s spirit, a mother’s love Caela has not felt since she was almost too young to remember it’s sweet beauty.

“I grieved for you while you still stood before me in strange imitation of life. I tried so hard to reach you. You would not be reached, would not respond, would not know me.”

Caela felt that grief again, a scarred old wound that could still throb when disinterred, angry, red, infected, long controlled into quietude.

“You know I never meant to leave you. I never meant to betray our bond. As you say, my life ended long before my body died. I never knew it could happen that way. I never knew how to find my way back to you. It wasn’t that I loved her more, no longer needed you. All love, all feeling, was lost from me. I had nothing to give, no way to receive. But, look at you. You give and take in more than anyone I have ever known. I am gifted with this chance to feel the love, pride, pure pleasure, in knowing what you, my precious daughter, have become.”

And she was gone, dissolved into the mist which itself dissolved into a sweet, brightly colored flowery glade. Caela stopped to smell the flowers, inhaling a heady mixture of scent memories. She sat, relaxing her weight against a broad tree trunk, letting her freely flowing tears water the landscape until she drifted off into a different consciousness.

“Why do your people divide? Not just here and there, spatial separations, but even within? Mothers and children separate to expand living. Death separates, but renews – feeding the whole. Yet your whole rebels, rejects connection. No, some connect. But not the whole, not seed to root to stem. Even a healer can still be divided. You have strong presence, strong awareness and integrity of self. You are separate from your kind, also because of your own conscious striving to wholeness of self. How is this? To what purpose? Feel your way along the division, healer. Can you weave it whole? See this spiral dance? Reattach your shadow as a companion of play, and dance so sweetly, so free, complete in every movement, every moment, in living embrace of music vibrating eternally. These are your pictures, your words, imbued with that which is love calling between us.”

As other loves had implanted their brightly precious cuttings through Caela’s being, she now accepted this growing loving friendship with sentience not of her kind, nor of the world her ancestors called home. What is home but where we learn to be and feel alive?

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #31

Caela’s Story #31


It was Singer. Really him. If this is a dream, it is a real dream, more real than the dreams of ordinary awake life. He had always loved this natural world. It was part of him; he part of it. Perhaps she was called because of that of Singer which was in her. Now he is here so I can touch him, even if in the way of dreams. Why is one significant touch so powerful, so deeply held in the realm of essential desire? Caela doesn’t question. She drinks in that essence so immediate, so necessary. She dreams so intensely, as if lives were in the balance. When the rain comes, it is warm and gentle enough to meld into her dream.

Here she was, a great-grandmother. Felicity’s oldest, Solia, had had her baby just a few seasons past. Still, her heart was that of a passionate young lover. This forest, so far from human, seemed to understand and take joy in her. She felt welcomed as long wandering kin, with so much to catch up on. As she walked again in the sunshine, she openly shared her memories as the forest, too, shared its stories. They found common nonlinear, nonlingual, imaginal, perceptual language. Was this how it had been in that mythical garden of Earth, the Eden for which this planet had been named by human invaders? Was there a time in the early history of man when he and the Earth had been companiable kin? Could that kind of relationship be formed here, now? Could there be a reconciliation, a healing? What is this primal wound that keeps humankind from wholeness, integration with life? Caela has no reason to leave this forest. She can make a home here. She can make a new kind of life within this friendship she is forging. She misses her old friends, family, as she thinks of them, remembers their presence. Here in this forest she has found a reuniting with spirits of those she had thought lost to death. She found that something most meaningful of them living joyfully within her. She knew when she entered this forest that she was saying good-bye to those she was leaving behind. Something of them too lives in her, carried with her, wherever she finds herself.

Young furry creatures playing, chasing each other, tumbling, acting out ferocity that disarms itself with chittering laughter, reminds Caela of the children she left behind. The ones she raised were now children long ago. Larik has become a fine young man. Though quiet, preferring solitude to society, he enjoys his life tending to his companion animals and plants on his mother, Maea’s small family farm. The other young people living in what has been expanded from Maris’s old homestead, as well as those older folks he has always known as family, love and respect him for exactly who he is. Caela no longer has regrets about Larik, the circumstances and her part in how he was born. Their time together gave them both what they needed to grow strong, to heal, to learn to be more because of who they had been, where that had taken them. Yet, Solia, without those scars, was her own unique wonderfully alive young woman, adored and cherished by all who knew her. She had always been that magical, blessed child, even more so than that enchanting Felicity, her role model mom, had always been. Teren, quietly calm, shiningly creative, strong, magical, loving, had been such a perfect complement to Felicity’s willful insouciance. Solia was their perfect blend. Yeah, yeah, everyone has their faults. That stipulated, faults can often be the most endearing of what our loved ones see in us. Spiteful moments, bouts of vanity or self-pity, the occasional tantrum or thoughtless hurtful remark is easily subsumed into a generally remarkably lovely character. Caela brags to her forest friend, showing snapshots from the family album she carries within.

They are mothers, together sharing the joy and mystery of life.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #30

Caela’s Story #30


“Did you grieve?” A grey solitary ghost came forward with open palms, tears dripping down her cheeks, thin, wan, faint, but with intense presence. The forest became a sanctuary, a shrine, a temple of worship and sacrifice. A dark pit slowly manifested, a well for sorrow. Each ghost contributed tears, wrenching sobs, wailing, whatever they could give. Caela felt herself dancing around the pit, drawn irresistibly into the music of ghostly crying. Coming into her notice, she saw her longed for long dead loved ones among the ghosts, crying with her over her loss. Slowly, hypnotized, she moved toward their circle. They embraced her, an ectoplasmic affirmation of love, dispelling sorrow. But what of those other wounded spirits? How could they be helped? Were Caela’s deeply embedded wounds so easily healed; or was this uplifting but part of an ongoing process? If we can be ever moving in the direction of healing, no matter how slowly, Caela was thinking. Silently smiling in the center of the pain, wonderful gifts of lives leaving those behind forever better because of the beauty imparted into who we become. When we can let go of the pain and be the totality of who our interchanges and experiences have created, will that be a new kind of wholeness? Could this tentative resolution be useful to the forest’s spirits?

The well of sorrow metamorphosed into a peaceful pond in which graceful gliding silvery creatures glinted in the sunlight. Caela sat upon a convenient large smooth stony surface enjoying the solitude and warmth.

Yet, how strange, she was not alone. A self-possessed child, bright and lively, mature for his years, sat beside her. His image wavered a bit when she looked more closely. She could hear him speaking, though he appeared to be silent. “What was taken from us is still being taken. How can we reconcile, heal, absorb to grow, when our energy must focus on defense against pernicious, chronic attack? Our enemies have not been dissuaded by stoic resolve nor peaceful co-existence. They want blood sacrifice. They are angry beyond reason, calling forth such emotion in we who feel so poignantly a need to arise, take back what we can.”

This was the voice that had called her into the forest, into this newly forming relationship offering new ways of perceiving. The boy was gone, not waiting for an answer. He had given his message. Their people are still being attacked. The exile solved nothing. Had all the witchfolk been rooted out, wouldn’t others with some articulable difference be set apart as scapegoat, blood sacrifice? Does disregard of indigenous life come from a same core of xenophobic disdain? A cognitive confusion of anger, fear, manifesting desire for mastery, control, superior positioning? Back to walking, these puzzles her companions, ghosts dissipated in the sunlight while Caela’s focus is more inward. Why would xenophobes travel so far? Was there nothing left on Earth for them to claim? Or was it the children of the pioneers, born into a less clear purpose, into a world still not their own? Caela’s eyes were drawn to the only sky she had ever known. Brilliant with colors of the setting sun filtered through atmosphere, shape-shifting clouds showing off in deepening hues. Caela stopped her forward motion, turning her purpose to preparing for the night. For a passing moment she considered that she had no recollection of how many days and nights had passed while she and this ancient forest renewed and deepened their acquaintance. Then, back in the gentle flow of this time, she continued her rituals of preparation.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #29

Caela’s Story #29


Resigned sadness permeated Caela’s mind. It was not hers. She was happy, buoyant, enjoying the scents, the sounds, colors, sensory bliss, her own good company. She felt compassion for the sadness, but did not carry its weight. She did not feel resigned. Her blood felt wild within, her mind sharp and questing. Readying to meet any challenge, outmaneuver any obstacle, fully enjoy each next thing, still she listened. Hearing the stories, envisioning that imagery, Caela felt their desperate shadows. As when Larik was small, confused, angry because he did not know how to respond to frustration, Caela felt love. Flowing through her response to angry visions was loving calm, gentle acknowledgement, glad acceptance, open embrace.

Larik always so wanted to be good. He needed constant reassurance. Is that what provides the resilience to face down obstacles to integrity? The deeply cried out for reassurance that, yes you are good and deserve that recognition? So much of the “bad” young people do is naked self-destruction, proving to the world what they have been told: that they are bad, undeserving of respect or real love. Larik was born into horrendous fear, grief, despair. He had no way of knowing these were not his fault until Caela made that clear. It came from what she had learned raising his mother, along with her own daughter. Maea was so much more needy than Felicity. Mirra and Doren didn’t understand her the way Caela could. They were still too caught up in their own childhood dramas, recreating in their adult relationships the conditions to fulfill needs never acknowledged. So complicated, so tragic in large and small ways these misunderstandings, disregardings, minimizing of the importance of respect, consideration, for those we do not fully see.

Caela has been practiced, tried by fire in her own way. Opening her heart to these long festering injured spirits, bespeaking her in their desperation to be heard, feels natural, an outgrowth of who she has always been becoming. The forest and its spirits accept her love. They love her in return, not as a representative of her kind, but as her own unique entity. The seed growing in her since her birth is flowering. Multiple gradations of coloration, complex heady perfume, this flower, this Caela, is as beautiful as they come. Human hag, old, wrinkled, grey, yet what she projects transcends such definitions. Walking, traversing light and shade, consciousness as well moves. First cause, first principle: keep moving.

“Something vital was taken from us. We don’t know how to respond. We are wounded, unwhole. Tell us, healer, how do we reconcile? How do we grow new hearts, neural pathways, create what we need to feel alright?” A common theme so may of the ghosts agreed on. Caela too felt severing losses that had overwhelmed her, wrenched away good lives, those she most depended upon.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #28

Caela’s Story #28


They had assembled in ghostly presence, those from early memory who had walked with her through this forest. These spirits had not aged as the bodies that had carried them did over years in the human environment formed in the soft divide of this vast woodland natural to this world. So many of these she had traveled with were gone now. Yet here they appeared to her shifting in guises from that previous time in their lives. Shifting positions, faces, garments, props, several of these dream ghosts bespoke her, as if acting out a morality play, vagabonds in the woods begging for favor. The ground around her shifted as well, quaking, dream sand turning quick, sticky, flimsy, unstable. Yet she was not falling through, but with this slow-motion molten panorama. Voices, figures fashioned of old friends, memories, and memories of what had never manifested past fears and dreams, continued their performances into changing scenes. Too amazed and swept up to notice fear or her own reactions, Caela dreamed unlike any dream she had known before.

“Somebody called me. Was it you?” she asked of each ghostly presence. They all had their stories. These became a song of endless verses. When she awoke with the morning light, Caela was still singing. The feelings evoked by the dream lingered. Still dreaming, she resumed walking, perceiving multi-layered forest imperceptibly interweaving with the many layers Caela had never realized she contained.

Or was it the forest bespeaking her? She felt drawn to shiny succulent fruits when her thirst needed slaking. Their dripping nectar gave not only moisture but renewed energy. When she needed rest, she felt drawn to securely comforting soft vegetation. She found herself frequently accompanied by soft, chittering creatures, droll and endearing, somehow leading her into wordless conversation. Her human ghosts too had their say, quietly, whispering barely discernibly in the shadows. Far from frightening or unwelcome, these gentle, often changing companions amused Caela, engaged her attention, set off trails of reveries. “Tell me.” she whispered in return. Not dreaming, but seeing in a way that accessed unexplored places in her mind, Caela’s rhythmic movement, her very open senses, her willing acceptance of mystery, was rewarded.

“I was a tailor. I measured fabric, repaired treasured garments. I was not a monster. Mostly I was generous and kind. Not always. I still regret yelling so angrily at my little daughter when she scrambled my buttons and clasps in innocent play. I should have made a game of sorting them out together. But they sent us away, tore us from our hard-won through diligent working lives. Not because we may have been at times unkind or foolish, but just because we were.”

Caela felt the memory of tears. “But you found another life.” She wanted to give comfort.

“But it was not the life I wanted, worked for, chose over my years of childhood to give my devotion. I found another life out of necessity. I never found justice for the life taken from me.”

The forest too had life taken from it without its choice. The small clearing her people had taken was not such an issue. Of course over time and human ideas of progress it could become much worse, like the city. When the settlers first arrived, they took over only small areas, as the witchfolk did now. They took only what their several hundreds needed for continued life. They were careful, not knowing what to expect. Now they have claimed ownership of everything within their range of sight, as if by natural order. Perhaps it is the natural order. There they are.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #27

Caela’s Story #27


Old man rabbit feels the call. He is not so spry nor sharp of sight as he once was. It is good that he is called; better than the young ones with much life and potential still in them. Old man rabbit is not afraid. More curious than anything, “What is this will that calls me? I am a rabbit, burrowing in the earth, gnawing on roots, nibbling on leaves, ever wary of the predator in all his mighty forms. I am quick and sensitive, enough, while I am lucky, to survive and become old – too old to count on luck everlasting. I have never felt a call such as this, overtaking a will I had not been aware of possessing. What is an old man rabbit to do? Thought is a foreign concept. Action, reaction, that’s what I do. An overwhelming power pulls me closer. Without thought or emotion, I follow the pull. Am I to be eaten by a mighty foe? That is, no doubt, my destiny. I am to be honored by assimilation into the great mystery of life eternal. In this way, prey becomes predator, becomes mulch, falls back into the cycle, becomes the essence of life.”

“Come to me old man rabbit. I call you, with deepest respect, to offer me your lifeforce that I may continue to have the strength necessary for my mission. I enwrap you in a happy, peaceful dream as your life recedes. I consume your remains with reverence, feel the essence of your sacred sacrifice.”

Thus Caela bespoke the creature in their conjoined fields of consciousness, binding it to her will. A special kind of hunter, conjuring the prey into view, into giving itself to her need. A very special power must be tempered with love, compassion, humility. It is well that such power be discovered in a time of liminal contemplation, that it be honored and addressed appropriately. It would not do to be overtaken by fear or bravado, or a desire for self-aggrandizement. All of this Caela understood as she sat there, in what seemed the beginning of the world, in a state of reverence and awe.

She prepared and ate the old rabbit. It took a bit of cooking covered by wet leaves on stones in the fire pit. It was clear to her that what she had gained from this lesson was much more than a full stomach or added strength and vigor. It was clear that her strength and will, her gift, were much stronger, subtler, more powerful than she had dared to imagine when she had lived as part of a bustling community.

It was clear that this knowledge was now being revealed so that she could hone her skills for the adventure ahead. Whatever was to fall across her path to be overcome, this time alone, learning the ways of her spirit, would surely give her the skills and confidence to do what she must.

Replenished, Caela watched the last performances of flame as the fire consumed what wood it had been given. Darkening forest, ebbing, flames, tired body ready to sleep. She found her way back to a nearby sheltered grove noted in her earlier brief exploration. Having improved it for her purpose in rudimentary fashion, Caela lay down upon the soft forest floor and relaxed into dreams.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #26

Caela’s Story #26


First, find food. There is water running in the narrowing/widening stream she can hear and smell. Water is water, pure without pollutants. Minerals are minerals. This planet seems to be pretty much of the same kinds as Earth. We have lived here all these years unpoisoned. Caela’s people had dug wells to make use of the water in underground springs. They had devised irrigation for their plants. They had lived all their lives with, more and more as part of, this land, this sky.

After food, find a place to sleep of soft mosses, grasses, loam, dry enough, secured enough from rain and other detriments to sleep. Simple survival, basic building blocks of communication life to life in those simple, basic demands of biology.

Caela stopped walking; sat in the curve of an old gnarled tree. Listening intently, reaching out from a primal place in her mind into the teeming, pulsing life surrounding her, she drew it in with her breath. Very still beyond rhythmic breathing, she sat for a small arc of eternity. Heightened awareness to all sensory data without intrusion of conscious thought, Caela was finding her rhythm, the tune, the music of forest life with which she could improvise, sit in, sing along.

When he was till quite small, Larik had found and brought to her a sharp, jagged rock of clear, hard crystal. Over time she had found it to be a useful tool for digging, cutting, grinding herbs, even focusing sunlight to start tinder burning. She kept it in a pouch tied to the woven belt around her waist (a more recent gift, from Maea now settled into Grandmother Maris’s legacy). Had she not this fortuitous, familiar tool she no doubt would have found what she needed, made plans around what she found, for foraging. No doubt her crystal ally had originated in another part of this forest. Thus Caela amused herself with thoughts on the vagaries of fortune while digging a fire pit, arranging stones, tinder, various widths of fallen branches which she broke down to appropriate size.

Making preparation, not far from the stream. Moving through these purposeful actions as if in meditative ritual, Caela felt herself getting caught up in a quietly graceful dance, each movement blurring into the next. Bright sun star shining into rippling water, trees standing their ground as branches play with breeze, rustling scratching chirping squeaking creatures playing out their destinies, dramas, simple cycles of life. Caela discovering while creating her way in, feeling satisfaction in this expression of her consciousness, carrying water on broad leaves from stream to pit site, becoming hunter-gatherer natural human being.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #25

Caela’s Story #25


Into the Woods


At first she walked without thought, mind caught up in languageless reverie, body exquisitely attuned to every sound, scent, touch of living plant against her skin. Feet and arms bare to ground and air, though toughened by years of work and exposure, Caela moved into this landscape bare of expectation.

Scurrying, hiding creatures, peering out curiously slowly came to understand that she could be safely ignored. Walking into a rhythm in tune to the forest sounds, she could feel the music. She could feel completely alive, a creature in this natural world without guide, constraint, responsibility or companionship of human kind. Not thought, instantaneous realization of another level of being outside of society, inside the ecology of the forest. There is a restfulness to shedding roles. There is an energy that comes from rhythmic movement, a relaxation from moving in tune to the natural music of the moment. Habituated ways of sensing, of perceiving, of thinking can silently fall away. Without preformed valuations, what is speaks for itself.

A few smaller Earth mammals, originally brought as embryos on the ship, then propagated on farms, had escaped, gone wild, mutated to better fit in to their new world. Earth food stock in seed and embryo form had been sent on the ship in case Earthmen might find the local lifeforms inedible or lacking in needed nutrients. There had been hydroponic gardening on the ship for fresh vegetables, and, perhaps, to keep food growing skills fresh as well. Farming in Eden’s soil had presented no problem for the plants growing from Earth seed or the people and Earth animals eating them. It was even found that grazing Earth animals could find sufficient nutrition in the local flora. Still, suspicious humans preferred their own food stock to foraging.

Caela would need to eat in the forest. She must learn where useful, nonpoisonous to her body, sustenance could be obtained. She needed to learn to speak with the forest, learn its language. This seemed to her, on a level beyond conscious thought, the most obvious next link in the chain from here to there. She remembered Singer’s love of the forest, the music he found and co-created there. After all, it was the same forest, as far as the forest was concerned, a bit further north. She could find Singer’s presence within her, reassuring, loving, telling her to love this forest, his friend. She could also feel chilly ghostly energies, the pain, the fear, the intense emotion of her people’s journey that this forest had never assimilated into its own abiding wisdom. She could feel, sense, become a conduit, student, and awed participant with all of these energies ready to interweave into something she could accept and carry. But not yet; this journey is only beginning.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #24

Caela’s Story #24


Lukin and Merin knew what Sira knew. Anxious since his exile to the academy, Lukin has been monitoring his mother’s progress and anxieties. Lukin and Merin had been developing a meeting of minds. Smart, shrewd and meticulous in his knowledge, like his grandfather, Lukin had not the years of idolatry and indulgence to mar the clarity of his vision. Merin, shaken out of his self-obsession by the seriousness of their immediate peril, could still indulge in grand pride for his grandson’s gifts. Merin, for all his grandiosity, had never even considered the kind of distant and multi-leveled mind to mind communication that came so easily to Lukin, developed with the extended cousin network but originating with Lukin’s own natural talent. In times like these, when normal methods of communication are far too open to surveillance, Lukin’s talent was made to order. There’s some kind of saying: When the student is ready, the teacher will come. Perhaps when the times require it, the talent will come.

The Harmonic Academy, being a somewhat wealthy, prestigious facility at this point in its history, had an arrangement with a farm not too far south of the city, to provide fresh produce and such. Part of the agreement involved periodic field trips so that young students might experience the bucolic realities of food production. Fortuitously, such a field trip was scheduled in the not too distant future, just before the end of term school vacation period. Even more fortuitously, Merin had several former students who had formed a conscious experimental community down in farm country.

South of the city, several families had decided to make their own way, thank you, outside of restrictive city laws. They produced the food necessary for all those city folk in return for high profits and an unspoken agreement that they were to be left alone. To the east of the farm lands, outside the arable zone, were the military/police academy and barracks. This school of martial arts and military discipline was the original City Council’s solution for useful deployment of aggressive youthful energies that could not be adequately addressed within the city frame. Once properly disciplined, indoctrinated, these otherwise troublesome youth became excellent enforcers of city civility, or if not tame enough for that, excellent prison guards out east. On occasion farm folk and police cadets would find commonality in raucous celebrations or simple conversation while gaming or otherwise socializing. Mostly, each group kept to itself, that being part of their misfit natures.

Of Merin’s merry band of misfits now farming in the south, one was quite familiar to Lukin. Toriv had been an uncle to him for the years Toriv had been with Jenia. He now apparently ran a school for the kids of his community and others of the farm land who wanted to attend. He had a son a bit older than Kesia called Kirin who lived at the school with him. Merin might not mind-talk over distances, but he had plenty of other sources of information. Those would not be of help now. They needed to make contact with the farm folk and arrange for shelter for seven witch kids about to find exile preferable to the likely alternatives.

Lukin reached into his memory to find what he knew of Toriv’s mind. Reaching into a familiar, inarticulable process in his own mind, Lukin created a conduit. Before long, he was there, feeling Toriv’s presence questioning: “Is someone there?”

Not sure of what level of “voice” he needed to negotiate the distance and unfamiliar with the mind he was sending to, unlike the familial children he was accustomed to, Lukin considered the situation. Anyone who picked up on his message would be by definition of their kind, on their side. Keeping it simple, direct, an opening volley, Lukin called to Toriv: “Help! We need your help. We are of your kind; and we need you.” Soon Lukin felt the response he was seeking. Toriv, sending a clear signal of willing agreement, asked what was needed of him. Thus, the conversation proceeded. The pertinent information was exchanged, along with planning for continued dialogue as the venture should solidify, move forward.

Lukin’s pleas also reached another whose response was much less direct. Like a melody carried from some far off transmitter, Caela felt the call as she stood, mind open to the breeze, at the edge of the forest. It was a call that carried some element of distant past completely caught up in the immediate now. Caela felt something of a destiny calling, perhaps from her future. She walked into the forest because it was the next obvious thing to do.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #23

Caela’s Story #23


Kesia, Jenia’s little girl, was growing to be a quietly thoughtful, loving child. Her intense temper and stubborn streak melted at any thought that she might be causing pain. As for Sira’s project, eventually there would be papers to file, fees to pay, a campaign to run. Long before any of that could be of any use, she knew she must take a long time building up information, supporters, a clear plan flexible enough for contingencies. Most importantly, she needed to take the time to build up a reputation for being the kind of strong representative on whom voters could count to promote their interests. She has been thinking, talking about respect, appreciation. “It’s not that people don’t want to make reasonable compromises when they harden into set positions. They want their positions respected. They want voiced and palpable appreciation for what they choose to give.”

Merin and Vika were proud of Sira’s gumption, and did what they could to promote her cause with those among whom they had influence. The whole family felt proud, excited, somehow solemnly touched, each doing what they could. The seven children of this extended family, Lukin, Tela and Kesia in their city home, Noria, Serg, Safa and Tamis at the academy, were developing among themselves their own secret network to share, comfort, inform, bolster each other through the dramas and changes of their seemingly accelerating lives. The grown-ups were busy, did not need to know and possibly forbid or be concerned. It is good that they have their silent support system. It is good that they grow learning clearly, deeply, certainly, who they each are, how they can best collaborate.

It wasn’t that Sira was naive. How could she be with all her worldly experience? To some extent she was sheltered. Always surrounded by loving family, often knowing the joy of making them proud, had left her mental defenses against conscious opposition flimsy at best. She had long known how to get her way so graciously that none would find offense. She was so caught up in her inspiration and ambition to do very good for very many. She knew that there might be obstacles, stubborn loyalties to the status quo, countering ambitions of opponents, mistakes in planning, misunderstandings to watch out for and be made right. She did not, stupidly, plan on the opposition being so mean, so vicious, so entrenched, sneaky, or no holds barred. It was hard on them all.

Kesia was so proud of being a big girl, going to school. She was not prepared for this greater world in which she was not automatically beloved. Due to the trickle down of incomplete information, children thinking they knew of some fault in her family teased Kesia unmercifully. She was used to silly sparing with her extended cousins at home and several miles away. She shot back the most nasty imagery she knew, not realizing the effect she would have on these children. Frightened children told frightened parents who prevailed upon frightened authorities.

Sira was all damage control commander. The kids got dropped off to stay with Merin and Vika at the academy to keep them out of harm’s way. Sira put together a media blitz campaign showing her opponents to be using scare tactics to hide their own serious crimes of corruption. She personally calmed the local parents, children, teachers, using her special charm to move their fears into the realm of hyperbole easily released with some well placed jokes. The kids knew they were being mean, that they did so out of irrational fear, that they overreacted to Kesia’s tantrum out of guilt. They understood it all once Sira explained so warmly and clearly. Perhaps it would all be ok. Sira, finally, knew better. The family would have to come up with a plan to take the kids someplace more anonymous and safe than regally flamboyant Merin’s lair. She could feel rumors already spreading about those weird academy people related to Sira and Reag.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #22

Caela’s Story #22


Toriv thought about Jenia, reaching out for a familiar comforting presence. What he felt was icy fear and raw, searing pain that did not originate with him. Well, maybe, in a very tenuous sense of effects and causes, his behaviors were in the mix. She was sad, at a loss for self-comforting, depressed over their loss, over feeling that her life was going nowhere, over not being good enough.

Not fully aware of her surroundings in the immediate here and now in a sometimes unruly neighborhood, she was ill-prepared to protect herself. There were too many of them, too muscularly advantaged. She blasted out fear, rage, warnings of danger, but they were already too angry, keyed up, lost in chaos, to much care about the added pain her mind impinged on theirs. Later they would remember, talk about that weird witchy bitch, add to the rumors. Maybe, had she been trained, or even experienced in broadcasting her energy and imagery, they might have been dissuaded, turned away from prey too difficult for easy pickings. Instead, she had been trained, even pre-birth, in restraint, staying hidden, meek acceptance.

Sira felt her sister’s agonized screaming, found Jenia torn, bleeding, battered, trying to drag herself home. Reag felt Sira’s screaming and came running; they carried Jenia home, tended to her wounds.

When Jenia realized she had conceived a child, despite her family’s very real concerns for her, and her realistic concerns for herself, she knew she wanted the child in her life. It was a clear, fierce bond even before this baby was much more than an idea. Sira, after her initial worry, completely supported her sister. Soon this new child became another layer of their family life.

As the child slowly yet inexorably grew within Jenia, an idea was slowly growing to obsess Sira, teasing her in reverie long before it was consciously formed. She wanted to, believed she could, get elected to the City Council. In a very small way this was tied up in her desire for her people to have more power, a basis for respect that would allow them to be openly who they were. After all of her years of experience in hiding this part of herself from the official world, she didn’t actually believe her efforts would get them there. Much more immediately importantly, she wanted to help to shape a better set of policies, better governance, for all the people she felt she could represent responsibly. She wanted to help empower an active citizenry, to help create a better city with so much less fear and hatred. She wanted to clean out the ugly emotions permeating too many squalid city streets so nobody need have their lives overwhelmed by feelings of hopelessness, oppression, helpless rage. Sira had always been the responsible one, smart, strong, brave, caring, reliable. She had early on taken charge of sweet, dreamy Jenia, seeing how hopeless their parents seemed to be. To a large degree these sisters had formed each other, raised each other to be as they had become. They each felt strengthened, encouraged, by the other.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #21

Caela’s Story #21


Reag, Sira and crew enjoyed frequent visits with Merin and Vika. Neris too taught at the academy and had her own ménage not far from her parents’ family home and playground of idealists and their ideas. Pera, another former academy student of the group who grew their minds and ideals in Merin’s salon along with Reag and Sira, had moved in with Merin and Vika. Her daughter, Noria, was close to Lukin in age.

In their developing friendship, Lukin and Noria secretly stayed close in mind over distance to share private jokes, consolations, working out together puzzles and curiosities in their lives. It was for them a game and a comfort in a confusing world. No one outside the inner circle knew Noria was in fact Lukin’s aunt, Reag’s half-sister, one result of Merin and Vika’s exploration of polyamory to boost the witchfolk’s possibilities of progeny and future.

Neris and Sebia, lovers since their teen years, not outgrowing their experimental young crush, had taken into their fold another of Reag and Sira’s crowd, Jal, who happily served to father the so far three youngsters of that household. Sebia’s son, Serg was only slightly younger than Noria and Lukin. His half-sisters, Neris’s girls, Safa and Tamis, were one a bit older, one a bit younger, than Tela. Merin was jolly about his pater familias role. Vika, typically, enjoyed the constant high drama and turning it all to farce at the appropriate moments. “The fun never ends while we enjoy the play,” she liked to say. Not the best people to go to for a reality check, they were always happy to argue any proposition, brainstorm up a gale, love and support without reservation, point out the structural flaws of any proposal while offering creative alternatives.

Lesa had been another of the old academy crowd (or would that be young academy crowd, now older?) who had stayed to teach the younger kids coming in. Back in the transitional times, when the confused youngsters who didn’t know what to make of their standard schooling were the prime customers, needing her patient care, Lesa felt fulfilled. She was where she belonged. But where she was was changing. Toriv had been her friend for, well, forever, from their own early academy days. He was somehow now part of Merin’s extended family, and often about visiting the academy. After the miscarriage, he needed consoling. He needed a woman who could give him a child. Lesa needed to be needed. After he left Jenia, Toriv moved in with the Lesa, now the mother of his child to be, and picked up some classes teaching the younger kids at the academy as Lesa did. But the academy was changing. Lesa and Toriv had talked with others of their friends about a community that had been started down in the libertarian farm lands to the south. Looking for something to belong to, a way to make their mark and make a life with meaning, Toriv and Lesa moved south to start a school for children like their own within the still newly forming community of former city misfits.

“You left little sister, but you’re still trying to please great god Merin.” Why had Lesa said this to Toriv? Back in their school days they had called Jenia “little sister.” Reag was Merin’s son, Sira his sidekick. Jenia was Sira’s little sister, along for the ride. Merin was their hero, of course. Yes, he was here in this strange new pioneering way of life because of what he believed Merin was preaching. But she was being ironic, angry, because he did not show the courage of his convictions. He wanted his school, his traditional family. She wanted to join the mainhouse, be part of a brave new world.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #20

Caela’s Story #20


Jenia’s tragic miscarriage helped to sever her bond with Toriv, separate their lives. There was no fault, no blame. She turned to her more fortunate sister, by now mother of both a bright, caring, naturally responsible and mature little boy and a younger precious precocious marvelously charming little girl. Jenia enjoyed her niece and nephew, the comfort of her sister and brother-in-law’s home, being family. Not enough, but enough for now, along with her if hectic and often frustrating inherently fulfilling work. It was a deep solace to her, sharing her knowledge and love of learning with the amazing children it was her privilege to teach.

“Not just food and a roof,” Sira was explaining. “People need dignity, respect, a feeling like we matter. We want something to believe in, to belong to, to hold sacred. It’s not enough to have the basic biological necessities. That’s only a small nugget of being alive, like an embryo. Unless that innate potential has its chance to be realized, there’s not much reason to be born at all.” She was working out these ideas, this logical progression, almost a political platform. It felt compelling, this desire to figure out what was wrong and how to right it. All these broken people, day after day, it was her job to help find strength to move forward. She often thought of it as working through the knots binding their potentials. More and more she could see so clearly that this was not a matter of individual failings to thrive, but systemic disease. If she kept working at the equations, cause and effect rationales, common denominators, kinks in the social fabric, perhaps she could discover appropriate treatments to apply. Her children, Lukin and Tela, touchstones and joys that anchored and expanded her life, were so young and vulnerable. Increasingly, every day, a deep and growing part of her demanded a better world for their future, as well as for hers and for everyone she loved.

Love can be such an infinitely gentle and suffering thing. It can demand more than simpler emotions, much more than would make sense from a standpoint of survival. Sira stealthily plants within herself, without her conscious knowledge, a seed of political ambition. For politics at its core and best is the art and science of moving the vectors of social change.

Meanwhile, back at the Harmonic Academy, small stage social evolution moved at a different pace. The school was no longer seen so much as an experimental answer for parents of nontraditional learners. It had become a well-loved learning community for students of expressive and performing arts. As such, a certain amount of social experimentation was expected, and therefore accepted. What a bunch of crazy artists do in their sheltered little school out, away from everyday decent living was just a colorful footnote to real life. Let the creative kids sow their oats and have their petite revolutions of the mind. They’ll get straightened out by real responsibilities soon enough.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #19

Caela’s Story #19


Outside of their formal schooling, Sira and Reag spent much time with Merin, and Reag’s mom, Vika, also a teacher at the academy. Vika also wrote and directed plays performed by the students. Others of their students, as well as Reag’s older sister Neris and her friends, were often about taking part in vociferous discussions and impromptu entertainments. Sira’s younger sister, Jenia, soon became a regular there as well. It was not just the kids. Other teachers, even some of the parents, would drop by as schedules permitted. It was good that Merin and Vika had such a large lovely home just beyond the academy grounds in which to enjoy and entertain their many friends.

At home Sira and Jenia were not so merry. Their parents’ fear, and loathing of their subservient lifestyle, permeated the rooms, the walls. The girls were not cruelly treated. They were loved, cherished as the hope of a dearly desired future. It was the here and now, day to day, grinding away at aspirations, at any chance of joyful prosperity or even honorable integrity that made this home a little taste of hell. It was so good for Sira and Jenia that they had their school, their friends, their own growing lives. For some, with only mini-hells to build on, life at best is merely unbearable. Sira and Jenia are built of much more. They have the potential to build a future more suited to living than dreading.

In the due course of time, Sira and Reag’s magnetic friendship blossomed in the strong bath of maturing hormones, into true love. The idealism they imbibed in their academy garden of knowledge matured in Sira, Reag and Jenia into studies leading to caring careers. Reag and Jenia developed their loves of learning and children to find teaching positions in a neighborhood low in hope and ideals. Sira, strident and self-assured, found working with the troubled and disempowered rewarding when her efforts made a significant difference in more empowered and self-defined lives going forward. Reag and Sira found a large rambling home, full of character and charm, near their respective jobs at the high school and community center. They also found themsleves to be expecting parents. They were living an emotional high, giving them incredible energy necessary to maintain the activities underpinning their high emotions.

Jenia and her young man, Toriv, primary teachers, had a cute little apartment nearby. The sisters, as close as ever, entwined lives, shared the excitement of the baby. Jenia and Toriv were hoping to have their own child as well soon. Their love of nurturing young children was a strong bond that had helped to bring them together. They were also concerned, it was a mostly unspoken but growing concern among their people, that their population was dwindling. After the devastating diminishment of the exile, the numbness of being so overwhelmed with emotion and the fearfilled introversion had been their major theme. Time and routines had mellowed that fashion of thought. Perhaps a group identity so maligned that it must remain a secret link shared by a secret few is in no position to demand continuation, survival as a kind. Perhaps assimilation into the accepted norm is the saner, ecologically sounder way to go. Jenia, Toriv, their friends and family, could never be convinced of that.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #18

Caela’s Story #18


Harmonic Academy’s philosophy of encouraging a variety of learning styles and peaceful self-expression was a positive nurturing environment for children who might feel pressured by social stigmatization of any kind in their neighborhood lives. With gorgeous rolling grounds, just far enough north of the hub of the city to be out of the way, it was a wonderful world of play in which to grow. The witchfolk children knew not to shine, not to stand out, to get along enticing no comment. They knew which teachers they could trust to help them with academic or personal concerns.

Out in the harsh eastern drylands, no one wanted to build their futures. Land more dust than loam, weeds more yellow bristly rough to the touch, creatures less shy, more mean, stinging angrily at whatever may disturb hard fought for and unforgiving territory. Sira had never been beyond the city to the east. She had been given warning images in her catechisms against careless disclosures. They might not exile someone like Sira if she should be fount out. They well might imprison her in horrible conditions, a much more viscerally palpable threat. It was in the harsh glaring sun of the unproductive east land that prisoners, pariahs from city justice, were sent for penitence.

All societies need prisons, don’t they? Time-out holes to hold the dangerous, or repositories for the politically and socially incorrect are hallmarks of civilization. Aren’t they? Well, not in a community in which a wrongdoer is immediately hit hard with the emotional toll wrought; not where the governing structure is more libertarian than democratic and disputes are honored by settling them through well-argued compromise. It is easier, of course, to settle disputes and prevent the welling up of criminal intentions within small enough social confines so that all parties are mutually well known. Once factions set up against factions, arguments intractably settled into place, disputes become institutionalized, and so do the losers.

Sira’s favorite teacher, Merin, was secretly a historian among her people. He was also a learned historian of their colony planet and of the home world, Earth. He was generally a favorite among the teachers and students for his easy friendly, yet passionately fierce manner, the way he made what might seem difficult concepts so immediate and real, the way he readily listened and deeply appreciated what was said to him. His intense mental thirst had led him to acquire a broad range of knowledge which it was his great joy and privilege to share. That Sira’s best friend, Reag, was Merin’s son only added to her estimation of them both.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #17

Caela’s Story #17


On the other side of the forest, beyond the open fields of the less socially enclosed, changes in situations and attitudes moved slowly. Of course they continued the long tradition of slowing enterprise through the perceived requirement that all must move through the viscous medium of money. Psychologically this tradition was beneficial to tamp down escalation of anxiety and panic known to accompany rapid change in a society founded on desires for stability, safety, clear and consistent rules of the road to a successful life. We did not come all this way, brave all this unknown and inconvenience, start from scratch in an alien wilderness, to accept anything less.

Red brick roads.
Centered in a park of verdant glory, a fountain statue of a mythical god of the sea.
Bright colorful street lanterns shine bringing out the patterns of iridescent threads fashioned into clothing, flowing, open, light and merry.
No one hungry except by choice for the experience. None without their cubicle, apartment, palatial estate.
Comedies, tragedies, play out in street and theater. Venders sell their succulent or fanciful wares.
This is a city self-consciously fulfilling the needs and ambitions of a people who strive to be worthy of the style and livelihoods they embrace.
Earnest scholars comment upon every aspect of their cosmopolitan endeavors. Social commentators dumb it all down for easy access. Everybody knows what everybody knows. Everybody knows we all get along a whole lot better if everybody agrees to know only what we should. Not to say we don’t happily indulge in heated debate and individual choice. It’s just that everything has its proper place, that we may all fit securely in our urbane scene.

Sira’s parents had not even been born at the time of the exile. Their parents had been of the fortunate ones too unimportant to be pointed out, too meek and quiet to be concerned about. Really, there were lots of them. Being different only counts if you’re seen as a threat. The mainstream folk are perfectly happy to have lesser empowered dweebs with embarrassing secrets to feel above. You, freaks, don’t be threatening my position, my possessions, my profits, my popularity, and I just might let you go on your miserable way. Is that how it was? How it is? As her parents had been by theirs, Sira was warned, had bitterly sown into her earliest lessons in belief, don’t be noticed. Don’t let anybody know what you can do. This is inner family business, not for outside consumption. We are who we are; but no one else can know.

In fact there were a rather large group of them. A very small percentage of a large number can still be a large number of ones and twos in a small world of who we know, those people we carry in our minds between meetings. Sira’s friends at the academy, the private school they attended, were also of the secret society who could always know each other by reaching mind to mind. There was never need to speak of the secret aloud.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #16

Caela’s Story #16


You are always going back into the forest. It helped to form you, as did your father’s seed, your mother’s womb and milk. What forms us, becomes us, we must explore, if only in dreams or strange obsessions, or unnatural silence.

Caela and Larik are quite a pair. Old and young, female and male, hyper-sensitive and numb to sensitivity, working out who they need to become in the cabin once a happy home to Caela, Singer and Felicity (with Maea and friends of the moment in tow). It naturally fell out that they be together. The boy who could not bond, could not fathom what was common to those around him, was bonded to Caela. She alone made sense to him. She had always been a part of who he was. Caela too felt a strong and special connection to this child. She also felt a need to find a way to heal him of the affliction resulting from a wound she also needed to heal within herself. Larik’s mother, Maea, meanwhile, was having difficulties and unpleasant awakenings of her own.

“He acts like I got pregnant on my own. Now it’s all my situation to deal with. As if he had no part in it at all.” Maea is speaking bitterly of Larik’s father, Larn, whom she clearly still adores. He has shown considerably less interest in her since it started to become evident that she would be more of a drain than an energizing inspiration. It’s not that he didn’t care for her; but there are many for whom he feels great fondness. All are subservient to his brightly shining visions, his grand plans and their imperatives. It is not that he is any different from the man she has known him to be, loved him for being, all along. Yet she feels bitterly disillusioned. She has lost her anchoring, her way, her understanding of and belief in who she had thought herself to be. She no longer feels part of the House community. For awhile she tries staying with her parents, spending much of her time with Caela and Larik, attempting to be a family. It is clear that Larik greatly prefers Caela, is shy and confused around Maea. Mirra and Doren have become set in routines to which Maea feels an outsider. She feels their love; but Maea feels awkward when she needs to find a respite of serenity in which to reconnect to herself, discover where her next steps need to lead.

Maea’s grandmother Maris’s place had been left behind, not too far from Jase’s outpost, as building moved further outward. The house is surrounded by plenty of land for their grazing animals, crops for fiber, feed and food for the household (supplemented by trade). It was a large house, built onto over the years to accommodate people and projects. Maris and here older daughters, Arla and Cali, still kept up their busy textile workshop. Cali’s longtime lover, Lilia, does her part as well, including her magnificently intricate and lovely embroidery to their bag of tricks. Lev, who has been living with Maris for decades now, assists with his carpentry, building equipment and furniture for the household and as part of their stock for trade. Always plenty of work for another pair of hands, and Maris informally takes in whoever wants to stay for as long as it all works out for them all. There is plenty of room in which to enjoy solitude, and plenty of companionship, easy-going or intense, depending on what one seeks. Caela comes around frequently with Larik. He likes the more private simple chores as he learns them, working with the animals and plants, away from the main farmlands of the community. His family knows not to pressure him, not to overwhelm him with expectations he has no ability to comprehend. Maea is getting better at dropping her own expectations for how life is meant to be.

Less enthusiastically involved with Larn, though still sympathetic to his vision, Felicity and Teren now live in their cabin near the House with little Solia. Solia, beautiful entertaining, entrancing, cuddly imp, is their perfect muse. They are developing their own project, based on their combined talents. Felicity’s knowledge of healing and Teren’s experience with creative expression have given them ideas about exploring the realm of possible expressive therapies. Working with others who are excited about possibilities of working out personal issues, improving health and attitudes, getting more intimately in touch with their inner muses, they are figuring out together how their theories can best be turned to practice.

A life expands into other lives, energies combining and recombining, creating human ecosystems. Like trees, each living through its own cycles within the cycles of the forest, we create our stories, our lore, our social networks.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #15

Caela’s Story #15


Contractions to crowning to birth, and Caela showing off their grandchild to Singer’s tears of overwhelming joy. Felicity, after screaming her head off in amazingly colorful language, and otherwise expending her legendary energy in biological abandon, now is blissfully happy to let her mom and dad extol her virtues. She smiles, though wanly, at Teren, sharing this moment of deep satisfaction. New mother and baby daughter, Solia, trade in their well-earned exhaustion for sleep.

Caela knows that where Felicity has gone, Maea won’t be far behind. She too takes this opportunity to nap between birthings.

Singer, with more emotional high than even he knew possible, makes for the woods to compose appropriately expressive song in collaboration with nature. She is certainly in a receptively collaborative mood, brewing up a storm. Loving the musicality of storm winds, driving rain, crashing thunder, cracking electricity, Singer exults. What a beautiful day!

Maea’s child, though clearly moving toward being born, has moved into an inappropriate position for ease in exit. Though not the norm, this situation is not one with which Caela is unfamiliar. She knows all it will take is intense concentration into this newly forming consciousness to guide the child into position. First casting an aura of calm through Maea to enhance relaxation, she calmly links to the baby, so gently he feels only the relaxed presence of mother love.

Despite the wildly loud storm picking up outside, within the House all is secure.

Deep crack of thunder and accompanying swath of light outside suddenly coincide with crashing painful agony so loud it reverberates throughout, it seems, the world. In an instant lives are shattered as one is lost, killed by the woods he loves.

There is nothing but screaming, blinding pain. Caela can always feel it if she looks there.

Maea, in shock and overload, suddenly freed from the woozy peace of Caela’s ministrations, goes through the motions necessary to complete her separation from newborn Larik. He appears a healthy, if inconsolable, child. All his parts in their right places seem to be functioning as expected. Maea is in no condition to notice what is missing, her mind overtaken with Caela’s silent screaming.

Caela of course knows what is wrong with Larik. She was right there with him when the world exploded. She knows, but such knowledge, all knowledge, has been cordoned off from her consciousness. She is only conscious of great, wet pain, crushing into hard, damp ground, crushing out of breath and life. She is no longer alive. All the places throughout her being that have always been filled with Singer are gone. There is no more screaming.

Larik was silent. Suddenly Maea knew. The bond was absent. That part in her people’s minds capable of sending and receiving immediate perceptions, memories, raw emotion and emotional bonding, had been horribly wounded in Larik by the circumstances of his birth.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #14

Caela’s Story #14


In the way of human destinies, it was not more than two seasons before Maea and Felicity were full of the wondrous news that they both were with child. Sharing their happiness with their parents in the superior manner of the young who seem to believe they have invented biology, they also share their courageous trepidation in the throes of new experience. Caela reassures them. This is just another adventure they will have together.

Entering a forest only seems more courageous than entering life because of the illusion of choice. We hear a calling. That compelling cry will not cease without an answer, no matter how we may try to quell or override it. What we answer, how we comport ourself over the journey, that we may choose. That choice may still be illusion, but of the kind extolled as prophetic in dreams.

Maea’s paternal grandmother, Narda the historian, had been part of history herself. She had been one of a small council of negotiators sent to plead the case of what were called the witchfolk to a council of leaders from the city’s government. The city leaders didn’t want bloodshed on their watch. They wanted a peaceful, prosperous reign. It was concluded that the small minority population causing all this excitement by their existence in the city must be banished. No problem. This planet has plenty of land thus far free of humanity. The native creatures have not shown signs against encroachment in all these centuries since men began doing business in this enclave. Send them far enough from here that they become a distant memory, eventually not even that. No need to be cruel. The elderly and infirm can live out their days in their familiar homes. Certainly they can do no harm in the time they have left. But we can’t allow the young and strong to have technological tools that might facilitate a future return or ongoing communication. The contract was made with the understanding that the witchfolk historians would remember and honor it, carry it forward to their historians to come. Being a small, out of favor, minority, they agreed to a contract of exile in return for freedom and life.

Fearful as exile had been to those who lived it, for the younger generations it has become more of an opportunity. They have been born into a society with few overt rules and an appreciation of creative innovation. The basic, primitive material conditions, depending on their own muscles and skills rather than elaborate machinery, makes for immediate appreciation of good ideas.

Larn had good ideas. He was idolized by his peers for his audacity of vision, and ambition. Maea is prouder than proud, higher than the stars, to be carrying their child.

Felicity as well is (surprisingly, more quietly) glowing in that rapture of love and hormones. Felicity and Teren are so sweet together. Caela’s heart pitter-pats to see them. They share a larger room in the House now, with an area they are preparing as a nursery. Family arrangements are flexible and fluid within the House. There are shared nursery and children’s rooms for less unitary families. There is plenty of loving nurturing to go around. As Felicity and Teren become more closely bonded, though, they are talking about perhaps moving into a cabin near the House eventually. Right now they are comfortable where they are, busily involved in the House community projects. There is the theater, and the classes they teach, and the classes and workshops they attend. Of course there are still the farm chores on rotation and the day-to-day hands on with whatever those hands are being asked to do. Felicity and Maea know they can be called to accidents at any time. Then, Teren, like Felicity’s father, Singer, seems to be compelled to irregular and unscheduled calls from the muse.

Something Sacred: Caela’s Story #13

Caela’s Story #13


It is a brightly sunny day. They are outside Caela and Singer’s cabin in impromptu picnic formation. Felicity, of course, moving about dramatically, striking poses, flourishing her arms, then flopping down close to share an intimate giggle. Maea, more languid, lies on her stomach in soft weeds shaded by a large, wide-leafed tree. Caela sits beside her, back leaning comfortably against the living wood. Singer has gone off to play in his merry woodlands, leaving the women to their own conversational recreation. Maea and Felicity live in the House, a large many-roomed multi-purposed well and lovingly made structure for the many and multi-talented men, women and children who created this home for themselves. Of course, there are still many families and individuals who prefer their own small cottages. The main thrust of this still newly self-creating society these days, however, is to an energizingly interactive while securely nurturing group arrangement. Still, Felicity and Maea have discovered living apart from their parents that they enjoy their company as lively, intelligent people, so visit often.

“So, what about your love lives?” Caela pulls them in with an impish grin, knowing that young women (or anyone) like nothing better than to swoon over the virtues of The One, or the one who makes them giddy at the moment. Mirra has joined them, meandering over from her cabin nearby with a delicious beverage she has concocted from fermented fruits and herb teas. Passing around the jug, the younger women regale their mothers with heartfelt romantic glimpses of the gorgeous House-mates they each are developing eyes for. Mirra and Caela, happily ensconced in their decades old romances, vicariously enjoy these youthful fancies.

Mirra’s Doren, Maea’s dad, is her half-brother Singer’s half-brother on his father’s side. The oldest of Jase’s scattered seeds, Doren is a historian, learning their people’s stories from infancy directly from his mother, Narda, Jase’s wife in the before world. That time has become an extension of the history Doren carries, that deep forest of lore we continue to learn from, roots to our scattered lives.

Though closer in age to Mirra’s sister Cali, Maris’s middle daughter, Doren had early been captivated by the younger sister’s easy smile and impish humor. Their young love grew with them into abiding magnetic affection. Maea may gently mock her parents’ shining glow in each others’ presence. She does this partially because she knows she wants this sweet enduring kind of romance for herself.

Maea is a’bubble these days over handsome and dynamic Larn. He is a young man already generally known as a leader, the kind who inspires with his own passion. He has an idea about art, creating space and audience for performing artists to generate performances — a synergistic pursuit. He has been part of the driving force of the House as a place of learning and creative projects. Maea is filled with admiration, enthusiasm, tender adoration, ravishing attraction. The bubbling of her blood, percolation of joyful molecular transforming of her metaphoric heart, is because he has been steadily showing her that she quickens his blood, enhances his days.

Felicity too has got herself an artist. Teren, sweet and shy, in his own world of brilliant visions, creates beauty in color and form, in magical emotional performances, in any and every medium he can find his way into playing with. He has been clearly showing his admiration of the archly dramatic young woman who has joined him in his dreams and playful waking life flirtations.

Singer returns to join his family in lightly dionysian merriment. His musical charms move them into giddy dance. Taking hands to hands, twirling into bumbling graceful laughter, expending any pent up coagulated energies into welcome release, celebrating this beautiful day. In a short while appetite turns them to devising a quick yet sumptuous feast from gardens and larders. Doren returns from teaching his regular history seminar at the House in time to join in.

After the food, the silly repartee, earnest conversations, cleaning up and good-night hugs, all make way to their own beds, their own private places, for the night. Caela and Singer, making love, though every act between them is an act of love, expressing the blessing of their human life celebration, drift lazily together in the afterglow.